APPEARANCES

They say that appearances are everything; always look your best and people will think the best of you... Or so the saying goes. But appearances aren't always what you think. There are a lot of men who look their best at all times, not a hair out of place, footware that's so shiny one would swear that he was in the military; a wardrobe that rivals the American Gigolo,

But under the surface lies the real man. Oh he's got personality that can charm a dozen women into the sack but it isn't long before that polished exterior cracks and the real person steps out. After taking the woman for everything she has--and often leaving a kid or two for souvenirs, he's out the door and on his way down the road where he gets polished up again to make his move on the next one.

I believe that the British term for that type is Alfie.

Still it is necessary to look your best when looking for a job, or playing the field, either in the nightclubs or on the internet, as appearances are still a necessity. Of course a little common sense should be practiced as it wouldn't be all that necessary to dress up in a suit and tie if one is applying for a job cleaning out sewer systems for eight hours a day.

But there are times when appearances might not be the best way to judge a person. What if it simply doesn't matter how you look? What if you had it made so well that people would show you every courtesy if you looked like a tramp? JC once told Mattie that when (more like if ) he finally had it made in the shade, he'd head uptown clad in lounging pants, bathrobe and slippers. Everyone would greet him as if he was their best friend.

It's doubtful that Mattie agreed, or Kammi for that matter because both laughed almost as hard at him as they did when JC tried to don his old motorcycle jacket.

There was a story that was told at the old coffee shop a few years back that had almost everything to do with appearances and what could happen if one acted too quickly. We'll begin this story near the end and work our way forward:

Police Chief West was summoned to the station late one night. Two of the duty officers had picked up a vagrant and required West to conduct the investigation. West showed up, clad in lounging pants, moccasins and a--jacket, and walked through the cell block. All he saw was a couple of drunks in one cell, sacked out in the bunks, sleeping off whatever it was they were on at the time, and a couple of cells over sat an old man, clad in a moth-eaten wool coat, ragged pants and worn out rubber boots that were liberally coated with cow manure. The old man was so disheveled and filthy that he made the two drunks appear well-groomed.

West merely gave the old man a cursory glance then headed up to the front desk where he was greeted by the duty sergeant. The two arresting officers were there as well and they came right up.

West gazed at them quizzically. 'Do you know who you've got locked up back there?' he asked reasonably.

The officers shrugged. 'We just saw him walking down the street on the south side of town,' said the first patrolman.

'Did he say anything?'

'Mostly muttered,' the second officer said. 'We fist thought he was drunk but we couldn't smell anything, other than he missed a date with a bar of soap a long time ago. We just brought him in here to get him off the road. It's quite chilly out there tonight.'

'Do you know who he is?' the first officer enquired.

'Sure do,' West responded. 'He probably couldn't talk to you because he likely hasn't got his teeth with him. He's on the downhill side of ninety and he's a little shaky. But let me tell you something: That old man could cut a check for a million dollars and wouldn't have to go to the bank to clear it. He owns in the neighborhood of fifty thousand acres of farm and ranch land south of here.'

The officers were incredulous. How could a disgusting old man like that be a multi-millionaire? He didn't look like he could afford a downpayment on a free meal but here, Chief West was telling them that they had just arrested one of the richest men in the country for vagrancy.

Back in the days before the First World War--the Great War to some--the Canadian government came out with The Homestead Act, a deal (some called it a bet) whereas for the princely sum of ten dollars you could receive a quarter section (160 acres) of land. The only catch was that the homesteader had to prove up on it; break and plant so many acres per year, and commence building. If he defaulted he would have to move off and the land would be turned over to another homesteader.

Well, Mr. Rheinfelter, the old man in the holding cell, had come from somewhere in Minnesota and made his way to Alberta along with other homesteaders. They settled in the Jefferson region near the international boundary and proceeded to put down roots. The only difference between Rheinfelter and the rest of the homesteaders was that Rheinfelter had a little bit of money. He bought a quarter section and proceeded to break sod and prove up. Soon after, a neighbor fell upon hard times and had to leave for something more attainable than scratching a living out of that unforgiving prairie. Mr. Rheinfelter offered to buy the neighbor out with a generous offer to assume the debts plus cover the neighbor's initial expenses.

The neighbor was ecstatic. He was ready to sign papers immediately and wasted no more time loading up his family and heading for the bright lights of the big city where he and his family would live happily ever after, or so to speak. A short time later another neighbor decided that he wasn't cut out for this farming stuff either so he approached Rheinfelter and got the same generous, life-saving bailout. It wasn't long before Rheinfelter accumulated three full sections of land; he was on his way.

Then came the guys who fell upon hard times but wanted to keep farming. All they needed was a little boost of capital to cover expenses, for a short term anyways. The banks weren't all that eager to lend money to farmers but Rheinfelter was. Of course the collateral was always the land; if the farmer defaulted, measures were taken to foreclose thus forcing the farmer out of his only home.

I might add that there were a lot of farmers that Rheinfelter helped out who were able to pay the loans back and stay in business.

Enter the Thirties--the Dust Bowl--a time when it got so dry that the grasshoppers had to carry a lunch. Farming methods at the time left a lot to be desired and with the drought, the parched land began to blow, drifting like snow around buildings, abandoned vehicles and farm equipment; it buried fences and the fences that were built atop where the old fences had been. Heart-broken farmers often packed up and left without a word while some at least attempted to sell their farms for whatever they could get. Some offered their farms to men like Rheinfelter for as little as a dollar an acre with nothing down and so much a year. That helped grow a lot of empires in the south.

You would think that people with Rheinfelter's means would tend to dress up and show off a little but Rheinfelter, and his two sons, who were schooled on the same tight-fisted methods of the old man; use only what was needed and nothing more; new clothes were frivolous when what they already wore covered them properly. They ate like homeless people, sometimes having nothing for lunch but stale bread sopping up the morning's bacon grease in a frying pan, and washing it down with black coffee that was far stronger than anything the airlines could serve.

It's amazing that they found women who would put up with their miserly practices but oftentimes, especially during the hard times, their wives traded their wanted luxuries for security and simply put up and shut up.

The Rheinfelter empire grew throughout the Second World War and well into the fifties before things began to slow down. But then, Rheinfelter, and even his sons were beginning to feel the effects of age. One of the boys became so crippled (mostly from malnutrition) that he had to be hoisted up on the tractor, or swather, or combine, where he would spend the entire day before he was hoisted off at day's end.

Obviously they were all accustomed to hard work and could be found in the fields working almost around the clock. And so it wasn't surprising that the old man was found walking along the road into Lethbridge late one evening.

He was hauling grain in one of the big trucks he owned. Unfortunately he had run out of gas and since this was long before the age of cellphones, he was walking into the city to find a payphone so he could call his boy (collect of course, and if you finished the call soon enough there was no charge at all) to come out and bring some gas.

But the police found him first, out in the cold, clad in dirty dilapidated clothing, staggering (because he was crippled) like a homeless wino. I'm sure that old Rheinfelter was enjoying himself immensely, especially when the police chief told those two officers who they had arrested.

