Touching the Ancient One

Today I read an article on the Internet about a Kansas City bookstore owner who seems to be systematically burning his inventory of used books. Book burning is not a new thing, of course, but is most often the result of extreme religious or political fervor. In this case, it seems to be by one who presumably has great respect for the written word. The AP article by David Twiddy states that the burnings are to “draw attention in protest of what he [the bookstore owner]  sees as society's diminishing support for the printed word.” While I agree with the sentiment, I think the action is extreme.

I believe there are many places across the country that would very much like to receive those used books. Today, being Memorial Day, I’m thinking in particular of veteran’s hospitals and homes. I’ve donated several copies of Touching the Ancient One to those organizations and was rewarded by their gratitude. We may not be able to rescue those Kansas City books (although some are trying,) but we can perform a service to our elder service men and women by our own rescue of books and then seeing that they get into the right hands.

I’d bet there are several locations in your community to place your new or “rescued” books, but in case you’d rather just use the mail, here’s an address suggested by The Military Writers Society of America:

NW LA War Veterans Home
Attn: Tameka Dees, Library Director
3130 Arthur Ray Teague Pkwy
Bossier City, LA 71112

Rupert

May 23, 2007

I value friendship highly, and it hurts when friends die. It seems to be happening to me more and more, and I guess that’s to be expected when one reaches a certain age. It’s especially hard, however, when your oldest friend goes.

Among my very earliest memories is one of Ed (Eddie) Harbour and I playing in a sawdust pile across the road from my house. We took turns licking Ed’s Black Cow sucker. A dusty road separated our Salt Rock, West Virginia homes by a scant hundred yards. We were together daily. No phone calls (we didn’t have any phones then,) we just showed up on each other’s doorstep.

That’s Ed with the dark collar near the center of this Salt Rock Church group. Yes, that’s me at the lower left. Circa 1938.

It was that way all our young lives except for a couple of years during World War II when my family was away. We had adventures galore—foolish dangerous things sometimes, but mostly just fun. Ed built a big sled with a little house on it. One winter day when a light snow barely covered the landscape, we dragged the heavy sled to the top of a hill. I chickened, but Ed crawled inside and I obediently gave him a shove. The sled picked up speed and sailed far past the spot we had imagined it might go. It crashed through a barbed wire fence and down into a creek, breaking through the ice on a three-foot deep pool of water. With heart pounding, both from chasing the runaway sled and from unimaginable fear, I managed to pull Ed from the house, which was broken apart in several places. He was soaking wet, but unhurt. That was only one of our many excellent adventures.

We played football together at Barboursville High School, enduring some hardships to do so. Salt Rock was eleven difficult miles from Barboursville, and although a bus took us to school, we had to hitchhike home after practice. We were both linemen and seldom got to touch the ball. Before the last game in our senior year (1950,) Ed was lamenting the fact that he’d never made a touchdown. Our team was not a great one (by a long shot) and we were playing St Albans, a pretty good team. During the first half St. Albans fumbled and Ed grabbed the ball. I threw three blocks on the way to the goal line and Ed had his touchdown. We led 25–0 at the half. We lost the game by one touchdown.

We went separate ways after high school. I went to Marshall. Ed married Rachel Midkiff, then went into the army and eventually to Korea. I went into the Air Force. We wrote letters for awhile. Later, we’d see each other at school reunions and get together occasionally, but most often years would pass before we’d see each other. Thankfully, we’ve been much closer the past few years. Millie and I try to get to West Virginia at least once a year, and a day or so with Ed and Rachel has always been a pleasure.

Ed left us yesterday, and I guess it hasn’t fully hit me yet. It’s still unreal—maybe it will always be that way for me. I’ve got my memories though, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Ed, my dear friend for the longest time—I salute you! Our loss is Heaven’s gain.

Rupert