Let me start by saying I am not a Vietnam Veteran, nor am I an historian or political scientist… but I am a veteran of the Vietnam era who was never shot at, nor did I ever shoot at anyone. I served in the U.S. Army from February of 1966 to March of 1969, an span that history suggests was at the height of the war and a time in which public sentiment turned against the war. I should also say that I’m pretty sure I would not be where I am today except for the Vietnam War. The Vietnam War is my war. The war of my generation. The war that killed and maimed, and psychologically damaged hundreds of thousands of men of my age. The war that became...
The urge to write has always lurked in the recesses of my brain, and at various times manifestited itself in different, even unusual, ways. My first writing outputs were of the write-on-command type. You know the kind. Five hundred words on the Ural River Valley, or an essay on the objectivist philosophy of Ayn Rand. The subject, form, and length determined by someone else. I wrote because I was required to in order to satisfy some other requirement, such as a class assignment. Indeed, I got pretty good at it… not only for myself, but for others as well. I found I could knock out a paper on almost any topic (typed, double-spaced, with one carbon copy) at...
My Darling Wife, Sandra Faye Fernandes, nee Lyday, was born on September 1, 1942 in Port Arthur, Texas. Almost a year before my birth. I, of course, have relentlessly reminded her of her age seniority to me, saying that she fit right into my penchant for older women. I don’t think she ever thought it was funny. Still doesn’t. Her father, James Tilden Lyday, called “Tilt” by all, and his wife, Faye, had reluctantly left their farm in Fannin County, Texas for the promise of a high paying and patriotic job in one of the many petrochemical plants in South Texas supporting the war effort. That didn’t last long, but there Sandra...
Yes, they are. God’s reward, that is. Grandchildren are god’s reward for not having killed your own kids. I posted a piece called “It Doesn’t Get Better Than This,” on August 5, 2007, which was something of a paean to the joys of grandparenting. Upon rereading it recently, I’m prepared to double down on everything I said or tried to say then. I’ve also alluded to traveling with grandchildren in a series of posts in 2012 under the rubric of “Europe with the Grandkids,” wherein I referenced our familial policy of undertaking a major travel outing with each of our grandchildren on or about their 12th...
Just to be clear, it is Gra-nAY-da, not Gra-nAH-da. When you’re there next, I don’t want the locals thinking you’re a rube. And I, of course, will not admit to having made this egregious mistake during my stay here. The island country of Grenada – self-monikered “the spice isle,” nutmeg specifically – seemed a cut above the other Caribbean islands we’ve visited so far, but is still a long, long ways from a place I would put on my top ten list. Part of my problem is that while driving around with our taxi/tour driver, I kept thinking of the virtually inexplicable action of the Reagan administration, when he...
After 30 years in the world of big business, Gary “retired” to pursue long ignored interests. While continuing his involvement in the corporate world by serving as a director of several public companies, he has, among other things, traveled the world in pursuit of the perfect bird photograph, served national and local charities as a director and donor, developed a personal web site as a platform for his writing on subjects of personal interest, and, occasionally, taken time to smell the roses.
Gary and his wife Sandra, shuttle between their condo in Dallas and their farm in Fannin county, Texas where they indulge themselves in organic gardening, long walks and entertaining friends and family.