They say that you can't take it with you, and obviously, even Rheinfelter knew that. In the end he wasn't all that stingy as he left a five-million dollar endowment to the local university and community college. One thing you've got to agree with is that he didn't die broke. But was he really that happy?

LOTTERY, THE SECOND STORY

Through the years, and for at least the time that lotteries have been around, there has always been a negative connotation about it. Stories about how winners' lives get completely upended with their families destroyed and friendships dissolved abound when the topic comes up. People suddenly finding themselves wealthy beyond their wildest dreams do undergo a lot of changes whether they like it or not. There was a man who won close to five million and troubles for him and his wife began even before the lights from the reporters' flash bulbs went out.

A greedy and conniving realtor hastily built up an acreage to at least look appealing and sold it to the winners for a price far more than the property was worth. Almost immediately there were problems with the house which was discovered to be way short of passing building regulations (the realtor was able to skirt the codes because the property was in his own name and he was merely remodeling and thus wasn't subject to so much scrutiny). It cost the winners a small fortune to get the house rebuilt so it could pass inspection then their lives were disrupted by freeloading family members and (now ex-) friends.

They didn't properly consider large purchases and often suffered severe consequences, like the pedigreed (?) racehorse they paid over $.9M for, only to see it die two months later.

The couple's new found fortune was gone almost before it was received and it gives credence to the statement: A fool and his money are soon parted. They did manage a second kick at the can when they won a million and a half about five years later. They did the right thing this time; they packed up and left the country for several months and when they came back, they were living in another neighborhood.

Another couple of cases happened close to home: The first was when a couple moved into my hometown and purchased the local drug store. They paid too much for it, and their house, and were backsliding into a major financial abyss when a relatively small lottery jackpot ended their troubles. They won just enough to pay off their debts and thus were allowed to carry on life and prosper, although they still had to fend off nearly every freeloader and con-artist in the country for the better part of a year.

The other one close to home wasn't quite that lucky. The couple had won just under a million dollars and their lives got so disrupted that they cleared out in the middle of the night and moved away, never to be seen again.

The problem to this is largely publicity. Winners have to allow their names to be published and allow their mugshots to be plastered in every major news publication across the country. The late newsman, Andy Rooney, once said that if he could work his will, he would make it illegal to publish a winner's name or picture in anything, even the lotteries' own publications.

The druggist, and the couple that had to leave town were a couple of stories that inspired me to write the novel, Lottery. A friend and I were seated on the deck late one hot summer night, enjoying a cold beverage and we discussed the plights of those two winners and how we'd set things up if we'd won. That had my thoughts going wild and I came up with all sorts of possibilities. I had things nailed down pretty well and then, while up in the Athabaska Tar Sands, I became acquainted with a rock truck driver whom I'd have sworn had read my manuscript and duplicated the way my main character cashed his ticket in. That only reinforced my own idea and thus my first novel was born.

But how does all this tie in with the story I'm about to tell? Well, it just provides some background and tells some of the bad things that can happen to lucky but still good people. A lot of people regard the lotteries with disdain and for the most part, their thoughts are well qualified. Con-artists and long lost family members come out of the woodwork. So often friendships are strained and even lost, but there are times when a lot of good comes out of good fortune.

The first one would be the druggist in my hometown; the second would be a group of four co-workers who had worked for a local foundry for many years. The latter group won $16M and they were able to retire debt free and, by planning carefully, were able to enjoy (and are still enjoying) their lives. And the one I'm about to share is another true story about luck in its tenderest of mercies.

Max had suffered with Angina since he was in his late thirties. By the time he was in his sixties the chest pains could get almost unbearable. What he needed was bypass surgery but none of the specialists were willing to perform that operation because the risk in this case was too high. However one specialist on the west coast said he could do it and Max was given a five-way bypass.

Surviving the operation was a miracle in itself but it gave Max a lot more years than he originally was given. He had a new lease on life that enabled him to travel to the far ends of the continent to see his family and share some good times. He would spend over ten years enjoying life until the chest pains returned.

Another bypass was too much of a risk but with proper medications Max was able to at least have a full life. Even after his beloved wife was called home to her Maker, Max still kept up his activities and was able to do so many things he enjoyed.

But there were times that Angina wasn't fair.

Max's oldest boy was an engineer at the Hoover Dam. He lived on a modest acreage in Logandale which isn't far from Lake Meade and thus Jeff was able to drive back and forth to work quickly. Just after Jeff and his wife moved into their new house, Max flew down for a visit. They toured Las Vegas and saw many programs, and ate lots. They might have even gambled a bit but no one is telling. They went back to Logandale and settled down for the night. It wasn't long before things went bad for Max.

He was awakened in the middle of the night with horrible chest pains which couldn't be controlled with Nitro. Jeff called the EMTs and they rushed Max off to the hospital where his condition was treated with fairly good success. The pain was brought under control and the specialists were discussing further treatment. Unfortunately heart disease was a pre-existing medical condition so Max's insurance wouldn't cover his situation. Unable to pay for the bills that were sure to ensue from the battery of treatments, Max checked himself out of the hospital. He found out that the airline wouldn't allow him to board because of his condition so Jeff loaded him up and began to drive north.

JC headed south while Jeff continued to drive north and they met somewhere in between. JC proceeded to take Max home and put him in the hospital there. Max soon recovered and was able to resume his life of retirement. He was back in his workshop, building clocks and attending Coffee Row with his buddies. But he knew that there was bad news on the horizon.

An envelope eventually arrived from the hospital in Las Vegas and not surprisingly contained the bill. For those few hours as a patient, Max was charged in the neighborhood of two thousand dollars. For a man on a fixed income, that was a burden that was very difficult to pay. JC and Mattie even contemplated helping out although they would have to do that surreptitiously because Max had that pride thing.

One day JC got a phone call from Max. Without hardly a greeting, Max asked: 'JC does five matching numbers mean anything on the lottery?'

'It's a lot better than four,' JC replied, 'not as good as five plus the bonus and definitely not as good as all six.' There was a pause then JC asked: 'Why?'

'Well, I was picking up a prescription at the drug store the other day and I had some change so I bought a ticket. I just checked it out and it looks like I've got five out of six.'

'Dad, you did good,' JC said with genuine enthusiasm. 'If you look on the back of your ticket, you'll see a toll-free phone number. Call that and give them the serial number off your ticket and they'll tell you how much you've got coming.'

Max did just as JC had told and it turned out that he'd won over two-thousand dollars. He cashed his ticket in and received a check that was enough to pay his hospital bill, make a charitable donation to his church and take his lady friend out for a nice dinner. Nothing left but a feeling that a tremendous weight had been taken off his shoulders.

Now, people are cautioning us about lotteries and gambling and the evils that games of chance spawn. Church leaders, financial planners, parents and spouses sometimes vehemently oppose taking chances. Despite that nearly everyone dreams of hitting the big one and what new frontiers can be achieved. Unfortunately the percentage of those who actually make it big is very small. But sometimes one doesn't have to make it big; just making it enough to keep the wolves from your door is often sufficient.

