Buddy (Forrest, Jr.) took Dad’s offer, went to medical school at Pennsylvania and became a pediatrician. Paul (Bim) took it as well, went to law school at Texas, passed the bar, and became an attorney (do not call him a lawyer). Dad suggested that I go to Wharton School of Finance after getting my BBA at Texas, but I decided I needed to go to work as soon as I finished my two years of active duty in the United States Army.

Things I learned at Infantry School and the company officers course at Fort Benning were more fun and more interesting than the total four years at The University of Texas at Austin.

At Fort Lee, VA, I spent many hours riding horseback, checking out nearby Civil War battlefields, and immersing myself reading the classics of Douglas Southall Freeman, especially his R. E. Lee, which tells of Lee’s leadership of the Army of Northern Virginia. These books helped me decide to transfer from Quartermaster School at Fort Lee to Infantry at Fort Benning and my request was accepted, especially since “the Korean Conflict” was still a very hot war.

I was ordered to Infantry School at Fort Benning, GA, where I took the six-month company officers course on managing the terrible but still sometimes necessary business of war, which General William Tecumseh Sherman defined in three short words: “War is hell.”
Looking back, I posit that we are making small but appreciable progress eliminating war when “swords shall be beaten into ploughshares,” as set forth by Micah the prophet. Meanwhile, our United States must sometimes accept the role of resident policeman in today’s world.

(Here are concepts I learned from Infantry School and set forth as aphorisms.)

(1) Take the Offensive to Win
This overriding principle of warfare is that you must take the offensive to win. You cannot win a battle or a war, play sports, or any endeavor by only responding with a defense.
There have been numerous efforts throughout history to construct some form of an “impregnable” defense that will withstand all invaders. None were ultimately successful. The Maginot line of France and the Great Wall of China are classic examples. Defense alone never wins.

(2) If You Finally Must, Carefully and With a Plan, Fire and Fall Back
There are times in war when perforce of circumstances it is expedient to “fire and fall back”, and as it may be essential for civilians to take up a better position or to “fire and fall back.” These days individually we may face a bad (but no longer so terrifying) disease like cancer. We may gain months or even years of life if we have the will and courage to “fire and fall back,” especially with cancer which more than one in five of us will ultimately face, and probably die from.

In war the enemy may have superior numbers to hurl at us as did the Chinese in North Korea in the ’50s. (For them, life was/is cheap.) What then?

(3) Be Ready to Use the FPL (to Decimate Your Invader), But Only if You Must.
“What is the FPL?” you ask.

It is short for “final protective line” which Infantry officers must continuously plan for but hopefully only take up for a short time. Rifles, automatic rifles; indeed, all weaponry, especially machine guns, are paired so that all weapons of the command take up FPL, continuously firing down a single pre-planned but narrow lane. Each FPL overlaps with another so that lines of fire intersect but three to five feet above ground level. This is almost certain to stop or kill any man or horde of men trying to cross the bands of fire.
I know. It’s not pretty to think about, and it is terrible. But think of it as your “Sunday Punch” in boxing, if you prefer. Final Protective Fires were effective decimating invading Chinese hordes in Korea as long as the ammunition lasted and the gun barrels did not melt, though I was not there.

(4) Counterattack
Remember that the easiest time to resume the offensive is immediately. If you’ve been forced off a hill or to fire and fall back, regroup and then counterattack!

(5) A Good General Always Has Enough Troops
Substitute for “general” whatever rank you find yourself in life: colonel, major, lieutenant, sergeant, or private. Whatever your rank, a good soldier always has enough troops. In civilian life this aphorism echoes with an older admonition: “Go with what you’ve got.” Don’t we often find ourselves lacking in time, in money, in education, in intellect, in psychological energy, or some other category?
It is more than incidental to pray for adequacy of resources. In my experience prayer is efficacious. The next time you’re inclined to bemoan your scant resources, remember that you’re the general in command of yourself and a good soldier always has enough troops! Go with what you’ve got is a splendid corollary.

(6) Never Take a Weak Front
In almost any profession or line of work, there is some “unforgivable sin,” some no-no that is absolute. Violate it, and you’re fired; your career is terminated.
The chemical manufacturing business, my life’s work, is somewhat dangerous and requires attention 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Its standards are high, but its fatality rate is quite low, lower than that of cab drivers.
Taking a weak front in war is like taking the bait of a trap, a weak front being the pretended front line of the enemy that is made to appear thin and weak when forces engage in battle. The attacking party, on meeting little resistance, foolishly pours through the hole; that is, takes the weak front. Thereupon the attacking party discovers the real force of the enemy is further back or higher up, strong and well positioned to mow you down. By then it’s too late to regroup. If you’ve taken the bait of a weak front, you may well be decimated.

