January 7, 2014--The Football

"You military?" he asked. I had never seen him before.

Rona and were having a sandwich and salad at the Marriott Courtyard in Florence, South Carolina. It had gotten foggy and was promising to thicken so we decided not to venture forth for dinner in unfamiliar territory so far south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

He was friendly and so I said, "Can't say that I am . . . or was."

"From the look of you, no offense, I knew it had to be was. I'm army myself. But from the look of me I know you're also thinking was." He was wearing a cap that proclaimed ARMY and I was thinking was.

"S'pose you don't know the Springer boys?"

"Can't say I do . . . or did," I said wondering what this was about.

"Went to the Academy. Both of 'em. Twins. Fine boys. Must be retired by now. Not such boys anymore. Like you and me." He chuckled, looking off in space. "Naval Academy. God, I wish one of these years before I pass we'd beat those guys. How many years it's been?" He stroked his chin trying to answer his own question. I wasn't quite sure what he was trying to figure out. "Must be 13, 14. That's how long it's been. I'm talking football. But I'm just an enlisted man. So whats it matter to me. To the Springer boys, commanders both of 'em, well, that's another thing altogether."

Sensing this was going to be a rambling monologue, I tried to pay attention to my sandwich.

"One flew transports. You know them C-20s. Big suckers. The other, Earl, well he flew fighters. From carriers. I think the last time he was on the Ticonderoga. Out there offa Vietnam. Just like the fog we got here tonight, his last night it was so foggy that when his instruments failed he had to find that rolling deck on his own and just barely made it. From that day on never flew again. Sort of cracked him up. Not even commercial for ten years after they discharged him. Honorable and all that. Flew a bunch of combat missions. He paid his dues. Suppose I did too."

"Glad to know he's OK," I squeaked, still working on my food.

"But his brother Jack, after the war, well, he had a different assignment." I didn't ask what it was. But he clearly wanted me to know, "With the football."

"With the what?" That piqued my interest.

"Not the one you're thinkin' about."

"To tell you the truth I'm not thinking about anything much having to do with football or footballs just my sandwich. But I am interested in what you're referring to since I think I may know about it."

"Well, the one I'm thinking about is the one for the atomic codes." I did know about that and nodded. "There's a heavy leather and I assume lead-lined briefcase, weighs about 30-40 pounds, that they call the football that has the codes to launch a nuclear attack that's always where the President is at. The Commander in Chief. 'Cause he's the only one has the authority to launch. There's a military man assigned to carry that football 24/7 wherever the President is. And they have another one for the Vice President because of, you know, what might happen. Though I'd hate to think of that Biden fellow with those codes."

"I'm not sure I agree about that," I said, with a mouthful of tuna salad.

"No need for us to get political," I was pleased to hear, "But let's get back to that Springer boy Jack. He had charge of the third one. Not many folks know there are two much less three footballs."

"I know about the two for the President and VP but this is the first I'm hearing about the third. It's for--?"

"It's for the Strategic Air Command in case the President and Vice President are taken out at the same time, God help us."

"Ugh," I said, "This'll ruin my night's sleep."

"Jack and the rest of his crew had that third football up in one of the airborne command posts. Just in case. Quite something, no?"

"Indeed," I said.

"Which was why I asked if you in the first place if you knew the Springer boys."

This was making less and less sense to me. About all the footballs I was in fact interested, but why he just started to talk with me about this I had no idea.

"You want to hear my favorite football story?"

"I assume we're not talking the Army-Navy game?"

"Not football but the football."

"Shoot. I mean, sure."

"Well, my second-favorite one was when Reagan got shot. Terrible thing. Loved that man. He always carried the codes on a card in his suit jacket pocket. Well, when he was in the hospital they had to cut his clothes off him and that card got lost in the shuffle. No pun intended. When one of his aides thought to ask about it they couldn't find it. You know how busy the ER is. No one knew where it was for some time. But then it turned up in one of his shoes. Scary, no?"

"This whole business scares me," I admitted, "And your favorite?" I was about ready to head up to the room. It had been a long day of driving.

"That one involved Nixon back in '73 when he was President and had the football trailing after him. He was at Camp David meeting with the Soviet leader Brezhnev, I think it was."

"It was. Leonid Brezhnev."

"Not my favorite person, but you know Nixon, always wanting to be with foreign leaders. Especially those Russians."

"That was him at his best."

"Well, that Brez fellow he loved cars. Especially American muscle cars. So Nixon gave him a present of one. Using taxpayer money of course. A big guzzler Lincoln Continental. Nixon handed him the keys and that Russian was so excited that he hustled Nixon into the car, in the passenger seat, and then he jumped in on the other side and drove away at a mile-a-minute clip." My new friend slapped his thigh he was so amused. "Well, you can imagine that the Secret Service was caught by surprise as was the poor fellow with the football. Old Brez drove out onto the highway and left everyone behind for a full 30 minutes. Thirty minutes when Nixon didn't have the nuclear codes close at hand. When you think on it, it could have been a plot by the Russians to get away with some funny business."

"Some story," I admitted. "I read a lot about that period but never heard this one before."

"You could look it up," he said. "And if you run into Jack Springer in your travels ask him. I'm sure he knows about it. Who knows, maybe he was up in one those flying command posts at the time. Wouldn't that be something'?"

