Archive for the ‘George L. Fisher’ Tag
Daddy’s Home by George L. Fisher
In honor of Veterans Day, I give you a forth helping of George…. my great friend and school-mate (even though we graduated 9 years apart…LONG story!). I offered this guest post a few years ago and reprised it for Memorial Day in 2011. This is just TOO GOOD not to share…..AGAIN!
Indulge me friends and if you haven’t read this… you are in for a HUGE treat! If you have, you KNOW this second or third helping of George and his unique and colorful way of telling a story is ALWAYS worth the time to read and share!
Veterans Day is a PERFECT time to thank all of my friends and loved ones who have served…. All my GOLDEN BOOTS friends (you KNOW who you are!), My father the late John H. Todd for his service in the Army Air Corp, My uncle the late Richard Thompson who served in the Navy and Coast Guard (retired), My brothers, Johnny W. Todd and James David Todd who both served in the US Navy (and David still serves as a DOD employee in Japan), my daughter’s father, Retired Commander Michael Gray McQuaig who retired after 28 years in service to the US Navy VP Community, and of course my friend LTC George Fisher who served GA Army National Guard- Iraq Vet!
There are others too numerous to mention here but I want to honor their service to our country. A sincere “thank you” from this former Navy Wife…. I understand service all too well! I chose the title for this post “Daddy’s Home”. I believe you will enjoy it as much as I did he recounts the story of his homecoming from Iraq a few years ago. Read, laugh, cry and enjoy!
Veterans Day in two days, and I sit comfortably surrounded by everything near and dear to me–
I dare don’t take one morsel of it for granted—And memories come flooding back of how it is when you’re “away” and the one thing that matters most is HOME…
For all you VETERANS, and especially my 48th Friends 8000 miles away in harms way–I am thinking of you, your families, and heres hoping that all of you will have the homecoming that I was fortunate to have just a few years ago—–just hang on folks, youre almost there! We love and miss you all.
(The below from my journal—pardon the grammar, syntax, etc…)
….And so it was, on the 11th day of May, 2006, we watched the sunrise at 30,000 feet, and then began our descent over the greatest place I know—Georgia.
Coming in over Savannah, you could see the Savannah River going out into the Atlantic Ocean, and all the wetlands in between. We saw downtown Savannah, and the Riverfront, where we have consumed many adult beverages and negotiated the cobblestones. About the time we get a visual of the span of the Bridge leading into South Carolina, the flaps and landing gear come down. The movie on the video screen is the latest Harry Potter flick, and no one seems to mind that we do not get to see its end. Far as I can figure, Hocus Pocus Harry gets out of yet another death defying scrape with the monsters and will live to see puberty.
None of that matters now.
The plane, full of the buzz of conversation, now becomes eerily quiet. Anticipation has filled the cabin and has found its way into our larynxes, which have rendered us speechless. All we hear is the whining of the turbines of these four huge jet engines, the flaps adjusting, the leading edge slats, and the landing gear. The stewardesses have “prepared the cabin for landing” as instructed by the Pilot…..there is nothing left to do now but attempt to contain the million and one thoughts going on in our heads and listen for the squeal of tires hitting the tarmac.
We are now flying at 2000 feet I guess. Lower and lower, so you can see the types of cars on the road, the roof of the waffle House and Wal Mart, and even read the signs on the highway. Another slight turn and lower still, until we are aligned with the runway—it is deathly quiet. Lower….lower, nose up, engines whining…….We are all waiting for the same thing—
The Cabin EXPLODES in cheers. Hugs, high fives, and Rebel Yells expound. Had I not known better one would have thought there to be an exorcism and a couple of castrations being performed back in tourist class.
If I had to use one word to describe the feeling when those wheels touched the ground: indescribable.
If I person had a window seat, their nose was pressed up to the plexiglass, and more times than not there were two faces sharing the glass with another two people looking at the backs of their heads attempting to peer thru what would become available.
When I finally got my chance to look out the window, we saw lots of flags and people waving —it struck me as strange because I thought all of that was going to happen at Ft. Stewart, which was still a 45 minute bus ride away—one of the first people I saw was Col David Young—he is just like family, and just seeing him put a lump in my throat—the first of many lumps on this day.
Everyone lined up to walk down the steps of the plane onto the tarmac—being greeted by Gen. Rodeheaver, Gen. Ross, and several others—Salutes and hugs continued, and if I had only one word to describe it all: indescribable.
We walked thru the receiving line and directly into a line where we turned in our weapons— FINALLY! I only carried a pistol, so I haven’t a leg to stand on when its time to complain, but man alive were we tired of carrying and keeping up with these things.
After turn in of the weapons, we went thru another receiving line of the local USO volunteers, waving flags and telling us welcome home—what a wonderful organization the USO is…and when I got to thinking about those wonderful folks coming out there to greet our troops, lump number 2 showed up.
Inside the building we were basically herded until we could make sure we had all our folks accounted for…It was during this that I decided I needed to shave—unlike the rest of the troops, I opted to check all of my bags and didn’t carry on anything I couldn’t cram in my pockets—consequently, I couldn’t get to my electric razor—when I asked around I found that one of the fellows had an extra, and shaving cream to boot—so I hurried off to the latrine and hacked away enough to get the stubble removed and two fresh cuts on my chin and neck—oh well.