(7) Shift Operators, (The Equivalent of Guard Duty) Must Never Sleep On Duty
For a shift operator, sleeping on duty ─ even dozing, napping or drifting off ─ is an unforgivable sin, at least at Texmark Chemicals. Only once have I come upon a snoozing operator. That was several years ago on the graveyard shift, and I fired him then and there.

In the Navy the unforgivable mistake is for a captain to run his ship aground.
In battle the counterpart to this is for a general to take a weak front. “What,” you ask, “is a weak front, and how might one take it?”

I learned of one exception to this rule when I had occasion at Infantry School to meet a major general who had lived to tell about taking a weak front in the Second World War. He was demoted to colonel instead of being discharged, but ultimately his high rank of general was restored.

The Mexican army used to have or perhaps has a dishonorable discharge ceremony in which the person to be dishonored stands alone at attention before the rest of his fellow soldiers standing in formation. The band and buglers play a dirge while the company commander rips the medals and buttons off the poor guy’s coat. Then as an optional parting gesture the commander insults the man, slaps him, and spits in his face.
What is the equivalent of taking a weak front in your line of work? My wife, a teacher for sixty years, tells me the “unforgiveable sin” is to walk out and leave her classroom of kids unattended.

Whatever your line of work, do not doze or sleep when on the job.

(8) If the General Listens Mainly to the Quartermaster, the Army Will Never Maneuver
To this I would add “it may not even get out of the barracks.” This aphorism is a warning not to heed the voices of caution too much. Note that it doesn’t say that you should never listen to your quartermaster, who in the army is caretaker of supplies, food, and clothing. It says don’t listen to his voice of caution exclusively or even mainly. Risk is implicit to most civilian occupations, much as in the military or in war.

In civilian endeavors there are numerous professionals and consultants whose ways of looking at things are valid, but only to a certain extent. Your attorney, your banker, indeed most consultants, are so earnest about their specialties that they may do whatever it takes to compel you to see things from their perspective.
Don’t let that happen.

(9) Have a Primary and a Secondary Objective
Infantry School doctrine of the 1950s said that in battle you should have one clearly defined primary objective, understood by all persons in the unit. In the terrific pressure and confusion of battle, hopefully you will know what hill or town you plan to take as your primary objective.
What about after that?

It was stressed as important to remember that a possible secondary objective was just that, secondary and not to be taken on or considered unless and until the commander deems it opportune, pursuant only after gaining the primary objective with certainty. Even to this day I try to decide my primary and secondary objectives for the day and usually write them on my day sheet.

(10) Clean the Lint off the Helix
“What in the world is the helix?” I hear someone ask. “And what trouble is a little lint?”
This one is not an infantry aphorism but a throwback to the less than happy year I spent in the Quartermaster Corps. In your household you may regard laundry as women’s work or not even know how to work a washing machine.

The point of this aphorism is that little details may be of high importance, with large, possibly secondary consequences if overlooked.

The helix is a little screen on the dryer that catches the lint and frequently has to be cleaned off. I tell you this in case you too are antique enough to remember drying laundry by sunlight. At Fort Lee, Virginia in 1953, I found that doing laundry was one of our jobs in the Quartermaster Corps. Moreover, I found that even though we were newly minted lieutenants at headquarters for the Quartermaster Corps, we had to get our own uniforms laundered and had to go off post to do it.

(Funny, I thought.)
I came up with a great idea during my first week at Fort Lee! I ran an ad in the Hopewell Times for someone to wash our uniforms, found such a person, and made a deal with her, as well as for five of my new Army Lieutenant buddies. It was winter in those days before environmental concerns when the entire post used coal furnaces that belched soot, and lots of it. Little did I know that our contract washwoman lacked a dryer (with or without a helix). She decided to dry our uniforms naturally; that is, by sunshine.

When I got back to the BOQ (bachelor officers’ quarters) I had five neatly wrapped packages of dungarees that we opened to find dense patches of black soot firmly ironed into each of our uniforms!

Smith was not a popular guy, and his buddies were not happy campers ─ correction, soldiers.

