OUR HOUSE was a finalist in the annual Best of the Best at FaithWriters a few years ago. It is my tribute to our veterans and a reminder what the place they should have in our minds and hearts. Men and women like Mr. Clark, who was real person who gave up much that we could have more.

“Come on in and sit a spell.”

I paused at the door of Mr. Clark’s pond house and willed away the expression of amusement I could feel trying to force its way through the very pores of my face. Truthfully, no one would have blamed me if I had entered laughing my head off. Clark’s house was a two room affair sitting on stilts in the middle of his little catfish pond. Steel cables ran at crazy angles from two sides of the cabin in opposite directions and were staked out in the fields beyond the water’s confines. It seems Clark hadn’t counted on the poles his house sat on shifting and the cables were his vain attempt to keep the place from tilting crazily one way or the other.

“Grab a chair,” the grizzled man muttered, “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

As I pulled up a lawn chair I knew instinctively this was one of those experiences I would write about one day and no one would believe. No one, that is, except those who were lucky enough to be allowed into Clark Dobb’s inner sanctum.

There he sat in his faded black Naugahyde recliner in nothing but his boxers and too worn t-shirt. He and the chair were fused into one lump of Mississippi August sweat making it hard to tell where furniture ended and man began. He never turned to welcome me. There were more important things at hand. Things like the cane pole he held extended out the window next to him and Saturday afternoon wrestling on an ancient Philco black-and-white two feet in front of him.

Between a two pound channel cat and the three hundred pound Masked Assassin he found time to share with me bits and pieces of his life experience, his suspicions about the “government”, and his ponderings on eternal mysteries. Clark was the son of share croppers, the great-grandson of a Civil War hero, and the great-great grandchild of Scottish Highlanders. What he owned had been gained through sheer determination, and the pain in his back was thanks to three years in the Pacific theater during World War II. And the wisdom he possessed … it was more surprising than anything else I experienced that day.

I discovered later that others in the community thought Clark to be a bit “touched”. After all, he owned hundreds of acres of prime timber land but you couldn’t tell by looking at him that he had more than two dollars to his name. Then there were his infamous projects: his failed attempt at raising a new super strain of South American worms, his short-lived excursion into the recording industry, and of course, his cockeyed pond house.

As I started to leave he set his pole down; “Could you do me a favor before you go?”

I smiled; “Sure thing.”

He pointed toward a faded flag that hung from the roof outside. “Could you take her down for me? It’s going to rain and I don’t let nothin’ desecrate her. I know that seems foolish but the old USA’s been good to me, and that’s the least I can do for her.”

The longer I lived in that community the more I realized one couldn’t judge Clark Dobb’s by his shabby exterior. For every dollar he had lost in some crazy venture I discovered he had given two to others in need.

Travelers passing by that pond house only saw a strange old man living amidst a hodge-podge of junk. But not me. I saw a living illustration of the country he fought for, put up with, and loved. A country of wonderfully insane contradictions. A place where we foolishly waste fortunes on South American worms while at the same time give even more to those who only dream of attempting something so bold. A place where the greatest of intentions are held in place by the slimmest of hopes. A place where a few are even willing to die to ensure others the right to ridicule those who died for them.

I guess travelers passing by our house see an eclectic accumulation of half-realized dreams, failed endeavors, and accidental successes. They see a house seemingly pulled in all directions at once. And perhaps some are even right when they say we are a bit touched. Even so, it’s our house and we still believe in the colors that hang from her eaves.

Far from the shores of the Mediterranean Sea and the sands of Benghazi the ghosts of men from the greatest generation who died in faraway places remind us of a different time. A time when famers, and barbers, and preachers, and former slaves believed in a land of the free and the home of the brave. A time when they trusted their sacrifice would not be taken lately nor their leaders play politics as their lifeless bodies were lowered to the both eloquent and haunting melody of Taps.

I speak of men like those who came from a little town by the curious name of D’Lo. Off the beaten path and hidden alongside the Strong River, it is doubtful many outside of central Mississippi have even heard of it. Yet there was a time when this tiny hamlet of less than 400 souls made national headlines and was featured in Life Magazine. What could have once brought such exposure to a place bypassed by MS State Hwy 49 and time? Thankfully, for the proud citizens of this town 30 miles south of the state capitol of Jackson it wasn’t a scandal but rather something so memorable, a monument is proudly preserved there to this day.