As we prepared to load the busses, another good thing—we were pulled out of the formation and into an awaiting van—compliments of the boys on the advanced party—some small talk and an iced down cooler of drinks (Ok, it was beer)awaited us on the short ride back to Ft. Stewart—
My mind raced as I thought about Sue and the kids—I had called them only with minimal notice when we found out we would be flying sooner—they had planned on Saturday and here it was Thursday—Sue had very little time to do much more than throw the kids in the car and head south—I sure hoped they had made it ok—I had a lot of friends and family who I know would have been there had I mentioned it, but I had decided—at the risk of hurt feelings— that I wanted to see just “my crew”—the others would wait until I got back home—and with the hassles of getting on Ft Stewart and trying to find ones way around—it would have driven everyone else nuts—I was willing to make my crew go thru that but not the rest of them—
We got to Ft. Stewart a few minutes before the busses did, and parked on the side of the parade field where all the troops assembled—across the field we could look thru the bushes and see all the families, the dignitaries—the streamers, the flags, the band playing—it was a sea of red white and blue, and if I had to use one word to describe it all: indescribable.
A few minutes later the busses begin to arrive, and they all start blowing the horns—the band is playing, and the bleachers and all its surrounding area have all gone berserk—We are a good football field away and it is a sight to behold—the Busses drive around the perimeter of the Parade field and unload all the rest of our troops—We are very quickly mustered into a formation—we are lined up, with LTC Jeff Edge as the formation leader—we are marched onto the field, attempting to stay in step, abreast of each other, dressed right and covered down, etc. We are all hollering at each other trying to keep each other in step—which is like the Keystone Cops—it was a riot—
Maj Marshall Rich ends up being the base and pivot man in our gaggle—somehow in the chaos, as we swing around the trees that border the Parade field we amble out into full view of the bleachers and all those families—the screams we heard earlier pale in comparison to what we hear now—Divine intervention ensues and we all step as one—the left foot down on the heavy beat of the drum—automatically heads up, chests out, and how in the WORLD did I end up in the front rank?!?
It all is happening in a whirlwind, and we close in on the crowd…
I scan as fast as my eyes looking for my crew…Last time I saw jumping and screaming like this was at a Hank Jr concert…but this was entirely different….this had all the characteristics of one of those defining moments in a persons life—one of those images one takes to ones grave…..I look as hard as I know how from underneath my cap, pulled down to keep the glare out of my eyes— starting from left, then the right—I see a tall brown headed lady jumping up and down with a sign screaming her head off—next to her is a young man in a red white and blue shirt who is in dire need of a haircut—a little blonde headed girl stands a few feet from them—behind them I see my wife Susan—I see her, and a split second later realize the tall brown haired lady is my 16 yr old daughter Amanda, and the young man in dire need of a Barber is none other than mans best friend Joe, my 14 yr old bass master—Lyndsay, the third and youngest of my crew, seems to have grown a foot and completes this vision as my eyes brim with tears—
Amazingly, I have spotted these 4 needles in the haystack—-I was in the middle of a defining moment—I knew it was a defining moment because at the same moment I spotted all of them, lump number 3, the biggest one of all, rose up from my heart to my throat. It made my ears ring, and my heart pound. Adrenaline pumped thru me to the point I know I could have bounced bullets off my chest. I thought I was about to bust.
Being in formation, all I could manage to do, though, was grin—an ear to ear one, and one a mortician couldn’t remove. It was like my face was smiling, laughing and crying at the same time. I knew everyone else’s face was doing the same thing so there was no need to worry about it.
Everything is a blur—that’s what happens when one is on cloud nine——Jeff saluted and officially reported to Gen Ross— Then the National Anthem was played while everyone paid their respects.
Gen. Ross made a very short welcome home speech. It may have been a minute long—he KNEW it didn’t need to be any longer…
Then something strange happened….
What was supposed to happen—After Gen Ross’ comments, the Army song was to be played, THEN the families would be cut loose to greet their loved ones. This was to happen AFTER the playing of the ARMY SONG. The Families had been told this and I believe we were told the same thing—but like I said, it was all a blur…
What ACTUALLY happened—After General Ross’ brief comments, he mentioned that his remarks were concluded— At the precise moment he said “That’s all I have…”
These three kids— all of whom belong to me—BOLTED from the confines of the throng of families and distinguished guests, as if they had been shot out of a cannon.
(It is important to note that no one else in this entire huge crowd had budged—nary a one, save for three redneck kids from Macon)
In a flash I could see all three—eyes wide open, with grins on their faces as big as mine—hauling ass toward me—Joe, followed by Lyndsay, followed by Amanda…I attempted to wave them off but in that fraction of a second I had to decide what was more important—wave them off or prepare for the impending train wreck. Their combined weight exceeded mine by about a hundred pounds and had I not braced myself accordingly, I may have been a combat casualty right there on the Parade field.
I heard someone in the rank behind me say “Here they come” and that’s when I got it full blast—-WHUMP….WHUMP……WHUMP….as each of those redneck Fisher kids plowed into me-Joe having launched himself in the air a good eight feet prior….