So, remember to clean the lint off the helix. And remember, also, that using mechanical methods to dry clothes may work better than drying them “naturally.” Who knows? That lady I contracted with may have been prescient to the Environmental Movement without even knowing it!

Presumably no less than God has a “calling” just for you and just for me. At South Main Church these days we hear a good deal about “calling”; finding one’s calling. Looking back at my flirt with a military calling, I was glad to have put in two years of military service, as both my brothers did before me. It was our duty. However, I never seriously considered it a “calling” or career. But consider this:

After two years in El Paso High School ROTC, I graduated as a first lieutenant.
After two years of ROTC at The University of Texas at Austin I graduated as a first lieutenant.

Then pursuant to two years active duty in the United States Army; 25 months capped by the year as exec officer of the 510th Armored Infantry Battalion, what do you think?
You guessed it — I graduated as a first lieutenant.

(For the rest of this story and more by David Smith’s “Texas Spirit” go to www.totalrecallpress.com or www.amazon.com.)

 

Of course, it was hard to find any other kind in the Mississippi Delta in the 1920s and ’30s. With there being hospitals only in the larger towns like Vicksburg and Greenville, the country doctor was always the first, and in most cases the last, medical person anyone would see when illness or injury struck. It would be hard to overrate their importance.
Doc Smith was one of these and, from the many stories I’ve heard, one of the best. Most of his patients were black farm workers–tenants on the large cotton plantations. Because of his success in treating their many ills, his fame spread by word of mouth throughout this strata of the population. It was among them that he was known as “The Jesus Doctor.”

He also enjoyed an excellent reputation in the medical community. When his patients needed an operation, Doc would send them to one of the hospitals in Greenville or Vicksburg. Along with the patient went instructions as to what the surgeon needed to cut on or take out. Early in his practice, the hospitals would run their own tests to confirm Doc Smith’s diagnosis. After a time they realized he was never wrong. So they quit wasting time on tests and just followed his instructions. Among these specialists he was said to be The finest diagnostic physician they’d ever known.

Doc Smith was my uncle. He had married Olivia, one of Daddy’s sisters. All the kids called him “Uncle Doc,” and he was just “Doc” to the grownups. I can’t recall ever hearing his first name.

His office was located in Panther Burn. I am told that it got its name from the panthers that lived in the big forests in its early years and from a family named Burn who lived in the area. I’m not sure there were ever any real panthers, but there was probably some type of wildcat around that the early settlers called panthers.

Panther Burn was not a town; it was a plantation village. It was situated on the west side of Highway 61, the old Delta highway, between the highway and the tracks of the Illinois Central Railroad. A wide gravel road bordered by large pecan and oak trees ran from the highway to the tracks. There were two or three houses for plantation supervisors and a large plantation store. Doc’s office was situated across from the store near the railroad tracks. It was not his. He had some arrangement with Panther Burn Plantation for its use.
The brown, wood-framed office was not very elaborate. It had two small waiting rooms–one for white, the other for colored–two examining rooms, a small reception area, and a small room filled with medicines. Since there were no drug stores close by, Doc was pharmacist as well as physician. On busy days the large shade trees served as extensions of the waiting rooms.

The majority of Doc’s patients came by Greyhound bus or train. Panther Burn was a whistle stop on the railroad and, of course, the bus would stop anyplace along the highway. Patients would generally arrive in the morning, get treated, and catch the bus or train back home in the afternoon or evening. Others might come on foot, by mules, or wagon. It was rare to find a black farm-worker who owned or had access to a car.
Since it was so hard for the blacks to get to him during the week, Doc’s office was open all day Saturday and Sunday afternoon. His day off was sometime during the week.
Doc and Olivia lived a couple of miles north of Panther Burn on the east side of Highway 61. They had a nice brick house on five or six acres. They had a large garden, raised chickens, and kept a milk cow as most people did. The house had an indoor bathroom, the first I ever saw.

Olivia was a social climber. Her overriding ambition was to “break into Delta society,” and to her, “appearances” were very important. For instance, Doc usually hired someone to milk and tend to the cow. On occasions when the person quit or didn’t show up, Olivia had to milk. She would put on a large, floppy hat and baggy work pants and shirt in hopes that anyone seeing her wouldn’t recognize her, and then go to the barn before daylight and after dark as added insurance. One morning she did not get an early enough start and one of her friends came by before she finished milking. She hid out in the barn until they left.
Doc was just the opposite. He was just as unpretentious as Olivia was pretentious. His manner was sometimes gruff and abrupt, but he had a soft heart. He liked hunting, fishing, and drinking, and liked being right where he was. He had no desire to “build a big house in town.”