Go ahead and have some fun but as the lotteries themselves advise: Set a limit and say within it.  

THE BIG BAD LANDLORD/TENANT

Today's posting is a series of true stories straight out of the lives of JC and Mattie. It might have some humorous overtones but it's dead serious. I'd have to say that it's as much of a warning as it is a story. Read and enjoy...


PART ONE--THE BIG BAD LANDLORD

For more than a century there has been talk of the Big Bad Landlord. Back when immigration was at its peak, families paid astronomic rent in order to live in a dilapidated apartment, and there was no guarantee that they'd be able to stay there as they could be thrown out on a moment's notice with no excuse other than the apartment had just been rented out to a family who can pay more rent. Families, already devastated by the trauma of moving to a strange new land were left to their own to fend for themselves. For this reason the various governments stepped in and implemented laws that helped to prevent such flagrant abuse. Since that time relationships between landlords and tenants has improved although not to a perfect state.

JC rented a bachelor's suite in Fort McMurray. Considering the location (read: Isolation?) JC wasn't surprised that rent up there was close to $200.00 a month more than a similar sized place in Edmonton so he just kept the place clean, paid his rent on time and everyone was happy.

Until the day that JC moved out.

When JC moved into the apartment he noticed that there was a chip in the kitchen sink. He didn't pay a lot of attention to it as it wasn't anything that required immediate attention. It didn't even detract much from the appearance of the place but then, JC was a guy, who wasn't all that concerned about how his kitchen looked as long as it was clean. But when he was putting his dishes away he noticed an inspection form made out by the super for the previous tenant. The chip in the sink was noted.

JC filed that paper away. He didn't know what for but he was a stickler for keeping track of official documents so that form went into the file cabinet along with everything else that pertained to the apartment. When he moved out the super came in and carried out the standard inspection to ensure that JC hadn't wrecked the place during his stay. She noted the chip in the sink and gave JC a copy of the form.

Back at his real home at the south end of the province, JC quickly got back into his old routine. He moved completely into his old place (which he never really moved out of in the first place--he camped at Fort McMurray) and quickly assumed his new role, which amounted pretty much to what he was doing all his life. One day he received a letter from his former landlord which contained his damage deposit refund. It also contained a copy of the inspection form as signed by his former super.

The landlord deducted the cost of the sink from his damage deposit leaving him with only a fraction of the original deposit. JC bristled when he read that but kept his cool. He went into the back room and retrieved the copy that the former tenant had left behind. A couple of phone calls to Fort McMurray and he was able to get in touch with the former tenant. She (the former tenant) happened to know who rented the apartment before she did and she got in touch with that girl, who told her that her damage deposit refund had also been docked for the chipped sink.

Well, JC made a copy of the form that had been left in the apartment, and the twice removed tenant, who also happened to be a stickler for keeping documents, faxed JC a copy of her inspection form. JC simply mailed copies of all three forms to the landlord in Edmonton, along with a letter stating that he wasn't responsible for chipping the sink.

He let the landlord decide about the two previous tenants...

Four days later, a courier showed up at JC's workplace. He personally presented JC with an envelope that contained a check for the balance of the damage deposit, along with a letter of sincere (?) apology.

JC entertained thoughts about getting in touch with the previous tenants to see if they each received their full refunds.

It sometimes pays to hang onto papers, even if they seem insignificant at the moment.


PART TWO--THE BIG BAD TENANT

Sometime down the road, JC and Mattie met, fell in love and began to plan a life together. Things couldn't have been better except for their housing situations. They were both involved in professions that limited their abilities to simply pack up and relocate. Mattie lived in Arrowwood and was a branch manager for a charter bank as well as manager for two days a week at a branch in Vauxhall. JC lived in Taber which was only twenty miles from Vauxhall but a whole lot of miles from Arrowwood. Despite being a heavy duty mechanic, he had chosen to specialize in fuel systems, which eventually became a trade in itself, albeit in limited facilities. For him to move and take on a regular position in a dealership or regular service shop the disadvantages far outweighed the advantages. Mattie was just as stuck as management positions weren't all that plentiful. They discussed this at great length and it was decided that Mattie would spend her three days or so in Arrowwood and then come down to Vauxhall for her two days and then onto Taber where they would spend a weekend, with the next weekend spent at Arrowwood.

That settled, they went ahead with wedding plans.

Mattie told her boss what was going on. Upon hearing that, her boss said that there was going to be some major changes in Arrowwood, Okotoks and Milo. He also told her that changes were coming for Vauxhall too. That meant that Mattie's position in both branches was going to change as well. But he asked if she would be willing to transfer to Standoff, a branch on the Blood Indian Reservation just north of Cardston. Mattie had dealt with First Nations people before and she looked upon the offer as a challenge, which she accepted but not without serious consideration.

That drawback to that was Mattie would be leaving Arrowwood, a place she absolutely loved. She loved the people, she loved the location, and she loved her eighty year old home, which sat on two large treed lots.

Try that in the city...

On the same note, JC agreed to move out of Taber and relocate to Coaldale, which was a tad bit more central to both their workplaces.

Probably the hardest thing she would ever do was say good-bye to that fabulous old home. I might add that JC felt quite badly that Mattie would be giving up a place she loved so much. It still bothers him from time to time and there's no doubt that Mattie gets melancholy about it as well.

But the decision was made. Mattie first rented her place to her brother and his wife for a few months but she also listed the house for sale through a self-administered agency.

After that first winter, the brother and sister-in-law moved out leaving the house empty. One weekend, Mattie and JC loaded up tools and supplies and drove up to Arrowwood, the purpose of their mission to clean up the place and paint a couple of walls, something to give it more appeal. They were just getting at the tasks at hand when Mattie received a call regarding selling her house.

The potential buyers were (at the time) living in Gleichen, about twenty miles due north of Arrowwood. They weren't happy with the place they had there and happened upon the listing of Mattie's house. In a very short time the couple was down to check the place out.

They loved the place and they didn't even haggle over the price. They wanted the house and that was it. But they were waiting on some money to come through from a construction job and they couldn't afford a downpayment until July but they would gladly rent until then.

If something seems too good to be true, it usually is. This couple, a Barbie and Ken, if anyone ever saw one, would have been the unanimous choice for Prom King and Queen in their high school days I am sure. Both now in their thirties, Ken was six-foot two, athletic, with the handsome chiseled features that could have won him leading roles in major movies. Barbie was drop-dead gorgeous. Blond, with a figure that rivaled Pamela Anderson. Ken was a self-employed carpenter while Barbie worked at one of the recycle depots in the southern part of Calgary. Their occupations gave JC and Mattie the idea that Barbie and Ken were down-to-earth, hardworking people and people they could trust.

Mattie hastily made up some papers. Signatures were affixed and witnessed, and money for the first month's rent changed hands. The new owners would start moving in immediately.

And they did...