I had my arms full of Fisher kids, and all we could do was cry..
I may have even told them to go back into the stands until the damn Army song was finished..IT was all a blur and If I had only one word to describe it:
A few moments into what I think is the bestest group hug of all time, I realize I can’t see much because of Amanda’s hair all over the place—She is crying, and I have her head against my shoulder, and I can only feel Joes head and ball cap under my armpit—I open my eyes and see a few pairs of shoes, and for the first time I speak—
I couldn’t feel or find her in the scrum—as I am looking down I see this little body and blonde head backing into the entanglement shoving herself thru an opening, tilting her head back and yelling “I’m Right Here!!”
Long Story a tad longer—The Photographers and News people saw my little Rednecks break ranks and followed suit, the end result which was having my defining moment captured in pictures and our pictures on the front pages of several newspapers—one of which was the Moultrie Observer—my Grandfathers hometown (and his favorite) newspaper.
The family and I all drove home, where the neighbors had hung a “WELCOME HOME GEORGE” banner across the front porch and the front yard was festooned with 145 American Flags—my cup runneth over some more.
The next afternoon I was lying on my back deck in the hammock looking at the bluest sky I ever saw, contrasted by the wonderful green grass and trees of Middle Georgia. This was unreal. I must have died and went to heaven—-and If I only had one word to describe how it felt: Indescribable.
I glanced down at my watch and noticed I still had it set 9 hours ahead—Iraqi time.
I pulled the stem out and reset my watch. In the background I could hear Sue knocking around in the kitchen preparing supper. I felt my eyelids getting heavy and drifted off to sleep.
I was home.
**********UPDATE: View George’s photo on the following MSN link (pic #13) WOO HOO!!!!
Other related articles: http://www.qando.net/?p=8599 (this is hearbreaking of a young woman grieving at her boyfriend/ husband’s grave. please view!
Welcome to “Be My Guest Thursday”. Yes… I know it’s been awhile! Please enjoy this guest post by my great friend George L. Fisher whom I always tip my hat to on every holiday that represents our military! Thank you George for your service to this great country that we love and thank you for reminding us who we should be thinking about as we go about enjoying “our way of life”.
“Our way of life…compliments of those who didn’t make it back.” By George L. Fisher, LTC US Army
I have spent many Memorial Days attending remembrance ceremonies over the years.
I think it is important.
I have also spent many Memorial Days enjoying what we call the American way of life-cooking out, swimming, and enjoying time with family.
I think that is important, too.
Some others may disagree with me, but I think there is no better way to honor our Fallen Comrades than by enjoying Memorial Day by all those things–cookouts, ball games, recreational activities, and being with family— Why? Even if you take advantage of that Memorial Day sale–whatever the day encompasses, as long as we understand HOW we got here–by the blood of Americans, past and present–and as long as we are acutely aware that if we are to preserve our way of life–then not only must we remember but we must be prepared.
In today’s time, Memorial Day, Veterans Day, and Independence Day are virtually the same–and now more than ever our nation tips its cap to our Military everyday. You can’t go out to eat, walk into a store, or even pump gas in a uniform without someone thanking you. It is extremely humbling and for me almost embarrassing because I’m nobody. Then you realize it’s not about you as much as it is the uniform and what you represent. My normal response besides “Thank You” is that “I’m just glad they allowed me the privilege to serve.”
REMEMBER–Memorial Day is about those that paid the ultimate price, those that didn’t make it back.
We MUST remember–not just on Memorial Day, but EVERY day we wake up as Americans–and then we can enjoy our way of life.
Speaking of the American way of life, on Monday, May 26th, I will be honorary team captain for the Atlanta Braves/Boston Red Sox game at Turner Field. My “duty” is to take the lineup card to the umpire. To say I’m excited for the opportunity is a gross understatement. I love baseball and the Atlanta Braves. My good friend, fellow Soldier, and Chaplain, Captain Leslie Nelson, offered my name. She knows I am a baseball fanatic. She is a wonderful Chaplain and brings great comfort to our Soldiers–she also helps us to remember.
So, on Memorial Day 2014, with my family in tow, we will enjoy our American way of life. It will be a great day, but I will remember it came at a high price — some of whom I studied, some I heard about, some I knew and hundreds of thousands who I never heard of but still garner the same respect. I will remember that I am only a representative to all the others, and that when someone thanks me they are thanking ALL who serve and have served…and I will thank God that I am an American.
Visit George’s blog at http://fisherchronicles.blogspot.com/
Past guest posts by George:
“SCRATCHING WHERE IT ITCHES”
I invite you to read a guest post from my friend, George L. Fisher, who is not only a great friend but also a great American! George is a Lt. Colonel in the Georgia Army National Guard and a veteran having served in Iraq. (My guess is that this piece may have been writing during one of his last deployments.)
It is people like George that love his country who we owe a debt of gratitude … Thank you George, from one very grateful American!
Most certainly what makes America special is her diverse culture of people,
her landmarks, and her “mountains majesty”.
To be sure, her history couldn’t be any more sacred had Moses written it on
For me it’s the sights, sounds, and smells, but It’s also everything I don’t
I know not where my patriotism flows over into my religious beliefs and vice
versa-God and Country–hand in glove.