“Town” was Hollandale, which was situated about ten miles north on 61. It had two traffic lights and, by the standards of the day, was quite a thriving Delta metropolis. Hollandale was Olivia’s residential goal, but Doc resisted for many years.

Olivia attended church in Hollandale where she was a very active member of the Missionary Society. Of course, this was the largest church in town and the one most of the socially prominent families attended. Most of the womenfolk of these families were Missionary Society members as well. Thus, the stage was set for Olivia’s Missionary Society garden party. She intended to host an event that Hollandale’s social leaders would never forget. She ended up doing just that but not exactly the way she intended.
She recruited Doc and my father to be waiters. They were charged with supervising the food and punch and the several cooks, busboys, and dishwashers Olivia assembled for the event.

The setting was like a picture out of a society magazine; a large, shady side yard surrounded by newly trimmed privet hedges, with perfect weather, white-clothed tables scattered among the trees, and flowers everywhere.

While the women were meeting in the house, Doc, Daddy, and their crew were putting the finishing touches on the food and drink. As they mixed the punch in the large silver punch bowl, Doc would take a sip from time to time. After one of these sips, he remarked, “You know, Luke, this would be pretty good punch if it had about a fifth of bourbon mixed in.” As they finished the punch and busied themselves with other preparations, Daddy got to thinking about Doc’s comment; and knowing where Doc stashed his liquor, got a bottle of it and managed to get it into the bowl without attracting any attention.

The party itself turned out to be a smashing success. The food was excellent, the service superb, but the punch seemed to be the crowning achievement. Everyone had to have seconds and thirds and some several cups beyond. They all raved about it and told Olivia it was the best punch they’d ever had. She had not had any herself since she was so busy being hostess, so she had no inkling as to why the punch was so popular.

As the guests were in the process of draining the punch bowl, Doc sidled up to Daddy and whispered, “Didn’t I tell you, Luke? That fifth I put in really capped it off.” The look on Daddy’s face told him the answer to his next question even before he asked it. “Good gosh, Luke, don’t tell me you put one in, too?”

Doc knew that two fifths of bourbon had made much too strong a mixture for just about anybody and especially for the ones who didn’t drink. But it was too late to do anything about it. He knew they were going to have some drunk women on their hands, and he was right.

Things stayed under control pretty well until the party broke up and the women had to drive home. The first three or four made it down the long driveway and between the gateposts, although one turned left and headed toward Vicksburg and one turned right too quickly and ran off into the bar-ditch beside the highway. A later traveler took down one of the gateposts and a couple of sections of the front fence. Others had a great deal of trouble getting their cars turned about and headed out the drive. They got out into various non-driving areas and several of Olivia’s flower beds, shrubs, and small trees became casualties.

Since they had never been drunk before, these women couldn’t understand why their legs, arms, and cars seemed to disobey all rational commands. But it didn’t take Olivia long to put together what the cause was. Needless to say, Doc and Daddy were in Olivia’s doghouse for a mighty long time.
(For more by Luke Boyd’s “Coon Dogs and Outhouses” go to www.totalrecallpress.com or www.amazon.com.)

 