That was April. May came around and the money was deposited right into Mattie's account through the branch in Arrowwood. Barbie and Ken were welcomed into the community and Ken was even asked if he would like to join the volunteer fire department.

June came around and the money wasn't deposited on time. A phone call from Mattie and they acknowledged that business in Calgary had kept them away from home for a spell but the money would be deposited very soon.

It did, about two days later. Mattie phoned and asked them about their financing and was told that they had the papers at the lawyer's and they would be signing them soon. But could Mattie wait another month as the downpayment was taking longer than they thought?

Mattie reluctantly agreed but she (and JC) were beginning to worry.

August came and once again, no money. Mattie phoned several times before she managed to get hold of Barbie. She was assured that the rent would be deposited within the week and that the downpayment was on its way. The rent for August never showed up.

September came and no deposits, and no answer on the phone. Mattie had a manager's meeting in Calgary so she swung by the place to see what was going on. No one was home but, as a landlord, she was entitled to go in and check the place out. She did and she found a total pigsty--she couldn't believe that two good-looking people could live in the conditions that they were living in.

They had a Golden Retriever dog that left golden hair in piles everywhere. If that wasn't enough, the dog had experienced some indigestion, leaving the evidence on the floor in the living room. The double kitchen sink and expensive tap set, which Mattie had saved an entire year for, had a hole in the side of one basin and the faucet was broken; a pair of vicegrip pliers was attached to the mechanism.

Some time before Mattie met JC, she had bought a wood-burning stove and paid to have it professionally installed. A granite hearth had been set up in the parlor, the stove installed and the pipe and chimney exited properly out the wall. Barbie and Ken had removed the stove and set it in the front porch. They removed the granite hearth and back wall and leaned the slabs against the outside garage wall.

A short visit with the neighbors, who mentioned that Barbie and Ken were getting more and more difficult to visit with and Mattie got busy. She left a note on the table telling the tenants to clean the place up immediately, and that they would be responsible for the sink and tap set. She also told them that the rent was way past due. She was giving them one more chance to get the purchase completed.

October, and no money. Three months gone by and no contact whatsoever. Mattie gave up phoning and leaving messages but she somehow found their E-mail address and began to send them messages. Interesting enough, they replied to the messages but carefully removed any parts of Mattie's messages that could be deemed a disadvantage to them. With no other choice, Mattie drove up one evening and stapled an eviction notice to the door.

They got the notice; the neighbor watched Ken rip it off the door that night.

Mattie petitioned the court to charge them for damages to the sink and the floor coverings; she asked for compensation to reinstall the wood-burning stove, and petitioned to get them thrown out of the house. For a system that is notorious for delays Mattie's court date came up quickly. Thinking (hoping) that things would go Mattie's way, she took a day off work and drove to Gleichen where court was being held.

There was another part to this story: another potential buyer had seen the listing and was very interested in buying the property. Unfortunately there was no way to show it while the occupants were still there.

The court docket was loaded. Mattie's case ended up being the last of the day. Mattie presented her case objectively and then sat down to let Barbie and Ken present theirs.

Well, it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Barbie and Ken had been through situations like this before. They both entered the courtroom dressed to the nines and they knew the Landlord-Tenant Act intimately, even better than the judge. Ken quoted it verbatim, ending up with the classic: it's coming winter and we've got no place to go line.

By this time, the day was over for the court and the judge obviously wanted to go home. He told Mattie to hammer out an agreement with Ken and adjourned for the day.

Mattie and JC were stuck. They had (high-classed?) squatters residing in the house and it looked like they would have to put up with them for the winter. Come spring, if they were still there, they would have to take them to court again to get them thrown out. Dejected, they contemplated their next move.

But in the case of Mattie VS Barbie and Ken, sometimes fate steps in to lend a hand.

The house in Arrowwood was heated with oil. The main reason Mattie installed a wood-burning stove was to save on her heating bill; anyone who had to heat their home with heating oil knew that oil was the most expensive way by far.

Well, Ken moved the wood-burning stove out and was going ahead with plans to convert the parlor into something else, only he hadn't quite got around to anything other than moving the stove out. November came and it got very cold very fast. Late one night the furnace quit running; it had run out of stove oil and shut down. Ken tried everything he could to coax the last remaining drops of stove oil out of the tank but his efforts were to no avail. With no oil and no money to buy more he had to move the wood-burning stove back into the house and attempt to heat it that way.

He had also removed the granite hearth and backwall and had no way of restoring it back to where it belonged. Undaunted he set the wood stove into position and perched it on top of some wooden blocks. After connecting the chimney he had a fire going once again. Consequences be damned!

That must have worked for a couple of days, until they ran out of firewood. According to the neighbors they packed up and headed out in the middle of the night and hadn't been around for some time.

Mattie and JC drove up and looked over the damage. They quickly notified the fire inspector who promptly condemned the stove and put a sign on the door forbidding occupation until the problem was corrected. Locks changed, the house was secure (to a certain extent although access could still be made through the entryway on the east side of the house.

The aforementioned buyer was still in touch. Mattie showed him through the house and a deal was struck. Only problem now was what to do with Barbie and Ken's stuff? Again fate would lend a hand.

One evening Mattie received an interesting phone call. The caller was from Gleichen and had heard about the trouble Mattie was having with Barbie and Ken. She (the caller) told Mattie that the town of Gleichen had given Ken an advance on some remodeling to the community center. Trouble was the check was cashed but the work wasn't done and they needed to have it done or the money returned so the town could hire another contractor. Mattie told her that the delinquent couple's stuff was still in the house. Suddenly excited, the lady asked how difficult access to the house was. The answer was simple: either the east end or take the large window out of the north wall and you're there.

Maybe Mattie should've been a little more cautious about this but she had the understanding that the lady would simply enter the house and take inventory of what was in there so she could use it in a collection case. But the lady got a crew together and they took everything, even the garbage. I might add that there wasn't much other than a big screen TV that was worth anything, and that was the first thing they carted away.

Barbie and Ken showed up one day about six weeks later and discovered that their stuff was gone. They tried to phone Mattie who suddenly became very hard to get. They finally phoned the police and reported that their stuff had been stolen. To make a long story shorter, the lady admitted to taking all the stuff out and was holding it for repayment of monies that had been given with nothing in return. She also implicated Mattie in that Mattie had given permission to get all the stuff.

A trip to the lawyer and another trip to the police and everything was straightened out. Barbie and Ken got their furniture back and Mattie was able to sell her house... Almost a year after the whole fiasco began.

Moral of the story: 1/ If it seems too good to be true; it is. 2/ Believe nothing of what you hear, and only half of what you see. 3/ The devil wears many disguises.


PART THREE--THE BIG BAD TENANT

This is more of a footnote but it's interesting that when Mattie complained about her situation to others, she was told some tales that were just about as bad. In one of them, the landlord, after pursuing every avenue imaginable, simply backed his truck up to the front door and started moving his own furniture and belongings inside. When the family asked what was going on, the landlord simply told them that he was moving in; it was his house and he had the right to live there. He moved the tenants' stuff over to one side of the living room and put his stuff on the other. He simply moved in and set up shop with a family he couldn't get to leave.