It is the antithesis and cure to Homesickness. It is baseball, blue jeans,
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the 1970 fastback Mustang. It is
barbecue grills, fresh-cut grass, and every family gathered to enjoy a home
cooked meal. It’s a crying little baby on Santa’s’ lap, a stadium full of
football fans in Athens in October, a wild Saturday night with friends and
Church on Sunday. It is a grandfather and grandson watching a F16 scream
overhead in full afterburner.
It is all those who serve our community and our Nation–the Scouts, the
Legionnaires, the VFW, the Vietnam Vets- It’s the Navy’s “Aye Aye”, The
Army’s “Hooah”, the Marines ” Semper Fi” and the Air Forces “Wild Blue
It is every John Wayne movie ever made, its Red Skelton reciting the Pledge
of Allegience, and is life as illustrated by Norman Rockwell and sung by Ray
It is… our nations Flag draped over a casket.
It is the greatest place on this Earth, Disneyworld notwithstanding.
I hold these truths to be self-evident, manifested in my bone marrow and in
my American hometown, Macon, Ga.
As my special gift to all of you who love a Vet or have loved ones serving our Country now or has previously served, I give you another “little cup of George”. Lt. Col George Fisher is my wonderful friend, fellow Maconite, and a fine example of what this country has to be proud of… those who bravely serve so that we may enjoy our freedom! Almost two years ago George’s great friend came home unexpectedly from Iraq. This is the story of how they “delivered the package” and surprised a very happy wife and family! Visit George’s blog: http://www.fisherchronicles.blogspot.com/and check back as he is a regular contributor to my blog as a part of my “Be My Guest Thursday!”. Thank you George for this story and for your service to our beloved USA!
The story of his own homecoming can be found here on my blog at https://dsgnmomonline.wordpress.com/2011/05/29/daddys-home-by-george-l-fisher/.
Read, cry, laugh and enjoy my talented friend’s words!
A Soldier Comes Home
By George L. Fisher
Sunday, January 17, 2010 at 6:56pm
This whole thing started about two months ago in November-Major Mike “Lip
Dawg” Lipper, deployed soldier of the 48th Brigade, was planning the most
classified and potentially hazardous mission in his career.
Mike sent an email to a scant few individuals his warning order: to surprise his wife
Meg and the tater tots, Klein and Addison, on his early arrival home from
Afghanistan. Lip Dawg was to be sent home with the “Torch
Party”, the very first of the first in the unit that would help receive the
48th when they returned. It was payback time!
Top Secret, he said. Double secret probation. This was to be in retaliation
for the surprise visit she made back in May on a media visit to Camp
Atterbury while Mike was training for deployment, the shock of that surprise took 10
years off his life. He said so, and had you seen the look on his face, you
would have known this to be true.
A week or so after Mike’s warning order, the list of the “Torch
Party” was published–Mike wasn’t listed-I forwarded the email to him, which
not only ruined his day, but probably his entire month.
A little Background.
When I arrived in Iraq in 2005, it was dark, windy, hot, dusty, and I was
helpless,heartbroken and homesick. Out of the darkness roared Then Captain
Mike Lipper, hellbent for leather on a four-wheeled gator. He grabbed me, my
duffel bags, and took me to my quarters, pointed to the latrine, tucked me in
and said “I’ll come get you in the morning”….then roared back out into the
Iraq night to attend to other thankless duties as the Headquarters
In Short, I owed Mike Lipper. I love the guy. He is funny and even sold me
his mid-life crisis car, which is now my mid-life crisis car. If he needed
anything, I vowed, I would do my best to make it happen.
But here I was sending him an email that says he is NOT coming back early.
As things happen, only in the last two weeks did the Phoenix arise from the
ashes. There was a conference to be held at Ft Campbell, KY in late January
and it just so happened that Mike’s bosses in country assigned him to go,
and then let his R/R leave kick in as well!!! The surprise attack was BACK
The clandestine emails start back: there was a deception plan to fly Meg to
Kentucky “on business” that Ruth Sykes would be the main effort for-on the
contingency Mike had to report there first-then there was another course of
action where Mike would fly from Kentucky to Atlanta and one of us would pick
him up, hopefully in time to watch daughter Addisons last basketball game of
Plans were discussed, and “what if’d” to ensure a contingency and maximum
flexibility-and then the emails were silent for several days. We thought the
worst. Not another cancellation, we feared until the following message was
received immediately prior to Mikes going off the net for good:
“landing in ATL tomorrow – SUN morning at 0915.”
Little did we know he was in Kuwait already and on a borrowed computer.
Our “close circle of trust”, as Mike referred to us, would be left to solve
the rest of the math problem-The Rosses and Lewis’ would create the necessary
diversion at Church and the ensuing lunch on Sunday whilst I would, naturally
being a logistics guy, “secure the package”.
After supper, then to bed. 0300 hours, wide awake. I pace to and fro, to and
fro, to the bathroom, then to and fro some more-then downstairs to watch some
television, read the paper online, make coffee, and wait until Wifey awakes,
because she isn’t about to miss this.
