May 05 '07

                                                    

Volume 570

                   


Felix "Flip" Fraiser Quick-Lube Conversation

WWII Attack Transport ShipI talked to a veteran of The Big War, i.e., World War II, Tuesday morning, while waiting inside a quick lube shop in Indianola. I was perusing a sports magazine at the time he entered through the front door of the business that opens into a small waiting area. He spoke a cheerful "Good morning," as he took a seat and began to write a check. I glanced up at him to return his greeting and went back to the sports article that had my attention. A few minutes later, I flipped the magazine back onto the table where I had earlier picked it up and stood momentarily to stretch my legs. I had spent more than two hours driving to Indianola, and I was tired of sitting.

I walked over to peer through the window of the door to the service center to see if my car was being serviced. It was, so I glanced out the front door to check the price of gasoline at the Wal-Mart directly across the street.

"Two seventy-seven," I thought, "Gas is cheaper here than in Pontotoc."

The veteran continued with his check-writing chore. I happened to note the likeness of a ship on his baseball cap and shifted my weight for a better look. Above the ship icon the cap read, "USS J. Franklin Bell," and below it was something like "APA-16"

"Is that a picture of a ship you were on? I asked, curiously.

"Yes, it’s the J. Franklin Bell," he responded with a hint of appreciation and a smile.

I couldn’t think fast enough to ask what theater of the war he served in, so I simply asked, "What part of the war were you in?"

I was in the Pacific," he responded.

I learned that his ship was an attack transport ship and that he didn’t seem to mind my inquisitiveness.

"Were you in service at the time of the attack on Pearl Harbor?" I asked.

"No," he shared, "I was in school in Wynne, Arkansas."

He went on to state he joined the Navy in October of 1943 and served on the ship until his discharge in 1945. He told me his ship had been a luxury liner that was scheduled to be mothballed before it was outfitted for use by the Navy.

"Our commander wanted it fireproofed. He found a hundred fire axes and had us rip out some of the most beautiful, spiral, wooden staircases, you can imagine. It hurt me to do that because I always liked to work with wood."

He told me that all of the hoists for unloading tanks and heavy equipment were steam operated and quite fast, in that they could get their ship unloaded faster than crews whose ships used electric powered cranes and hoists.

"Were y’all ever attacked by dive bombers or suicide pilots?"

"No, I saw two Japanese airplanes the whole time I was in the war. Some of our pilots chased them off. I watched them disappear in a jungle."

I gathered he was near an island at the time of the incident. I counted him among the lucky ones who served in the Pacific theater during the war, in that the only casualties aboard his ship were those of soldiers injured in fighting on the islands who were in transit to a port on the West Coast of the United States.

Knowing that a lot of veterans have reunions with their regiments, battalions, or shipmates, I asked about his group.

"Yes, we’ve had several reunions, but there weren’t but eighteen or so at our last reunion. We may not have another one."

"Y’all just aren’t living long enough," I mused, as a way to avoid saying all his shipmates were dying off.

He responded that his brother, eleven years younger, had done some research and called him the other day to relate that he was the oldest Fraiser he could find.

"And, how old are you?" I inquired.

"I’m eighty-three."

It seemed difficult to believe that there were no Fraisers in the U.S. who were older, but I didn’t voice my skepticism. Mr. Fraiser went on to tell me that he had been to Carroll County and Yazoo County searching for family gravesites and was able to find a couple of ancestors buried in a remote location near Yazoo City that had only four gravestones.

Somewhere in our brief conversation, I explained that I worked for SUPERVALU, and that prompted him to ask if I knew James Hutcherson.

"Sure, I remember Mr. Hutch," I shared. "He may or may not remember me, but I knew him."

"He’s my Sunday School teacher," he responded.

I was called to the payment window, and after settling the transaction for the services rendered, I turned to say goodbye to Mr. Fraiser. He extended his hand, and I shared for the first time, my name.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Carter," he stated. "I’m ‘Flip’ Fraiser, but folks around here know me as Mr. Betty Fraiser."

He further stated his wife had served as Tax Assessor & Collector for Sunflower County, and he was best known as her husband. I can sympathize somewhat, as in recent years a lot of folks identify me as the husband of the director of Habitat for Humanity.

"I’ll be sure and tell Hutch that I met you," were his last words to me.

"Thanks, and I’ve enjoyed meeting you," I extended.

There are still a lot of veterans of The Big War, who like "Flip" Fraiser, served and/or fought for their country, returned to build a better America for their children, and who continue to live lives that belie their heroic efforts and service. The least any of us can do for them is to listen to their stories, learn by their example, and pass that knowledge to our children and grandchildren.