It wasn't long before they left.

But there are cases where the tenant not only knows the Landlord-Tenant Act but is cunning and crafty as well. A couple had rented a house on a farmstead outside of Lethbridge. They had a handicapped child and one of the parents worked while the other one stayed at home to look after the child. It wasn't long before the rent was overdue to the point where they were being evicted.

It was winter, they had no money and no place to go; their child was sick and draining all their resources; the landlord had to present the eviction notice personally to the tenant whose name was on the contract in order to throw him out...

Believe it or not, that last statement was the one thing that allowed the delinquent family to remain there for five years, without paying a cent. They even filed suit against the landlord when he took down the satellite dish because the tenant's wife worked from home and needed internet access (thus the satellite dish) to do her job.

The landlord investigated hiring a professional torch to burn the place down but refrained at the last minute; a smart move to say the least. The last I heard, the landlord hired a contractor and began extensive renovations on the house. He couldn't throw the tenants out because that would mean he would have to provide alternate accommodations until the work was completed. He just told them that there would be a lot of construction going on and they (the tenants) would have to work around the crew. From what I heard the handicapped boy got so upset that they had to get out and move him up to Calgary where he could get some more help. The delinquents took a lot of their stuff with them but the rest of it was put out in the garage which will soon be standing by itself as the house has been sold and will be moved off the place as soon as renos are done.

Not exactly legal but then, how legal were the tenants? Yeah, I know, two wrongs don't make a right, but sometimes there isn't any choice.

FACTORY TOUR

When kids leave home for the first time and live on their own they are expected to derail a time or two. Life without parental supervision; college parties, getting drunk and disorderly, and generally making fools of themselves are part and parcel to growing up. Then there's the moment when life's realities start to sink in. Job, marriage, kids (not necessarily in that order) and generally joining in with the mainstream of society, raising a family and becoming a decent citizen are all necessary to keep the world moving ahead. But there are times when that youthful recklessness comes back for a visit, even several years down the road.

Manufacturing--mass-production--is always interesting. Seeing that metal being heated into a molten state then poured into molds to become a transmission case or an engine block, then watching as those castings are machined and assembled into complete units, tested and sent to other parts of the factory; watching sheets of steel being cut out, pressed, and formed to become frame rails, fenders and hoods, then to watch all those pieces being assembled on a moving line where the sum of the parts becomes a car or truck, or a tractor or combine. Companies, like General Motors, Ford, Chrysler, John Deere and Caterpillar all manufacture products that are used by the masses to commute, transport, dig, plow and build (although some products are not used for what they were originally intended--more of that in another story). And it naturally raises one's curiosity to see how those products are actually made.

Almost all manufacturers offer guided tours through their various plants. Guided is absolutely necessary to ensure safety of the visitors as well as that of the workers. Through the various dealerships many mass tours are organized where the visitors are flown (and bussed) to several plants to see all kinds of work in process. John Deere, to name one company, is especially capable of handling those masses and seeing that all have a good time. They organize what is called The Deereland Fly-in, usually twice a year, and the select customers are brought in for two to three days of education, good food and a chance to rub shoulders with others from other parts of the continent (and even overseas).

Service personnel in dealerships are required to attend annual updates and service schools that specialize in the products they service. In the early days of JC's tenure as a service technician those schools/workshops were held right at the factories. During some of those trips factory tours were given so JC was quite familiar with the goings on there. After a couple of update sessions he was content to socialize with the other technicians then simply head for home when the course was over.

Well, it was in late February and JC had completed a four and a half day update course at the John Deere Tractor Works in Waterloo, Iowa. The course let out at noon on Friday and JC was back at his room packing his things and getting ready to head for home. An extensive two day drive and he would be home, possibly have part of Sunday to recuperate and be ready for the carnage that awaited him on Monday morning. To his surprise, the phone rang.

It was GA, JC's boss, and sometimes (read, often) adversary. 'JC, how was your course?' That was more of a statement to break the ice because GA never cared much about the courses that his service department attended except that they cost way too much and were a waste of valuable shop time. And that they were another ploy of the manufacturers to hold a gun to his head in order to be allowed to continue selling their product lines.

JC responded in true character: 'Just fine." Translation: 'Things were just great until you phoned.'

'JC, I've got a big problem: The Deereland Fly-in begins on Monday and I've got some things I've got to attend to here at home. I've got six customers coming down on the charter plane on Sunday for that tour and I was hoping that you could represent our dealership and go on the tour with them. Just meet them at the airport and take my place.'

'No problem; I'd be glad to do it.' JC hung up then proceeded to unpack and prepare to spend a rather boring couple of days cooped up in Howard Johnson's, reading and watching TV. It could've been worse; having to stay behind to watch a ballet or something cultural (therefore the last thing even remotely interesting) like that.

Sunday morning, JC checked out of his room then moved over to the Sheritan where Deere and Company housed all their tourists. He drove out to the airport, parked his truck and waited for the plane. It was about then he began to wonder what was in store for him.

Through the years it was commonplace for some of the factory tourists to go haywire. First time away from home and the wife and kids, and it was almost like being in college again. Party it up, have a good time then sober up and come home. There was in incident in Manheim, Germany, where everyone down one corridor was awakened at three in the morning by a woman shrieking and pounding on the door to one of the rooms.

'You bastard! You owe me a hundred Marks!' It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what kind of business the woman was in. And at breakfast the next morning the 'customer' showed up with a black eye. The excuse: walked into a door.

Okay...

Well the charter 737 jet landed and taxied over to the terminal. The weary travelers shuffled in and JC looked for his charges. Before he recognized any of them he did notice a couple of men in their early forties, quite well-dressed and each holding tightly onto a briefcase. Their red faces and somewhat disheveled appearances made it quite clear that they had consumed a rather large amount of alcohol both before boarding that plane and during the flight.

JC was glad they weren't from his dealership. Actually all of his group came out at once and none of them was the worst for wear. It could be that none of them drank either.

They all boarded the buses and drove straight down to the Sheritan where they were treated to an excellent dinner--courtesy, Deere and Company--in one of the large dining rooms and then off to their individual accomodations to spend the evening unwinding and getting ready for the first tour early the next morning.

JC's curiosity was aroused with the two partiers he had seen at the airport. He wondered if they would be in any kind of shape to actually go on the tour. Strangely he didn't see them at breakfast and they weren't on his tour group, but since there were over three hundred people at this event, they could easily be with another group.

They toured the John Deere foundry, then the Waterloo Tractor Works, then across the Interstate to Cedar Rapids where they toured the Engine Works. Then they boarded their buses and drove across the state to Moline Illinois, where they were fed and put up in the Sheritan Rock Island.

After supper, JC contacted a couple of friends he had met on one of his motorcycle trips and made arrangements to meet them at a tavern a short distance away. They shared a few stories, played a few games of pool then parted company. JC entered the hotel lobby and pressed the button for the elevator. When the doors opened JC was quite surprised at what he saw.