It’s now 0330…..0335…..0345…..after an eternity, a pot of coffee and
finishing up a John Wayne movie, we are on the road at 0730. Arrive at 0830.
Park. Walk to North terminal. Go potty for the 8th time since 0300. Buy wifey
a froo froo coffee and find a seat. It’s on or about 0900-we see a crowd of
soldiers by baggage claim and go investigate just in case the “package”
arrived early. He hasn’t. We go back to our seats, strategically located that
no one gets past us without us seeing them.
Cricket. Cricket. The USO folks, ever-present and unsung heroes all, clap
each time a service person ascends from the escalator. Each time we look for
the package. Alas, it is other packages, all of them dear to our hearts, but
destined for other recipients.
It’s after 0915. I’m bug-eyed. Wifey said “he said it was going to take about
an hour”–and having been thru the same process I know this-yet it doesn’t
help my angst. I send a text message to the “attack team” that we are in
position and will apprise of updates.
0920…..0930. USO personnel clap. We look. Nada. Lather, rinse and repeat.
0945, 0955, 1005-OK WHERE IN GODS NAME CAN HE BE??? Surely he snuck by us and
is either in north or south terminal baggage claim and is perhaps on the
smelly GROOME shuttle headed for Macon-and I’m going to get a call from him
saying “I’m here, please come get me and take me to my family”, to which I’m
going to have to say “sure thing Lippy I will be there in an hour, by which
time he could crawl on his hands and knees to the Church and launched his
surprise offensive all by himself.
“Are you sure?” Is what Wifey said after each of my comments-
“Sugar, he has to come up the escalator from customs, to baggage claim,
“Are you sure?” She asks. My hair, what’s left of it, was coming out in
Finally maintaining my composure and dealing with the facts, we positioned
ourselves directly behind the USO kiosk, and clapped for the soldiers when
they came up the escalator-looking from our view you would see the tip of the
head first and then as the escalator kept going slowly the rest of the
persons body would come into view-and there were as many civilians coming up
that escalator as there we’re Soldiers.
One soldier came up whose wife and little baby went running over to and they
both embraced. It would have been a touching moment had half of the ladies
butt crack had not been exposed. It was a butt crack, in all honesty, that
shouldn’t ever see the light of day. Ever. Ahem.
There was another soldier whose young girlfriend came running up to and like
out of a movie, they embraced. Everyone clapped. They remained embraced. It
appeared the soldier must have been a ENT medical professional-i mention this
only because he seemed to be giving her tonsils quite the inspection. Ahem.
The heads appear a bit more frequent now. None of which are Lippy Dawg Heads.
I could pick his noggin out of times square on New Years Eve I’m convinced, I
had seen it enough-actually I had seen lots of Mike Lipper, in fact every bit
of him, but that’s another story for another day, and best told by Mike
Another text SITREP (situation report) to the team-they are on pins and
needles-i am too. In fact one couldn’t drive a ten penny nail up my behind
with a sledgehammer.
It doesn’t appear even if he shows up in the next minute that we can make it
back to Macon and the church before Sunday Services are over.
The escalator ascends. The tip of a head. The flat top haircut and baby
bottom smooth sidewalls of one Major Mike Lipper are seen. “There he is” I
tell Wifey, and we move out to greet him–finally.
Well, not so fast. The USO folks, bless their hearts, go about looking at
each soldier in the eyes and asking them if they can help them in any
fashion–Mike sees this guy before he sees me. The USO representative asks
him if there’s anything he can do for Mike, and before he can reply I say ”
NO SIR-WE GOT HIM-He’s going with us!”
He still didn’t know it was me-i wasn’t in uniform nor had he gotten my last
email telling him we would pick him up-he was now bug-eyed.
Times like this bring on the snot bubbles. It just happens.
Half laughing, half crying, he gave us a hug. This man who just a moment
before looked so weary and exhausted, was now wearing a smile that a
mortician couldn’t remove. Our demonstration was almost as good as the butt
crack lady and the tonsillectomy, even if “G” rated.
The PACKAGE was secure. The Eagle had landed.
Swiftly to baggage claim while I texted the team that we had Mike.
in no time we were at the car and southbound-now for the real issue-the
ATTACK had to commence, but where? Church? The restaurant? Back at la casa de
Lippy? I was driving 85 mph and had my blackberry in my hand trying to figure
out our next phase–it looked as if the restaurant would be the place-i sent
a quick text to the newspaper photographer and he said he would notify the
reporter. OK, our ETA about 1215 hrs I guessed. About five minutes later
Sharell called and said we have it set up here for the church–the rest of the team had been
doing an excellent job of contingency planning and although we changed the
plan it, like the Doolittle Raid, was ON! My only job was to get the package
there in one piece, no small feat when you drive like you were taught how by
a one-eyed man, which I was. Mike called his Mom and told her he was
home-she knew of the plan but only since Christmas.
Sharell and the team had it arranged and told us where to show up at the
Church-Ruth Sykes was able to teach her Sunday School class at her Church and
she too would watch this defining moment unfold for Mike and his family.
Back in Macon. The exit. Another call. All systems GO, I repeat All systems
GO! I told Wifey to prepare the cabin for landing.