EXAM DAY PART 1

Jimmy Boyle was a snotty nosed kid and a fine athlete. Taller than all others in his Our Precious Lady grade school class, the raw-boned teenager had formidable muscles with a God-given dexterity that made him the most sought after athlete by the many renowned Catholic high schools in the Chicago area in recent memory. It was the week before entrance exams would be conducted at all Catholic high schools on the last Saturday in January. A long standing rule was that a student must attend the school at which the eighth grader took the exam, assuming that he or she was accepted by the school. As there were no residential boundaries in which a student must live to attend a Catholic school, as was the case with the public schools, recruitment of grade school athletes was foremost for success in the powerful Chicago Catholic League.
At the Boyle’s kitchen table that had been cleared of dinner plates where the family of sixteen had eaten in shifts were Jack Boyle, the boy’s father, John Scanlon, the head football coach at Regis High School, located west of Chicago in Oak Park, and Father Al Gilhooley, the pastor at Our Precious Lady and a former athletic director at Regis. The house, a good sized brick bungalow, had kids constantly on the move. Mrs. Boyle, haggard from being with child most of her adult life, passed by the kitchen with a six month old in her arms and nodded at the trio.
Jack Boyle, a house painter still in his colorfully speckled white work clothes, got up from his chair and took three cans of Budweiser from the refrigerator and opened them with a can opener that was on a string attached to a wall by the phone. He set the cans on the table and yelled up a stairway, “Jimmy, get down here. People are waiting for you!”
There was a sound of thrashing about and then the red-headed boy appeared at the top of the stairs slipping a gym shoe on over his heal. He then came down the stairs two at a time and was cuffed on the back of his head by his father. With a strong Irish accent Mr. Boyle admonished his talented son, “You’re being rude to Father and Coach Scanlon.”
“I’m sorry, Father, Coach,” the youth apologized and shook the outstretched hand of the Regis coach who had stood up from the table. “I was upstairs studying hard for an exam,” he added. The pastor remained seated with folded arms and nodded at the boy. “Hello Jimmy,” he said in a superior tone. The priest was heavy set from years of good meals and wore his white collar under a dark sweater.
“That’s good that you’re studying hard, Jimmy,” John Scanlon, the thirty year old coach with a lineman’s build, extolled his prized recruit. “You’ll be a top student for us at Regis,” he added sitting back down.
Father Gilhooley however eyed his parishioner whom he knew better and said, “Be sure to go to confession this week, Jimmy boy.”
“I will, Father,” Jimmy replied looking sheepishly down at the peeled linoleum floor of the kitchen.
“We’re looking forward to you at the Regis entrance exam next Saturday, Jimmy,” Coach Scanlon said.
Jimmy Boyle continued to stare at the floor and took to nervously rub his hands together. Coach Scanlon and the pastor looked at each other and then both looked to Jack Boyle who was downing some beer. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Jack Stone was here yesterday and made a good impression on Jimmy.” Stone was the head coach at Malloy High School, located just walking distance from the Boyle house and a fierce competitor of Regis.
The Regis coach squirmed in his chair and took a long drink from his Budweiser. He then lit up a cigarette, offering one to both the priest and the boy’s father, and nearly offering one to the boy. The pastor declined, but Boyle gladly accepted one and leaned across the table for a light from the coach.
“Surely, you’re not thinking of playing for Malloy?” Scanlon questioned once he had composed himself.
“Malloy’s a good team too and I like Coach Stone too,” the thirteen year old said scratching his hair anxiously while making an unconscious frown with a crooked head.
The coach looked to Jack Boyle for support, but the painter shrugged his shoulders. “It’s up to Jimmy. Both schools are good Catholic schools.”
Scanlon looked next to his former athletic director, but the priest only cocked his head and formed a steeple with his fingers on the table and said, “You’re a good boy, Jimmy; with a mind of your own. It’s good to have firm thoughts and then make a decision. It’s what God wants us all to do.”
Dismay showed on Coach Scanlon’s face as he sensed that the best athlete he had ever seen come out of the Chicago grade schools might instead be playing against his Regis teams for the next four years and the boy’s pastor seemed to be doing nothing to discourage that. It didn’t help his disposition when Father Gilhooley stood up and said to Jack Boyle reaching out with his hand, “Thank you as usual for your generous hospitality. As I have always said, God does work in mysterious ways. We must be going now.”
The words puzzled Coach Scanlon even further, but it was obviously time to leave. The men shook hands and the coach and pastor left the Boyle home with the crestfallen Scanlon wondering why his former athletic director hadn’t been more persuasive with the future star.

