You’Ve Got to Be Somewhere: An American Odyssey

By Terry A. Roberts

Have you ever had a Christmas gathering or family vacation that was way too interesting? Have you had a family member in the military or deployed to a combat zone? Have you struggled with your Christian faith? Have you or a family member faced cancer or another serious illness? If so, you are not alone, although you may sometimes feel like it.

Author Terry A. Roberts has felt that way. He shares his experiences in his memoir, Youve Got to Be Somewhere. This slice of Americana, sometimes hilarious and sometimes starkly intense, recalls Robertss idyllic childhood, filled with baseball, Boy Scouts, and outdoor boondoggles. Life later finds him as a single Baptist minister in the South and Midwest while also serving as a marine. He saw combat in the first Gulf War, later as a US Navy/Marine Corps chaplain, and once again during the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan. He was later diagnosed with cancer, a fact that changed his life forever.

Through it all, his faith in God has helped him through the difficult times while making him more appreciative of the good in his life. Now he tells the story of his truly American lifean odyssey of humor, tough issues, and faith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490893044

Terry A. Roberts

TerryA. Roberts retired from the Navy as a Chaplain in 2012 with over thirty combat and service awards. His military career began as an enlisted Marine in 1987 as a Military Policeman in the Reserves. He graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree from Cumberland College in Williamsburg, Kentucky in 1989 before going on to graduate with a Master of Theology degree from the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky in 1993. He also served as a Southern Baptist minister in Ohio, Kentucky, West Virginia and Alabama. Besides being a triple war combat veteran, he is also a cancer survivor. Letters Home is a companion book to his first work published in 2014, You’ve Got to Be Somewhere, An American Odyssey.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 Terry A. Roberts.

Cover image done by Lensie Cyrus. Kristina Roach of the New View Management Group is to get credit for Black & White Back cover Author Photo.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Pamela N. McIntosh, Editor

Second Edition

ISBN: 978-1-4908-9303-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-9305-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-9304-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015915958

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/20/2015

Contents

Acknowledgements

PART ONE C’mon Boy

Chapter One Down Home

Chapter Two Always Something To Do

Chapter Three Frogs, Fish and Fences

Chapter Four The Great Navigator

Chapter Five Clip-on Ties & Converse All-Stars

PART TWO College and the Corps

Chapter Six College Boy

Chapter Seven Guess What Mom, I joined the Marine Corps

Chapter Eight You’re Not Asking The Right Question

Chapter Nine King’s Island and Revelation(s)

Chapter Ten Hey Bud, We’re Going

Chapter Eleven We’re Here

Chapter Twelve Goin’ North

Chapter Thirteen Goin’ Home

PART THREE Does Your Wife Sing & Play the Piano?

Chapter Fourteen Can You Paint?

Chapter Fifteen West Virginia is a State

Chapter Sixteen The Babylonian Captivity

Chapter Seventeen All Things Old Are New Again

PART FOUR I Solemnly Swear To Support And Defend …

Chapter Eighteen Welcome To The Navy

Chapter Nineteen We Are The Seabees Of The Navy

Chapter Twenty This Ain’t Gulf War 1 Chaps

Chapter Twenty-one Homeport

Chapter Twenty-two Okinawa Again, We No Serve Dog Here

PART FIVE Virginia Is For People Who Can’t Drive

Chapter Twenty-three Little Creek

Chapter Twenty-four Africa

Chapter Twenty-five I Just Felt Like Running

PART SIX You’ve Got To Be Somewhere

Chapter Twenty-six You Have Got To Be Kidding Me!

Chapter Twenty-seven I Shall Wing My Flight To Worlds Unknown

Chapter Twenty-eight All Of Them

Chapter Twenty-nine Cancer

Chapter Thirty Interlude

Edited by Pamela Northern McIntosh, of

RED-HEAD-LINERS, Dayton, Ohio

Cover Design by Terry A. Roberts of

REVTAR PRODUCTIONS, Dayton, Ohio

and CROSSBOOKS Publishers, Bloomington, Indiana

Front Cover Photo by Lensie Cyrus, of

COCO PHOTO, Cyrus, West Virginia

Author Photo by Kristina Roach of the

NEW VIEW MANAGEMENT GROUP, Sharonville, Ohio

Interior Graphics and Layout by

Terry A. Roberts of REVTAR PRODUCTIONS, Dayton, Ohio and Teresa Erwin, of TESS-O-GRAPHICS, Franklin, Tennessee

Additional special thanks to …

Mark & Amy Moore and the LOUDER THAN WORDS MINISTRIES of Weaverville, North Carolina

Mike & Kellie Cyrus of CROSS OUTDOORS of

Cyrus, West Virginia

With additional conceptual guidance from

Timothy William Ross, Simi Valley, California and

Emily Hendrix & Debbie Erwin Hendrix of western Kentucky

PHOTO CREDITS

Chapter One = Unknown

Chapter Two = Nancy C. Roberts

Chapter Three = Jackie A. Roberts

Chapter Four = Jackie A. Roberts

Chapter Five = Unknown

Chapter Six = Terry A. Roberts

Chapter Seven = Unknown

Chapter Eight = Daniel Moore

Chapter Nine = Nancy C. Roberts

Chapter Ten = Unknown

Chapter Eleven = Fred Baker

Chapter Twelve = Mark McLachlan

Chapter Thirteen = Jackie A. Roberts

Chapter Fourteen = Christopher Wilson

Chapter Fifteen = Mike Cyrus

Chapter Sixteen = Terry A. Roberts

Chapter Seventeen = Unknown

Chapter Eighteen = Unknown

Chapter Nineteen = Unknown

Chapter Twenty = Unknown

Chapter Twenty-one = Leticia Soto

Chapter Twenty-two = Joseph Michael Molnar/Matt Tolhurst

Chapter Twenty-three = Unknown

Chapter Twenty-four = Unknown

Chapter Twenty-five = Nancy C. Roberts

Chapter Twenty-six = Timothy William Ross

Chapter Twenty-seven = Timothy William Ross

Chapter Twenty-eight = Terry A. Roberts

Chapter Twenty-nine = Misty Weiser

Chapter Thirty = Mike Cyrus

Dedicated to Mom & Dad

and the many legions I call friends….