We got to the church, parked right along the curb, and got out of the car. As
Wifey says, “Mike was vibrating he was so excited.”
Sharell and Dianne had worked it out so that Meg and the kids were sitting in
the main foyer of the Church with their backs to Mike-
Mike, followed by the rest of us, moved in. Meg and the kids were on the
bench, unaware. Dianne and her husband and some others had them posing for a
photograph. Little did they know what was about to happen.
Mike came up quietly from behind while they were all “cheezing” for the photo
and “cheezed” right along with them-they STILL hadn’t seen him! In another
second, Mike leans around, and kisses Meg on the cheek. She STILL is in the
“say cheese” mode for the photo, as are the kids-The “photographers” quite
naturally forcing them to maintain the pose –a perfect example of a
In another instant, Meg casually looks over her shoulder to see who gave her
the peck, and then……..
A scream. Then the sound of kids jumping on Dad, pictures being taken by the
hundred, kleenex being ripped from purses, laughter, tears, tears, and more
tears. The attack sprung right there in the Lipper’s Church and in their hometown.
The greatest operation Major Lipper ever planned. And one thousand percent
successful with many casualties, all of whom wear smiles on this Sunday
afternoon that a mortician couldn’t remove.
A soldier, friend, dad, and husband comes home. One down, a couple thousand
more to go until all the 48th is back.
Welcome Home Lippy. We missed you. And thanks again for looking out for me
that night in Iraq.
In this special edition of “Be My Guest Thursday”(yeah, I KNOW it’s Monday not Thursday)….I’m serving up a Southern Helpin’ of Humor today with a guest post from my Macon Georgia friend and classmate (well same high school…different years!). George gives us a little insight into how a “dyed in the wool Southerner” feel when some one mistakenly takes him for a Notherner! Hilarious George! Thanks for the laugh…. I needed that this Monday morning! Happy Reading! Janiece
George and Pottamus (grandson)
“You must be from the North” By George L. Fisher
I am fuming right now. It’s not because it’s Monday, and it’s not because I
had to get the tire on my car patched, nor is it the fact that I’m still
recovering from my last little episode of Gout.
“The incident” happened on the way home. A couple members of my family were a tad under the weather. Nothing major, just a lower gastrointestinal bug or thingy…One of those things that kind of require you to be “nearer my john to thee” , as it were..Ahem.
I stopped off at the drugstore to get a few things: Some pink stuff, cough
drops, and a couple packs of gum and a couple bottles of Ginger Ale.
That’s when “it” happened.
Another customer in the place, a woman, and obviously ignorant beyond
description, comes up to me and says: (allow me a moment here to take a
cleansing breath) “You must be from the North, buying Ginger ale.”(Long
pregnant pause to allow the words to sink in..)
“EX-CUUUUUSSSE ME?!?” I replied.
“You must be from the North- Nobody buys Ginger Ale here” or something to that effect. By this time my blood pressure was rising and my head spinning and ears are ringing. No way in hell she just said that to me—and not just once but said it twice. I wouldn’t have been anymore shocked had I just peed on an electric fence.
The cashier had a look on her face that said, “OH-NO-YOU-JUS-DID-ENT!!
“Madame”, I replied, raising my voice to the right amount of decibels so not
only could the checkout girl hear it but also the ladies and customers back
in aisle 11 (Incontinence, laxative, and antacid) —
“I have NEVER EVER been accused of anything so DASTARDLY in my entire
I was still in shock, my face turning red. She looked at me and tried to
justify her mis-aligned perception, and she may have mentioned something
about what folks in Michigan drink. Quite frankly it’s all a blur and I
responded once more:
“Maam, I drink CO-COLAS. I am from the South, I am a Macon boy and we drink Co-Colas down here, even if they have “DR. Pepper” or “Orange Crush” labels on the bottle, and furthermore, I have been accused of a lot of things, some of them unmentionable, but I have NEVER, EVER been accused of being a Northerner.” As an aside I also mentioned my Great Great Grandaddy was a signer of Georgia’s secession document before the Civil War.
Who in the H-E-double- hockey-sticks did this woman think she was? (who, by the way, was nattily dressed and how I know is just so happens there was
another lady in the store who saw the way she was dressed and gave her a good going over with her eyeballs when she came traipsing her big ol’ butt in the place like gangbusters and very unladylike I might add) First, she starts up a conversation with me, and secondly, accuses me of being a foreigner?
I wasn’t raised thinking that it’s ok to hit women, but I’m telling you
people, this woman was a testament to wife beating. Clearing my throat, and
becoming still louder, I continued.“As an addendum, Madame, I will have you know that Ginger Ale is a staple of the Southern medicine cabinet. To three parts ginger ale one normally adds one part black and white movie and one part Grandmas couch and within a 12-24 hour period one is as good as new.”I was seething. I was at a crossroads. I could continue to have “conversation” with this heathen, or I could grab my stuff and take the high road and exit the premises. I must be getting old, because I chose the latter.It is times like this that I would love to have a tattoo on my person someplace (in this case my buttocks) that proclaims “Forget, Hell”, or “American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God” that I could “whip out” and show her that would have made her swallow her snuff or perhaps soil herself. She deserved to do both.I am back home now, my blood pressure almost back to normal and my two sick ones are getting better by the minute. The Pottamus will be as wide open as a peanut hull before bed and the Booger has casually sipped on her Ginger ale. My wife, god love her, who hath charms to soothe my savage “Southern” beast told me it would be ok, that some folks are alive only because it’s against the law to kill them. She told me to just forget about it.