One of the mystery men he had seen get off the plane in Waterloo two days ago, was lying, spread-eagle on the floor of the elevator, head propped up against the wall, passed out cold. He was still clad in the same suit, only with the jacket open, shirt open, tie undone, and still holding tightly to the handle of his briefcase. JC had no idea how long the man had been there but it looked like he'd been going up and down with the elevator for some time.

Once securely in his room, JC phoned hotel security and advised them to check the elevator.

The next day, Tuesday, they toured the Combine Works, then the Plow-Planter Works, then at day's end they were bussed out to the Deere and Company World Headquarters where they toured that facility and sat down to an elaborate supper in the massive dining hall there.

By ten everyone was back at the hotel to unwind and prepare for the trip home.

The fortunate thing about the organized tours is that the host (in this case, Deere and Company) is very careful to keep track of everyone. Every morning there is a head-count and if someone isn't present, a search is conducted and the missing person found.

Well, they were missing someone. JC saw the one guy (same suit) from the elevator but he didn't see his buddy. Everyone was kicked off the bus and reissued their room keys. Back in their rooms a new head-count was taken. They were almost ready to summon the authorities when someone called out from down the hall: 'I think he's here!'

There must have been quite a party going on in that particular room as both beds were a shambles. The missing man was found, buck-naked, sleeping on the floor next to one of the beds.

And it wasn't his room!

It's needless to say that the trip back to Waterloo was rather quiet as the busload of tourists/partiers had other things on their minds aside from the breaktaking sights they had the privilege of seeing in those factories. Back in the airport terminal, JC said good-bye to his charges and watched as the weary travelers headed through security. Near the end of the line were those two, still wearing the same suits, still clutching their briefcases, shuffling through the gate.

To this day JC can't help but wonder what those guys actually saw.

FIRST LOVE

Everyone's heard the old adage: When spring is in the air, a young man's heart turns to love, or something to that effect. It shows how inept this writer is when it comes to mushy things. All too many times the only things that get my heart racing are objects with wheels and at least one engine. Maybe that's why it took so many years for the likes of me to find that special person to want to spend eternity with. I might add that she likes cars too.

Anyways, it was in the spring of 1967 (May to be exact) and the region was still digging itself out of a disasterous spring blizzard that had dropped over six feet of snow on us and everyone else. Everywhere between Great Falls and Lethbridge had been severely crippled to totally shut down from the deluge and Milk River was no exception. People had been marooned in every community that had a hotel or motel and the situation in those places also got rather dicey, especially when the local taverns started to run low on booze. But the sun was finally shining and the snow was disappearing fast. Needless to say, JC, hopeless gearhead that he was, was out patrolling the alleys in town, looking to see if anything new (and unique) had showed up since the last time he'd scoured the area.

Back then the alleys could often be a treasure trove of neat and interesting stuff, as long as you were interested in rusting hulks of what once were the family car, pickup truck or even a tractor. All the dealers had some interesting stuff jammed off to the side of the dealership and just off the alley. Quinn's barn, at least the yard in front of the barn, was one of the most popular places as it always seemed to have the most rapid rotation of used cars, trucks and tractors, courtesy, Quinn Motors, in its inventory; one could spend hours there alone. I might add that it was also the choice place for boys (and some adventurous girls) to gather in the alley behind the barn and have a smoke. I know that because Ms. Dorothy, our second grade, seventh grade health class, and ninth grade home-economics teacher lived just to the east of the barn and she caught us on numerous occasions.

JC didn't venture out to the barn today because his find would be located elsewhere.

JC was exploring the alley behind the Motor and Implement Company, so called because at one time, possibly between the sinking of the Titanic and the outbreak of the Second World War, the dealership sold GMC trucks, Buick and Pontiac cars, and various brands of farm equipment. Sometime in the fifties the farm equipment franchise was dropped and the dealership became the place to buy all GM products, not to mention whatever used stuff showed up. It was there that the starry-eyed eighth-grader spotted that gem, a 1947 Ford pickup in typical dark green, with cream trim and patina livery. That truck had recently been traded in and was parked there, barely off the alley, just waiting for the right person to come alone and sweep it off its--wheels (or vice versa). It was love at first sight. Maybe it wasn't a '38 or a '40 Ford but it still kept with the prewar styling that JC loved so much.

He went inside and asked Dean (the dealership owner) how much he wanted for it. '$150.00,' was the reply. JC was somewhat disappointed because the asking price was well over his net worth. In addition to the work he did on the ranch during the summer, he'd still have to set a lot of pins at the local bowling alley to raise that kind of money. But undaunted, he asked Dean if he could take it for a test drive.

I guess that Dean wasn't all that concerned that JC was still a couple of years shy of legal driving age (at that time the local law enforcement didn't seem to be all that concerned either) because he let him take it out for a short spin. He even gave him a battery and a set of jumper cables to help get the animal started. Seated proudly behind the wheel, JC proceeded to drive the truck down the alley.

It didn't take long to find out that the brakes needed some work. The first push on the pedal and it went down to the floor. JC didn't panic as there was a truck at the ranch that did the same thing and all that needed to be done was to pump the pedal. He just managed to get the truck stopped before he emerged from the alley onto Center Avenue. A quick spin around town and JC was back at the dealership.

'How about $75.00?' JC asked with as much authority as an almost 14 year old could muster. Dean, looked thoughtful. He might have originally thought that JC would've just parked the truck and run off but this boy was genuinely interested. 'How about $100.00?' Dean countered. Well, they haggled for a few minutes and JC finally drove his new sweetheart home after finalizing the deal for the lofty sum of $90.00, about ninety percent of JC's entire net worth.

Like all teenagers, JC's first thoughts were to customize the truck and build a hot-rod out of it. He talked to his friends about what he was going to do with it and he looked at all the car magazines for ideas. Then one day, that all changed. A local farmer stopped by the house to buy some vet supplies (JC's father was a veterinarian as well as a rancher and always kept a good stock of livestock medicines). The man saw the old truck parked at the curb and told JC that he had bought that truck new almost exactly twenty years before. After sharing a few anecdotes, he asked JC what he planned to do with it.

Hot-rodding it was suddenly out the door as JC's mind was immediately made up to restore the truck back to its original glory, right down to that ugly dark green paint and calf-scour yellow grill and trim. He told him so.

'Let me know how you do with it,' Ed, the original owner (and the name that JC later applied to the truck) said encouragingly. 'Good luck. I'd like a ride when you get it done,'

JC got right to work. First things first, he fixed the brakes, finding out that the left rear drum was so worn out that the stress ribs on the outside had separated from the rest of the drum, just dangling and clanging, necessitating its replacement. The right rear side was also useless as a torn piston seal and the resultant leak had been fixed by removing the line, inserting a nail head-first into the cylinder and reinstalling the line to plug the passage of the fluid. JC fixed it properly. He did the front as well and finally he got it to stop without having to pump the pedal. A tune-up and Ed was ready to take on the world.