Legends abound as to how a town came to be called D’Lo in the first place. Some claim it is a remnant of some Native American designation for the area. Others, and with good cause, contend the little village’s name is not nearly so mysterious. The area if the lowest point between the city of Hattiesburg and Jackson and trains transporting lumber made their slowest going there as they proceeded north. As a result, so the story goes, engineers and locals simply came to title the place, “Damn Low.” The US Postal service would hear none of that and thus, D’Lo.

Located in the heart of millions of acres of prime timber at the turn of the 20^thCentury it was inevitable that when the Finkbine Lumber Company built a million dollar sawmill there in 1916 the area was bound to boom. Within months numerous buildings, commercial and residential, popped up. It wasn’t quite a gold rush but close to it. At its peak, D’Lo was the largest town between Jackson and Hattiesburg and boasted two large YMCA buildings, a movie theater, a furniture store. ten grocery stores, three appliance dealers, a dry cleaner, ten gas stations, seven butcher markets, five cafes, three auto shops, a boat building and cabinet shop, a machine shop, a bank, three pharmacies, lighted basketball courts, professional basketball and baseball teams, and a newspaper.

There were numerous churches, a three story brick school building with well over 500 students and a modern three story hospital. Before the beginning of the Great Depression, the town’s population soared from a few hundred to 5,000 in less than ten years making it the second largest milling town in the entire Unites States.

But, like the boom towns of the Old West things couldn’t last. By 1930, most of the once seemingly endless miles of prime hardwood were gone; the mill closed down and by 1940 D’Lo was once again less than 500 souls and sure to be forgotten forever. The timber was gone as were those who came to profit from it.

That didn’t mean there weren’t still strong people there. Men who knew how to sacrifice much just so their families could eat. Women who sweated side by side with husbands and brothers when the crops had to be harvested whatever it took. And when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and our nation called for action those men and women that time and fortune had left behind rose to the occasion.

Of the 400 official residents of D’Lo, 150 went off to war. Nearly 40% of its residents volunteered for service. By percentage, the nearly deserted mill town had sent more of its citizens off to war than any other town in America. And in the midst of those dark years when so many from D’Lo were fighting in places some couldn’t even spell, Life Magazine showed up. They had not been forgotten.

Life sent a reporter and a photographer to feature the little town that refused to die. The town that instead had sent so many of its sons to die in faraway places like New Guinea, and Iwo Jima and France. And others, like my cousin Roy Bridges, who returned with scars they would carry the rest of their lives.

The magazine dubbed it “the flightiness town in America” ensuring that, while D’Lo’s glory days might have passed it would not be forgotten. There are still a few of that last great generation who left D’Lo to fight in the War still living there. But like the great hardwoods that once graced the area they have fallen to time and age and soon will only live in the memories of those that follow them.

In spite of the passing of its heroes, what this little town did in our nation’s time of peril should always be remembered. It was a more selfless time when men rose to the occasion and volunteered to do what many now would not. But those men would want us to know there are still those who walk in their shoes. There are still men who grab a machine gun and fight to the last bullet to protect those they were sworn to protect.

And what of those who spend more time covering themselves than using their power to ensure such things never happen again? What of men who joke as the bodies of the fallen lie in state before grieving parents? I have a feeling those who died far away from their home in the piney woods of Simpson County Mississippi would shake their heads, wipe a tear from their eyes, and respond, “Damn Low.”

Picture in your mind the night Larry Bird scored 60 points against the Atlanta Hawks. It doesn’t matter if you are a sports fan or not to appreciate the story I am about to tell you. What will get your attention is this: I’m about to use Larry Legend as an illustration to teach all of us how to be a success in 10 simple steps.

Some of you may have zoned out the moment your saw the word “sports” or muttered (forgive them Lord) “Larry Who?” But 10 Simple Steps gets most of us every time. Here’s an exercise to prove it. Go to Amazon and type the phrase 10 Easy in quotes in the search box. Or since we want everything as instantly as possible just click this link. You’ll get the point.

Now back to the story. The Boston Celtics were playing in Atlanta before a sold out crowd that was predominantly composed of Celtic fans. Doc Rivers recounts that night as Bird put on a shooting clinic that left the fans, his team mates, and even his opponents in awe. All you have to do is watch this video clip to know how special that night was. After Bird’s last shot drained the net, several of the Atlanta players jumped up in celebration in spite of the fact they had just been schooled by the hick from French Lick.

So how did the man from Indiana who couldn’t run and couldn’t jump become one of the 5 best players in the history of professional basketball?