Note: Jo Bennett, formerly of Indianola, Mississippi, supplied Mr. Fraiser’s first name and the spelling of Fraiser. She also told me that Betty Fraiser is deceased but had held public office for about a hundred years [exaggeration] prior to her death.


Piano Recital Dateline Belmont Mississippi

There are certain activities that follow parents into their years of grand-parenting and great grand-parenting . Besides little league sports, which for many is the reason God created life on earth, there are other events that call grandparents to remember what it was they liked or disliked about parenthood. Beauty pageants come quickly to mind at this point, but some events are bearable in moderation. I’m thinking here of piano recitals.

Barbara and I had the pleasure of attending twelve consecutive years of piano recitals when our daughter was a student. Of course, Rayanne was so talented that we viewed her recitals on par with that of classical greats such as Mozart and Beethoven. Amazingly, she was not held in such high esteem by everyone, but in our eyes and ears her playing was flawless. Even Jason, her brother, who in his younger years hated having to endure Rayanne’s practice sessions, refers to Rayanne as his parents’ "perfect child." Yet, I have the feeling Jason’s compliment is more sarcastic and caustic than genuine. I can only imagine that when my ashes are scattered to the four winds, my two children will still be jealously searching the archives of this newsletter to discover who received the most favorable press and whose name was mentioned the most. Let the record show they were loved equally, but differently.

Now that our daughter is a piano teacher in Belmont, Mississippi, we are always invited to the recitals of her students, and now that our middle granddaughter, Merilese, is one of Rayanne’s piano students, we find it especially important to attend the recitals of Rayanne’s students. Last Sunday afternoon Rayanne held a recital for her twelve students at First Baptist Church, Belmont.

As recitals go, this one was short. The program was roughly twenty minutes in length, or about enough time for each student to perform one selection. Musical selections were varied and included classics, popular American standards and hymns. Our granddaughter played the hymn, "Purer In Heart, O God."

The twelve piano students were of various ages with differences spanning perhaps five or six years. Some exhibited more poise and talent than others, but all are to be commended for their efforts. Also, some had practiced harder to master their selection than others had. As difficult as it is for some young people to perform publicly, it is absolutely necessary to help them gain confidence in their abilities and to lay the groundwork for a skill that will last a lifetime.

There’s no way to know what the future holds, musically, for this crop of piano students, but it could be that some will pursue a career that involves music and there might even be one destined to become a piano teacher. After all, the torch of musical knowledge and appreciation must be passed from generation to generation.


Bodock Beau Animal Humor

The Cajun dialect is a little hard to get through, but the punch line of the following joke is worth the trouble.

Boudreaux & The Cotton Mouth

Boudreaux been fish'n down by de bayou in souf Mississippi all day an he done run outta night crawlers.  He be bout reddy to leave when he seen a snake wit a big frog in his mouf.  He knowed dat dem big bass fish like frogs, so he decides to steal dat froggie. 

Dat snake, he be a cotton moufed water moccasin, so Boudreaux had to be real careful or he'd get bit.  He snuk up behine de snake and grabbed him roun de haid.  Dat ole snake din't lak dat one bit.  He squirmed and wrapped hisself roun Boudreaux's arm try'n to get hisself free. But Boudreaux, him, hada real good grip on his haid, yeh. 

Well, Boudreaux pried his mouf open and got de frog and puts it in his bait can.  Now, Boudreaux knows dat he cain't let go dat snake or he's gonna bite him good, but he had a plan. 

He reach into de back pocket of his bib overhauls and pulls out a pint 'o Missippippi corn likker.  He pour some drops ito de snakes mouf. Well, dat snake's eyeballs roll back in his haid and his body go limp. Wit dat, Boudreaux toss dat snake into de bayou, den he goes back to fish'n. 

A while later Boudreaux dun feel sumpin tappin' on his barefoot toe.  He slowly look down and dere be dat cotton moufed water moccasin, wif two more frogs in his mouf.

Shared by Ralph Jones

Pinch Runner Needed

A horse showed up at a baseball training camp and asked for a tryout. The manager was shocked! Not only was this a talking horse, but he wanted to play baseball.

So he put the horse in the outfield, where the horse caught all the balls hit to him. In the infield, he always made the right play.

When it came time to bat in a game, the horse hit a long line drive between the outfielders. But then the horse just stood at the plate.

"Run!" the manager shouted. "Run!"

The horse turned to the manager and said, "If I could run, I’d be at the race track."

Laugh Letter Newsletter - April 2007

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