EXAM DAY PART 2
On the Saturday of the exam a warm front moved into Chicago from the south and it was a fabulous day to be out in late January. Normally, Jimmy Boyle would have jogged from his home the six blocks to Malloy to get out of the cold as quickly as possible, but on this unusually tepid morning the boy decided to walk casually and even stop at the corner candy store across from Malloy for a smoke and a couple of donuts. A small round lady named Annie owned the store and lived in the back with an adult daughter that required supervision. A kind soul, Annie never really gushed over the boys from the neighborhood, but she thought of them as her own and made sure they were well fed. In addition to the two donuts thick with chocolate icing for which Jimmy paid a dime, Annie included a strawberry soda, the boy’s favorite, and a book of matches for his smokes.
Contemplating his promising future with Jack Stone’s Malloy ball club, Jimmy sat on a bench facing the school’s front entrance and lit up a Lucky Strike and exhaled a steady stream upward. The first donut was rich and splendid and he felt the morning could be no better. Half way through the second donut he noticed Coach Stone peering out a window above and to the side of the building’s entrance. Jimmy had been about to light up a second cigarette before venturing over to the school, but was glad he hadn’t as Coach Stone might have been perturbed by it. He waved and it caught Stone’s attention as he waved back. Stone was a good guy Jimmy considered, as was Coach Scanlon. He actually felt bad for Coach Scanlon as he liked him and he liked Regis also. He could have been happy attending either school. But it would be Malloy that he played for. He was surprised however that his pastor, Father Gilhooley, gave up so easily. He knew him to be quite insistent in matters and had wanted to stay upstairs when the two had visited his home the previous week.
Students were beginning to show up at the school entrance so the young athlete decided he had best cross the street and took the empty soda bottle inside and thanked Annie. Outside, he was about to cross the neighborhood side street when a black Chrysler sedan pulled in front of him blocking his way. The window rolled down and Jimmy was startled to see Father Gilhooley at the wheel.
“Hello Father,” Jimmy said tentatively.
“Where are you going, Jimmy boy?” the pastor asked.
“To Malloy to take the exam,” Jimmy replied knowing full well that his pastor was aware of this.
“Get in the car, Jimmy,” the priest commanded, reaching over to open the passenger door.
“But Father, I’ll be late for the Malloy exam.”
“Get in the car, Jimmy!”
“But, Father….”
“I’m not going to tell you again, Jimmy boy!”
Feeling he had no other choice, the highly touted athlete sighed and walked around the car and took a seat on the passenger side and closed the door.
“God does work in mysterious ways, Jimmy boy,” the pastor chuckled as he shifted the car into gear.
Upstairs, having witnessed the episode, Jack Stone helplessly watched the great athlete that would be tormenting his Malloy teams for the next four years being driven off to take the Regis exam.

 

“So there I was,” working the night shift at the Sheriff’s Department. It had been a busy week already as I had gone on a number of strange calls, including looking for a dead body in a location that was described as an area near railroad tracks, reported by some tweaked out meth-head who had been awake for about a week and found a need to start confessing to murder while at a psychiatric ward. The tweaker claimed he left the body near railroad tracks and a road. It had already been hot in Missouri that week, so I figured if there was a dead body out there I would have been able to tell pretty easily. I didn’t find or smell a body that night, so I figured that if we eventually found a body near there we would at least know who to go question about it. On this occasion though, the call wasn’t a dead body, another entertaining experience was waiting for me this evening.

I received a phone call at my desk as I had just come into the office to eat dinner. The person on the other end of the line identified himself as a detective from the neighboring sheriff’s department, and he needed to let me know that something strange was going on. As I looked around the deputy’s office and realized that no one else was around, I knew strange had become my calling that week, so I asked the detective what’s up.

He informed me that a woman had been reported missing in yet a third jurisdiction earlier that day. Her mother, though, had received a phone call shortly before he called me. The person on the phone wouldn’t identify herself but indicated the mother should round up her entire family, drive only a red car, wear only cotton clothing, bring no identification with them, and expect to have to stay for a long period of time. The directions were apparently relayed to this woman, to the detective, and to me, and of course the directions led right to the center of the county where I was on duty. Now the instructions definitely piqued my interest, so I headed to the location that the directions indicated to see what in fact was happening.

While en route to the location, a call came into 911. Although the specifics were awfully confusing, from what I could piece together the missing woman was at the location where I was heading, she had brought children with her, and she was irritated. It’s never a good combination when kids are involved in anything, so other deputies and I stepped up the response to what we would discover to be a strange situation indeed.

Upon arrival, I was ushered into a room where the owners of the house were. On the bed in this room was a woman lying with her arms around the necks of her children. When I arrived, she simply said, “Thank you for coming.”

Well, I thought to myself “Cool, she is happy I am here.” We often don’t get that kind of response, but what was odd was that she never got up, didn’t sit up, and didn’t stand up. She just lay there on the bed with two children, who we later determined were two and four years old.

The woman looked at me and asked, “Do you know the one true lord, your savior Jesus Christ?” Now, when this question is asked, typically there just is no good way to answer it, whether it’s someone knocking at your door in the middle of the day or strange people lying on a bed with two children.

“Sure,” I said.

She announced that now that we were all there she had something to read to us. Considering I had already called for an ambulance, we had some time to wait so I told her to go right ahead and read away.