Welcome to “Be My Guest Thursday”
I’m hoping to serve up a helping of humor to get your weekend started early!
The dreaded event!
Even as an adult, nothing stirs fear in many of us like the thought of eating Liver and Onions… or more correctly stated – the thought of being MADE to eat Liver and Onions!
My friend (and regular Be My Guest Thursday’s Guest Blogger) George Fisher’s comments on Liver and Onions reminds me of something that the writers of the 80’s hit TV show “The Wonder Years” might have dreamed up. I was raised in the exact same era as the Arnold kids – you know… 12 in 1967…. and it speaks to me in a way that no other TV show has since. Kevin Arnold might surely have given a similar soliloquy on the subject! Many of you may remember that the show was narrated by Daniel Stern, and as I read George’s take on this subject, I can hear it spoken in Mr. Stern’s voice. At the end, Joe Cocker sings the theme song “I get by with a little help from my friends”…. Yes indeed, I do get by with a little help from my friend! Thank you George for the laughs and the dinnertime memories that this story brings back in my mind!
Liver and Onions, Revisited by George L Fisher LTC – Guest Blogger
I recently made comments as to the merits of Liver and Onions, of which there
are none. It is a bad marriage in my humble opinion.
Quite frankly, onions deserve better.
Let me explain.
Liver is an organ meat. I don’t eat organ meats. I don’t eat organ meats
because they are organs. The only organs that are allowed are those that are
played musically. Lest I digress, let us stick to the liver for a few
moments, shall we?
I know there are Humans out there among us who think Liver and Onions are
quite the meal. Like one of my friends said, “Why mess up good onions?” to
which I heartily concur.
I have no issue with anyone who likes to eat liver and onions, or just liver
by itself. But hear me clearly, I do not like it. I do not like it a lot.
Detest may be a better word for it but I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings
who enjoys eating the organ that is the filter for whatever animal to whom
entrails it belongs.
Childhood Trauma to Blame?
My Dad was one of the most intelligent human beings I ever knew. One of his
favorite things was to cook. He made excellent Lasagna and Pizza, among other
things. Much to my Moms chagrin, in the process of his preparing meals he
would totally destroy the kitchen. Every cabinet door would be open, every
knife, fork, spoon, bowl, dish, and cooking instrument used and spread out in
a holocaustic array that one could not adequately describe, but whose carnage
one had to experience.
Dad also loved liver and onions. Loved it, I tell you. And quite naturally
when you love something you want everyone near and dear to you to love it
too. So on occasions—-(actually I know of about three times this happened
in my young life) the Old Man would get a craving for Liver and Onions.
I remember the first time. I was making my way home in time for supper (back
then the rule was “have your narrow ass in this house by dark or else”) and
about half a block away I smelled something. At first snort, it didn’t seem
an offensive smell at all. I then discovered the smell coming from my house
so I proceeded to make my way inside and when opened the front door and made
my way into the kitchen, still delving into the unknown, I inquired:
“Hey Dad, whatcha making?”
“Liver and Onions.”
“OH N—!” But before I could form the word “NO” I was cut off.
“You don’t have to clean your plate but you do have to TRY IT!”
When the Old Man said that, it was over. No discussion, no debate, no
reprieve, no last minute call with a pardon from the Governor. There would be
none of that “I ate a late lunch” or “I’m trying to lose weight for Baseball
season so I can run fast around the bases” pleas for exclusion. I was the
size of a broomstick, anyway. Any other meal that I would have stared at when
I was a kid (I was quite a wormy little guy) would have gotten me a lecture
about “all those starving little children in Africa” or wherever. Why, oh
why, could all the starving little children not have my liver? I would have
been glad to donate it to them.
“Try it, you’ll like it”, as the Alka-Seltzer commercial slogan went. I had a
bad feeling that Alka-Seltzer wouldn’t come close to fixing the pending issue
I had as the dinner hour quickly approached.
The proverbial dinner bell was rung. With the speed of a sloth I found my
barstool at the counter in our little kitchen and my supper. Liver and
onions, rice, and tea to drink. I had many a meal out of rice and or white
bread and tea in the past; surely I could negotiate my way around this
manhole cover sized piece of liver sitting on my plate. My siblings were in
the same boat as I, and we looked at each other and then the plates. Then
each other. Then the plates. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The Old Man set his eyes upon us.
That only meant one thing, and that was to cut into the organ meat and taste
I cut a piece as small as I could that would be big enough that the Old Man
wouldn’t say anything and small enough that perhaps I could swallow it whole
like a pill. Saying a prayer I popped it in my mouth and began to chew. I
would show Dad I was man enough to eat his silly old liver and onions. I
chewed some more. Nothing. The taste wasn’t good at all. It tasted like…well,
like Liver. I took a swallow of tea and continued to chew. The Liver was
being chewed but it was ten times bigger now than the piece I had originally
had on my fork. I chewed faster, thinking that the mechanical action of my
jaws would naturally take over and send the liver on its way. It was not to
be. The liver was in the roof of my mouth, the sides, the corner, and in the
front. In short, it was everywhere that I had taste buds and had begun to
homestead right there in my mouth with no plan of going anywhere ever.