This is a blog post and everyone knows we internet types have the attention span of a gnat. The digital mind requires bullet points and callouts to grab our attention. Since I am a writer, and all of you are readers (evidenced by the fact you made it this far in this little object lesson) allow me to shift gears from basketball for a moment to writing. Just replace the word “write” in the following list with “practice basketball” and you’ll know the secret to Larry Bird’s success.

1. Write.
2. Write more.
3. Write even more.
4. Write even more than that.
5. Write when you don’t want to.
6. Write when you do.
7. Write when you have something to say.
8. Write when you don’t.
9. Write every day.
10. Keep writing.

In his autobiography, Larry Bird Drive, Bird explains how the habits he developed in high school stayed with him throughout his legendary career. Beginning in ninth grade, he spent every summer practicing. And when he was done, he practiced some more. One of the key elements of his summer regimen was that he did everything alone.

Having a shooting partner according to Bird, would often lead to distractions and thus getting less work put in. Because of this he always practiced alone. Later in his professional career he might have a ball boy present, but no communication would occur during these sessions, in order for the focus to entirely remain on practicing.

The point is this. There is a simple way to be successful but there are no easy steps. Whether you are a writer, a basketball player, a teacher, or a parent with the overwhelming responsibility of training up children in the way they should go, the way is simple but not easy. Whatever it is that needs to be done to become what you know you need to be:

1. Do it.
2. Do it more.
3. Do it even more.
4. Do it even more than that.
5. Do it when you don’t want to.
6. Do it when you do.
7. Do it when you have something to say.
8. Do it when you don’t.
9. Do it every day.
10. Keep on doing it.

Now that wasn’t so hard was it? How’s it working for me? Get back with me after the multitude of interruptions and occasional attacks of laziness that are bound to occur before this day is over and I’ll let you know.

I stood silently as my step-father walked around the LCVP just inside the main entrance of the New Orleans D-Day Museum. It had been a typically August dog day afternoon; oppressive to me and much worse for my 81 year old mother and her 84 year old husband. Here in the cool of the building, she and I found relief while the distant look in his eyes reflected a time when there was no such rest.

A plaque near the 36 foot long landing craft read: “Andrew Higgins is the man who won the war for us.” – President Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1964. Quite a statement considering the craft hardly looked impressive compared to the battleships and aircraft carriers I had opportunity to tour in the past.

Looking for a reason for the little boat’s significance I decided to read more while the man I brought here continued his silent ritual. It is quite a story. How Andrew Higgins a fiery Irishman who drank whiskey like a fish and built oil-prospecting wooden boats in Louisiana was certain there would be a need in the U.S. Navy for thousands of small boats once war broke out.

Higgins was equally certain steel would be in short supply so he bought the entire 1939 crop of mahogany from the Philippines and stored it in his New Orleans warehouse. For the next several years Higgins insisted the Navy didn’t “know one damn thing about small boats” until finally the War Department offered him a contract to develop his wooden landing craft. With contract in hand Higgins ultimately employed 30,000 blacks, whites, men, and women working side by side to construct thousands of the unassuming wooden crafts.

“36 marines.” My stepfather had made the circuit of the LCVP and now stood beside me. In the 20 some odd years I’ve known him this would be the only time he spoke of the war. “It was something at Iwo Jima. There were ships as far as we could see. And then,” he paused as though he heard voices from another place. “I was 23 so they made me an officer. And then I took 36 boys at a time on one of these things knowing half of them probably wouldn’t come back. It was like … like dropping those marines off at the edge of hell itself.”

That was seven years ago and not once since then have I heard him mention the matter again. As quickly as he offered me a glimpse of that other time he did what most of that generation have done, thought it better left in that place, that time.

1000 World II veterans a day leave this earth. And now Ken Ramsey, who loved and cared for my mother as well as my own father, is about to join them. A hospice care facility awaits him this coming Tuesday. And just as many of those marines his Higgins LCVP carried to the shores of Iwo Jima and Okinawa never returned it is likely he has made his last trip as well.

Thank you hardly seems adequate to say to the man who endured so much for the country he loves or to my mother who was so alone until she met him. Even so thank you Lieutenant Kenneth Ramsey USN and thank you to all of that Last Great Generation!

Other stories of war and life from my life:
The Boy Inside the Man, Faded Eyes, Our House

Who would you like to thank for their sacrifice and service? I would love to hear their story.