The woman pulled out a Bible and opened it to Revelations and proceeded to read a paragraph. When she finished she looked up at me and said, “Do you understand?”
Not wanting to agitate her further, I tried my best to paraphrase what she had read. Apparently, my summation was right on target because she ultimately sighed and said, “Yes!” I knew right then and there that something had just broken inside her head. Apparently what she believed is that her second born was the “second coming.” Apparently the little boy was only still alive because while she was giving birth the devil didn’t eat him. She thought we should be very excited that he was there and that his name was Nathan, and he was two.

She continued to read to us while I tried to keep her children occupied. Unfortunately, while keeping the children happy I managed to help them break the frame of the bed, for I was allowing the kids to jump up and down on the bed. Could be one of the reasons kids shouldn’t be jumping on beds. I apologized to the owners; they assured me the bed wasn’t of that much value, even though it appeared to be antique. We ultimately discovered the house where this woman called from was one where she just showed up and announced to the owners that, “God had prepared the house for her to stay for the next 1,023 days.” That would be a long time to have a guest, but the owners didn’t really know this woman to begin with. They had met her once approximately twenty years ago, but it isn’t like they had ever kept in touch. The owners of the house didn’t have a clue what to think of the situation either.

Ultimately, I made an effort to get her to understand she needed to leave with us. She eventually agreed, but first we had to pray with her. I felt at this point I was going to do just about anything to get this woman out of the house peacefully. I told her to go ahead, but she refused until all parties in the room agreed to hold hands. So the other deputies and I stood there holding hands until the woman closed her eyes. I was planning to handcuff her immediately if she refused to go, but she followed through with her promise to leave with us. As I got outside, we learned that somehow the ambulance had been cancelled so we decided to transport her and her kids in my patrol vehicle.

The child car seats were arranged, but she insisted her son had to sit on her left side. We had to rearrange the car seats. As I asked if she had any shoes to put on since the driveway was just a bunch of rocks, she informed me, “Every step just reminds me that I am on God’s path.” You would never catch me walking on those rocks, God’s path or not.
As we got ready to go, she announced the dog had to come with us. There was a dog running around the house, and I assumed the dog belonged to the landowners. Apparently not. Neither did the dog belong to this woman. I was finally able to determine she had dognapped the animal from a friend where she started out earlier that morning. I asked for the friend’s phone number, and just as I thought she was about to give it to me, the woman told me, “She’ll know to come.”

Apparently some kind of divine inspiration was going to let the dog’s owner know we had found her dog. Eventually, the dog was transported in another deputy’s car. I ultimately was able to track the dog’s owner through utility records of the city where the dog lived. It was a good thing the police department had access to those records.

On the drive to the hospital I asked about playing some music, but she refused to listen to anything on the radio. I asked her if she was hungry, and she insisted she couldn’t have anything but water for the next 1,023 days.

Giving up on her needs, I focused on the kids, afraid she was starving them. She relented a bit and said they could have something small when we got to where we were going. Oddly enough she never asked where we were taking her. We also didn’t offer up that information. We just promised not to take her to jail. Of course, she seemed to believe we had been sent by God, and she was told by angels we would be there to help her, so at least she trusted us.

Upon arrival at the emergency room, the doctor on duty was very impressed with my diagnosis of something breaking inside this woman’s brain. He of course wanted to do his own diagnosis, but he did appreciate my efforts. The paperwork to confine this woman for treatment was awfully quick to fill out and the judge agreed that thinking she had given birth to Christ was probably enough to warrant a stay at a hospital.

After the kids were handed over to the appropriate state agency, we managed to contact the woman’s mother to take custody of the children. The woman was sent to a secure facility, but as the mother was about to take her grandchildren home, she proceeded to tell me her daughter had to stay away from her husband because it was an abusive relationship.

I took the bait and I could have kicked myself as I asked how she knew that.

“God told me.”

I wanted to put fingers in my ears and yell lalalalalalalalala, so I could pretend I didn’t hear what she said.

The state agency determined the grandmother was fit to take the kids that evening. We didn’t have many other options since the kid’s father didn’t have a car because his wife took off with it, and it was now sitting at the house of the people she didn’t know in the middle of the county where I was working.

After everyone was gone, I took the opportunity to let all the other investigators involved in this case know they owed me a dinner. They each called back the next day just to hear the roundup of events that had taken place. Afterward, they all agreed to buy me dinner.