"Indeed it would be," I said, ready to head upstairs."

"Did anyone ever mention," Rona asked, "that you sound just like John Wayne?"

"That's a good one," he guffawed, "Can't wait to tell the wife. She'll love it," he said and was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

January 6, 2015--Snowbriding: Domestic Goddess

"You won't find anything there."

I was looking at the blackboard where breakfast specials were listed. "Why's that?" I asked the fellow sitting at a communal table with half a dozen pals who were clearly regulars at the Lamplighter, reputedly the best place for breakfast in Florence, South Carolina.

"If you look closely, you'll see they're only available Monday through Saturday. I know you haven't had your coffee yet, but today's Sunday." He said this more to his friends than to me and they slapped their considerable thighs in pleasure.

I muttered, "I know that." And then directly to him, trying to be friendly, "So what do you recommend? From what I read about this place I understand they make great biscuits."

"Read about it?' he said, mocking me. "I don't know anyone who'd do that or anyone here who could read what got written." His friends rocked back and forth as he toyed with me. "But to answer you--southern hospitality, you know--anything with country ham. And don't forget the grits. It'll cost you a little more--with the specials they give you a break on the price--but you won't get hurt too bad." He winked at me and grinned.

I rejoined Rona at our booth and told her the country ham was recommended. Looking at the menu she noticed that they served it and an egg on a biscuit. "I think I'll have that. And," she whispered, "It's only $1.90."

"We're not in New York anymore. And look, two eggs, country ham, grits, two biscuits, and coffee or tea, not on the special board, is $5.95."

"Including the coffee?"

I looked at the menu again, "That's right."

Both orders came in a flash and were delicious, Rona, who is an authority on grits declared the Lamplighter's the best she ever had.

Feeling pressure to get on the road--we had quite a distance to cover if we were to get to Ocala, Florida before dark--we asked for the ticket (how they refer to the bill or check in the South) and when it arrived Rona scrutinized it as if there was a problem. "It looks correct, but," she leaned toward me and whispered, "it's less than ten dollars. In fact less than nine. How do they make a living charging so little?"

The place was crowded. "Maybe," I offered, "they make it up in the volume. In nay case I think we pay at the cash register over by the communal table."

We gave it a wide berth and kept my eyes averted, but we weren't able to slip by unnoticed. "You folks live here?" the original fellow asked, obviously knowing from my accent that we were from up North.

"Nice of you to put it that way," Rona said. "That makes us feel welcomed about being here. But, no, we stopped here overnight on our way to Florida and heard this was the best breakfast place in town."

"And?"

"And you were right," I said, "about the country ham and--"

"And grits," Rona said, "About the best I ever had."

The boys at the table exchanged glances and head nods. "Where you from then?"

"From New York," I said.

"The city part of New York?"

"That part."

"Isn't Al Sharpton from there?" he asked, sounding ominous.

I muttered something, feeling eager to pay and get out of town.

"Didn't hear that," he said, twisting his finger in his ear. "Don't hear so good these days. You know, that little fella they put on TV all the time? Sharpton?"

"I think he is," Rona said. I glared at her. "You have a problem with that?"

Before he could answer, thankfully one of his buddies said, "I know someone from up there. He's in the honey business. Sells his honey at, whatcha call it, the green market."

"There's a big one right near where we live," Rona said, "At Union Square."

"That's the place," he said.

"Did you say Union Square?" the first fellow asked, again with a mocking tone. "For the soldiers who came down here during the War of Northern Aggression?"

"The very one," I said, feeling somehow bold. Why not, I thought. What could happen? It was 2015, not 1965, and we weren't in Selma.

"We're your people from?" he asked, sounding less threatening.

"From New York."

"I mean originally."

"Oh, my mother's from Poland and my father's family--"

"From a cabin in a forrest in Poland," Rona added. "But when they got to Ellis Island they changed the family name to Mooney. So she passed for being Irish. Which helped her when she began teaching. The school system at the time was all Irish." I had no idea where all this was coming from. Maybe the caffeine. But though things seemed calmed down still I wanted to pay and leave.

"The Irish, they're the ones built America," he said, again nodding toward his companions. "Then the slaves came and they did nothing."

"Slaves?" I gasped. "Did nothing? I think you got that all backwards and wrong. I mean the Irish--"

"I'm just playin' with you, that's all," he said with the beginnings of a smile.

Taking no chances, I said, "Gotta hit the road. Nice talking to you guys. Really. And thanks again for--"

"Everyone from New York has a beard and wears something black."

"Well I--"

"And has a beautiful women with him," the fellow in a Vietnam Vet cap sitting in a wheelchair at the end of table said with a nod of appreciation.

"Thank you kindly," Rona said, with an emerging South Carolina accent. "We've been married 30 years."

"Thirty-one," I corrected her.

"Thirty, thirty-one," he said, sounding all flirty, Why she don't even look thirty-one."

"That's right nice of you," Rona said.

"A domestic goddess," he gushed, "A regular domestic goddess. You sure are lucky, boy." He meant me.

"S'pose I am," I said. "S'pose I am."

We paid and drove west to get back onto I-95.

"I like that," Rona said after a while. I knew what she was referring to.