More tea. By God I would drowned it all. I would wash it away if I had to
drink a gallon of tea to do it. Somehow, we all survived the supper. I know
that Dad was only trying to show us the way and expand our horizons. Quite
frankly my horizons expanded a lot better with Peanut butter and Jelly or
some Cap’n Crunch. Moms spaghetti, Fried Chicken or roast beef would have
been heaven-sent in a situation like this, but like I said it wasn’t
necessarily a democracy at the Fisher house back then, so you just had to
take the good with the bad– or liver, in this case.
I vowed by all that was holy that If I ever smelled that smell while coming
home for supper I would ditch my school books in the bushes and hide out
until past dark, reckoning that even getting in trouble for being late and
the butt-whipping that would ensue would be childs play compared to eating
But like I said, I harbor no ill will for Liver lovers. To each their own. I
do know of one purpose for liver when it’s not filtering the toxins of its
owner, and that’s to use as bait for fishing.
I have to stop writing about this now. I have begun to sweat profusely and I
am cold and clammy. I also have the sudden urge to floss.
Liver is the work of the devil. You can quote me on that.
Sometimes they just don’t wanna eat… and like my Grandmama used to say “If it don’t love it, don’t make it eat it!” More on that in a later blog post! Janiece
I have my very first Guest Blogger! I’m so excited to share George with my readers. He is a gifted writer, dad, granddaddy (“Tah”-his nickname) and all-round funny guy.
He serves our country as an officer in the Georgia Army National Guard and did a tour of duty to Iraq in 2005. I am proud to know George and hope that through his writing you too can know this man who is my friend.
Here’s his letter to his oldest daughter as she left the nest recently flying off to start her life with her brand new Marine Corps husband…taking the only grandbaby with her. This is priceless and SO George! See the note at the bottom explaining the nicknames for his kids… it will help if you have that information first. Thank you, George, for sharing your heart and showing us that your daughter is “Holding Daddy’s Hand Forever” just like I am! http://wp.me/p1aeRt-9L
FIRST BORN MOVING DAY by LTC George L. Fisher
Sorry I got something caught in my throat when I was talking to you on the
phone…it must have been the chicken biscuit….
I will call you later because I know you are busy on MOVING DAY……
When you were born they threw your goo-covered butt in the warmer thing at
the hospital–you were squawling to beat all getout. I went over to where you
were and held your tiny little hand–you latched onto my pinky finger and
held on–in just a few seconds you stopped crying and the new parents had a
I was hooked from that moment on—proud as I have ever been—as was your
Mom—and as a result you “may” have been a little bit spoiled…
So for the last 20 years or so you have been right there with us, thru thick
and thin..good times, bad times, and lots of just regular times.
Amanda “Booger” Fisher was there.
Along came Joe, then Winnie….. The tank of tropical fish, the cats, and
everything else—and the Booger was still there…
Then there was himself–your baby boy, aka “The Pottamus”–not exactly the
best timing in the world, but inasmuch you do things your own way, it all
worked out–Mom and God both knew this and as usual I was the last one to
figure it out– but eventually I did. (I’m not as big a heathen as folks
And the Booger…. like the Flag–like the mortgage–and like the
everlasting pile of laundry— was still there.
Our Booger AND our Pottamus, who is just as much “ours” as any of you kids,
even if he is a GRAND…. And he has been just that…GRAND—and
incidentally has a window into my soul and I’m powerless in his clutch.
Your Mom loves her babies—all of them–unconditionally. That means no
matter what. (I do too, but you kids aren’t supposed to know it)…
AND That means—while no matter that Moms’ babies are 20 years old and even
has a baby of her own, who is moving away–and regardless that there are
still two remaining kids , three dogs, and yet another round of trips to the
orthodontist and teenaged drivers pending to break our butts and our bank
account—the reality is our Boogs and our Pottamus won’t be there…..and
that, Dear Boogs, is what makes things get caught in ones throat.
And that’s why Mom and I wish we had a pinky finger to latch on to right now.
George and his daughter Amanda on her wedding day
George’s Nicknames for his kids–
Amanda (oldest) is Booger (because she’s so fun to pick at)
Joe (middle) is “Mans best Friend” in my stories because he is and has been the most loyal to me especially when he was small because we were so tight..most other times I call him “buddy”-which is for the same reason…
Lyndsay (youngest) is Winnie just by default and she was into Winnie the Pooh so she got winnie poops and other variations (nothing spectacular on her nickname) but primarily
Tah and Pottamus
And the Pottamus (grandson) —well, he was 2 days old and was having tremendous gas–Amanda called and said I have a name for him-Poot. So Poot became “The Poot” then Pootie then Pootiepottamus which morphed into a prehistoric animal called the Pootasaurus, or Pootipottamus Bunkus Rex (his latin name) which translates to little brave scout. Ha ha.