Of course the truck became more than a plaything. When JC's dad saw what was being done, the truck got adopted into the fleet of ranch vehicles. By summer the truck had been assigned to the hay fields. Unfortunately the ranch foreman was less enthusiastic about it as Ed's battery wasn't in the best condition. If it didn't start within the first couple of turns, one had to either resort to the old push and bump method of starting or else hook up that set of jumper cables. Well, JC managed to stall it in the front of the fuel tanks and it wasn't about to start on its own. The foreman drove the larger 1-ton truck around front and proceeded to push-start Ed in reverse.

Too bad the 1-ton truck's bumper was too high and, right at the last second, jumped over top of Ed's bumper and pushed into the (until now) pristine grill, bending it. Ed started but JC was ready to knock the foreman's head off. I might add that JC hasn't quite forgiven the foreman for that poorly thought out act of push-starting the truck backwards.

By the end of the Ninth Grade, JC had owned his truck for a year. During that time he'd gotten to know Ed so well that he knew what was about to break before it did so he knew what to carry with him. A fuel pump was mandatory, as was a set of points and condenser. One time the starter button just came apart so until JC could afford a new unit, he just let the wires dangle and stuck them together whenever he needed and it started just fine. The truck suffered from the Ford characteristic of jumping out of 2nd gear, but it stayed in high so that was OK for the time being. On a hot summer day Ed didn't like to be left idling unless it was at a high speed or it would tend to overheat.

Well, it's going on to forty-seven years since that first day and the truck is still one of JC's most prized treasures. It's been fixed, driven and parked, then fixed, driven and parked again. Some years ago JC decided to embark on a full restoration but that got delayed by moves, job changes and life. There were times when he was tempted to sell it and let someone else's dream come true but he never did. His first wife pressured him to sell it but he simply told her that Ed was probably the only thing besides his family that never let him down.

The truck stayed but the marriage didn't.

Through the years, other vehicles have been added to the collection: Chas, the '49 Chevrolet; June, the '42 Ford; Albert, the '54 Meteor; Hawg, the Harley Davidson; Randy, the '38 International; Dale, the '36 John Deere tractor; and Brownie, the '79 GMC. But there's always the first vehicle, and Ed was the first.

Now that life has started to slow down, JC is now able to devote some more time to Ed's restoration. Unfortunately the original owner passed away a couple of years ago so JC won't be able to give him that ride he wanted. But JC is certain that Ed stops in from time to time to have a look over his shoulder, and make sure that JC is doing it right.

JC has often said that Ed will be the one that takes him for his final ride. Of course JC plans to have a lot of fun years before that time comes.

NICKNAMES

Those of us who work in the public sector meet all kinds of people. Most, we usually conduct our business with and then all is forgotten about them until the next time we meet for business or sometimes it might even be an encounter in the shopping mall or an eating establishment in the city. Those people slide into the category of ordinary people, mainly because that's what they are. Then there is the other category, that which is comprised of those who, for some reason or another, possess a characteristic that is unforgettable, even funny to the point of hilarious. Most of us manage to find ourselves the bearers of names that are different, maybe even a little insulting. Sadly there are some that are downright cruel; the latter of which I try to avoid.

JC ran a service department for a number of years. That put him in a position to meet all kinds of people. Just like other places of public service he dealt with a number of people, most of whom would fit into the ordinary category but there were a few who were so different that they were comical.

Looney Tunes were JC's favorite cartoons. The likes of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Yosemite Sam, and others were highly entertaining and even into his 60s, are still something that he tunes into whenever he feels like watching a Leave Your Brains at the Door program. Before JC entered public service he often wondered where the creators of Looney Tunes and other programs came up with such colorful characters. In a matter of a year, he found his answer.

Albert was a long-time customer of JC's. From the beginning, Albert found he could trust JC and his department to solve nearly any problem he brought to them. But oftentimes Albert could be hard to understand. He was by nature a nervous person and often stammered. When he was excited he was even harder to understand. And under those circumstances his voice tended to elevate in pitch. Mix his tendency to stammer, his elevated voice and his nervous nature together and you had someone who talked just like Porky Pig.

Yabbadeea-dadeea-dadeea-da-that's all folks is almost what JC expected to hear when Albert finished explaining his problem. And that's when talking normally. Albert would often phone and try to explain what his engine was doing over the phone. 'Yabbadeea-dadeea-da-when I throttle up it makes a sound like: putt-putt-putt--yabbadeea-dadeea-clang-clang-yabbadeea-dadeea-clang-putt-putt.

Hmmm, that means your tractor's engine sounds like Porky Pig with a bad case of gas and hiccups in a hollow steel container. JC didn't say that but he was sure tempted to. "OK, Po--Albert, I'll have someone come out this afternoon." JC quickly hung up and then laughed himself silly.

JC's boss was more like Marvin, the Martian. Huff-puff-huff-puff--'that makes me furious!' Huff-puff-huff-puff--'you have made me very angry!' If he had a Centurian brush on top of his head and his feet looked like they were travelling at the speed of light, he might've been mistaken for Marvin.

Needless to say there were a lot of encounters with Marvin at JC's place of work.

Sherman was mostly a good friend of JC's although there were occasions when JC did some work for him. Sherman tended to be loud and sometimes spoke before he got all his thoughts sorted out. 'What--now I say what's the meaning of this unwarranted attack on my person?' That's right; Foghorn Leghorn. Sherman sounded and acted just like Foghorn. JC actually hung that title on him but Sherman wasn't all that receptive so, for the sake of a good friendship, JC retracted that handle.

Trouble was, a lot of people in that town still use it...

Now who can forget that guy with the bulbous cranium that is completely devoid of hair? His meffod of talking and his demeanor are unfo-gettable. So is his staccato Waff: 'Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!'

Enter Lyle--Wyo. Wyo was ve-wy excitable and when he was, he sounded just wike Elmo Fudd. 'My twuck, my twuck, my f**&ng twuck's aw f**&d up. Transwation: my truck isn't running very well. Wyo even had a simiwo head with a weceding haiwine. He even had that Waff, but he wore Wubba boots instead of hunting boots. I also don't recall a hunting cap either.

One day JC and the crew were heading for their morning coffee break. The secretary happened to be stuck with expwaining Wyo's workorder to him. As JC walked past he let out a similar staccato laugh. The secretary stifled a snicker then very carefully talked to Wyo about the work that was done.

As soon as she was done, she stormed into the staff room and punched JC in the shoulder. 'You bastard! Do you realize how hard it is to keep a straight face when I'm talking to him?' She punched JC in the shoulder again and left the room.

An interesting footnote to this is that Mattie, then JC's fiance', was the manager in the bank in the town just north of Taber. It so happened that Wyo was a customer of hers as well. She could never deal with him the same way after hearing JC tell the story. Of course, after she shared the story with the rest of the staff, no one there could keep from at least letting out a snicker whenever he entered the branch.

Of course there are other people whose occupations alone generated the nicknames they got. Frosty was the local butcher who also ran his own locker facility outside of town. Slippery was one of the town's oil and bulk fuel agents. Then there are those whose nicknames took a little thinking but were obvious. Arby, so-called because of the initials: R-B. On the other hand there are titles that make little sense at all. I'm still trying to figure out where Mr. Bennett, the local liquor store operator, got the handle: Bugs. Or how my friend, Dick, got the handle: Paper Dick.

Now I know that it's impolite to make fun of another person's faults and handicaps but then, those people should be somewhat flattered that they made the list of the unforgettable instead of the ordinary. I might add that there are some out there who have branded yours truly as different, maybe even unforgettable. If that's the case, I'm all for it. The likes of Red Skelton and Bob Hope certainly made a lot of mileage off theirs.

BROTHERS IN ARMS

During quieter times when I'm sort of killing (read: wasting?) time, I like to browse through sites like Google and YouTube and see what's out there. Being a pilot myself, and having an interest in vintage aircraft, I often search out old training videos on aircraft such as the P-51 Mustang or the B-17 Flying Fortress. One day I was on YouTube searching for a video on the B-17 that I had watched before when I came across an image that had been taken from a painting. It showed a B-17 in flight with a German Bf-109 fighter flying beside it. At first glance, it didn't look all that significant but upon closer scrutiny, it was obvious that the B-17 had seen better times.

The bomber was riddled with holes from 20 mm cannon fire, flak, and smaller caliber bullets. Huge craters had been punched all along the fuselage; half the rudder was missing with the remaining part in tatters. The rear portside (left) horizontal stabilizer had been almost completely shot off; with one engine shut down, it was amazing that the airplane was still able to fly.

I clicked on the title and was presented with an ad for a book; a story that touches me deeply every time I revisit the site or pick up the book and read it.

December 20, 1943, and a bomber piloted by 24-year-old Lt. Charlie Brown had been on a run deep into Germany. They had received heavy fire and the plane was extensively damaged. The plane and crew were desperately limping home. Their tailgunner was dead and a couple of waistgunners had been hit badly. Lt. Brown was battling sluggish controls and doing his best to keep the plane aloft and get his crew out of Germany. Besides the airplane being so heavily damaged, there was still the German shore defenses to deal with but Lt. Brown was trying to cope with one problem at a time.

As he was fighting the controls he became aware of something off to the starboard side. He and his co-pilot gaped at the sight a Messerschmidt Bf-109E that had moved in and was flying beside them. The 109 pilot looked at them then lifted up and dropped down beside the portside of the bomber and he and Lt. Brown locked eyes.

Charlie would later recount that when he first saw the 109 he closed his eyes thinking that this was an illusion and would be gone when he opened his eyes again but there it was plain as day, an enemy fighter almost close enough to touch.

But the 109 didn't attack; it flew alongside the crippled bomber, escorting it past the German antiaircraft batteries with their bewildered crews staring at the two airplanes, and stayed with Charlie and his crew until they were out over the North Sea. The fighter pilot then waved and peeled away.

The B-17 was steadily losing altitude but managed to remain in the air until it made it safely back to England and was escorted to the nearest airfield. When they became Feet Dry (over land) their altitude was only 250 feet ASL. Luckily they were able to set the plane down without any further troubles. The wounded were taken away and the crew was debriefed. Eventually, the crew, along with two new members, would fly together again.

For many years nothing would ever be said about that German fighter pilot.

Some years later, Charlie Brown, now a successful inventor, was approached by a journalist to tell him about that incident. All that was in the report was that his ship had sustained heavy damage and they had made it back in (almost) one piece. Charlie was regarded as a hero who had managed to save the lives of all but one of his crew. He had flown a plane that had officials scratching their heads over trying to figure out how that plane flew at all and gotten back.

Charlie responded saying that he wasn't a hero at all; the real hero was that unknown fighter pilot, who had risked everything to escort them out of Germany when he was duty-bound to shoot them down. The journalist was rather astonished to think that Charlie was giving someone else, especially an enemy pilot, the credit. It was then that Charlie told him about the encounter; it was then, in 1987, that Charlie needed to find out who this pilot was.

It took him three years but Charlie Brown managed to locate the lone pilot, now living in Canada, after moving there some eight years after the war ended.

Lt. Franz Stigler had flown for over ten years; flown for the Luftwaffe for six. He had begun the war as a flying instructor, then was able to convince his superiors to transfer him to an actual battlefront. He was first stationed in North Africa then, when the tides began to turn against Germany, he was transferred back home to help defend the Fatherland.

Stigler's commanding officer was a veteran of the Great War. The man was a fierce warrior and an accomplished ace but he also fought by a code; a code of chivalry and honor. He told his pilots never to shoot at someone who couldn't shoot back. 'If I ever catch you shooting at a parachute, I'll shoot you down myself!' He told them, and they believed he'd do just that.

That was a code that Stigler would adhere to for the rest of the war.

As he would later recount, he first saw the B-17 fly overhead, in a northerly heading, obviously trying to get out of the country. He flew up to intercept it and that's when he saw how crippled the bomber was. He could see that there was no tail-gunner as the guns were hanging down. Along the fuselage were numerous jagged craters through which he could see crewmen attending to the wounded.

A quick burst from his 20 mm cannon would've ended the bomber's pitiful life right then and there but Franz made an important decision. 'It would've been like shooting at a parachute,' he would later say; he couldn't shoot it.

So he just escorted it out of Germany. He thought the B-17 would try for Sweden which was a lot closer but being a neutral country, the bomber crew would have no choice but to wait out the war. That might've been OK for Germany's plight but Lt. Stigler could see that the crew, even though badly beaten up, still had a job to do.

And this was not going to be their day to die. He just saluted them and wished them well.

Like Lt. Brown, he would never say anything about that incident until many years later.

Charlie and Franz met at a hotel in Seattle, Washington in 1990. Their reunion could only be described as one of mutual respect and brotherly love. Charlie would recount that it was like meeting a brother you hadn't seen in forty years.

For the next 18 years, the two of them would share a friendship that would last until they were taken to their eternal rewards. They met often and attended air shows and programs all over the continent; they were hailed as heroes by veterans and families of veterans from both sides of the conflict.

Franz passed away in 2008 at the age of 94. His obituary would read that in addition to his wife and family, he was also survived by his special brother, Charlie Brown. Charlie would pass away later that same year.

Their story is recounted in the book, A Higher Call, by Adam Makos. It shows that no matter the conflict, there are good people on both sides. Charlie Brown and Franz Stigler fought on opposite sides; they took orders and carried them out with the hopes that the ones ordering them into battle knew what they were doing. But in the end, what really mattered is that the fighting stopped and peace reigned supreme.

Charlie and Franz became best friends despite the odds. So, on this Veterans' Day/ Remembrance Day, as I pause to remember those who gave everything in the fight for our freedom, I will also remember two fighting men who became brothers during a dark time in history when war engulfed the world.

May God bless them all...