Acknowledgements

You’ve Got To Be Somewhere, An American Odyssey is my first effort at a major literary work which has been over two years in the making, overcoming many and various obstacles and hurdles both seen and unseen. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. And like any other good thing worth doing, it was a team effort.

Remember,

"A good idea

is only a good idea,

if other people think it is a good idea."

This truly special project would not have been possible without the technical and special assistance from some very special friends. Eternal and grateful special thanks go out to Mark, Tim, Debbie, Emily, Teresa, Pam, Mike, Kellie, Lensie & Coco the dog.

Hopefully following "YGTBSAAO, my next labor of love will be on the bookstore shelves near you soon. The tentative title for this work in process is:

Letters Home: One Man, Three Wars

… and perhaps later …

I Hope That Was Chocolate?

495356MAP.tif

PART ONE

C’mon Boy

CHAPTER ONE

DOWN HOME

49535601.tif

The world was a better place when the phones had cables and the TVs didn’t. Growing up in our home we went to the First Baptist Church in Fairborn, Ohio every Sunday and Wednesday, unless we were traveling back and forth on Route 68 to Maysville, Kentucky from Dayton, Ohio. Or sometimes we might be on some grand adventure like hunting or fishing. A Kentucky basketball game was often on TV. And a Cincinnati Reds baseball game with the velvet tones of Marty Brennaman and Joe Nuxall, often echoed from our radio. The heroes in our home were, Clint Eastwood, Johnny Cash, Pete Rose, Johnny Bench and Bobby Knight, in spite of being dyed in the wool Kentucky Fans.

The Cottage Inn is where it all started. That is where a naïve Nancy and the Jack, not so much in the box met. The Roberts family started in a most humble of fashions. Simply said, we lived in a trailer. And there is no shame in this; it just is what it is. We lived on Hill Avenue on the edge of Eastland, a mostly white, working lower-class neighborhood of Maysville, just a few blocks from most of Mom’s relatives, the Curtis and Lucas families. Ironically enough, just a few short blocks from Mom’s childhood home, where my Grandma Florence Lucas lived on Clark Street. Mom worked for the Mason County Health Department, typing and filing for a yeoman’s fortune, not a bad lot for a recent 1962 Maysville High School Graduate. Dad and schooling were not joined at the hip. Having ventured out from the weary world of academia at a young age, Dad joined the work force with his blond flat top, flat stomach and sinewy shoulders, full of muscle from years of toil on the Fleming County farm. Once the newlywed Roberts established themselves in Maysville, Dad had a few employment options. There was the Browning’s factory or the Wald’s Company, where gears and/or bicycle parts were made. But Dad laid his lot with The January and Wood Company Inc., simply known as ‘the Cotton Mill.’ This was a torrent of dust and noise that Dad could only tolerate for a short time while bringing home a king’s ransom of about forty dollars a week.

Maysville was originally known as Limestone and was one of the original settlements founded in Kentucky by Daniel Boone and other frontiersman such as Simon Kenton. Like most things in life, the people who should most often get the credit, don’t, as the town was named for John May. However, the grand suspension bridge spanning the mighty Ohio is named for Simon Kenton and is a miniature likeness of the San Francisco Golden Gate Bridge. For most of my life, the bridge was painted green and has for many years, stood as a symbol for the city. For those early pioneers and frontiersman coming down river from Pittsburgh, Maysville was a major river port in the late 1700’s. With its natural harbor, it was an obvious stopover for early pioneers either going into the hinterland of the Bluegrass or a resupply point for those going to destinations beyond, like Cincinnati, the Falls of the Ohio at Louisville or perhaps as far as New Orleans, as Maysville had a touch of French influence and connection.

Mom was born and raised in Maysville, as mentioned above Maysville was a mixture of sorts. A little bit of Appalachia, a little bit of Bluegrass and a little bit of a strange mix of Chicago Gangster and New Orleans French Quarter, all mingled into a quiet corner of Northern Kentucky. Not too far from the factories of Cincinnati and not too far from the majestic white fenced horse farms of Lexington. But at the same time, it was not too close to much of anything or anywhere. Such places as Cincinnati and Lexington were thought to be exotic and anywhere beyond that in the 1960’s was quite simply a world away. Mom grew up in a four Room bungalow complete with a dirt yard, which often required sweeping. What was a world away was the presence of her father, Jesse Lucas, who died young from colon cancer, leaving the young Florence to fend for herself and her three young children. Florence was already grieving the loss of their first son Donald, who fell victim to the dreadful disease of spinal bifida. In short, they grew up poor, but proud. With Margaret, Mom’s older sister and Johnnie, her younger brother, they grew up close in the small white clap board house on Clark Street surrounded by a wire fence, large Maple trees and more aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws and out-laws, than you could shake a stick at.

Since the house was so small, Brother Johnnie slept in the kitchen on a portable bed, if in fact, he slept at all, as he often enjoyed watching late night TV into the wee hours of the night, much to the chagrin of my Mom, who shared a bed with Grandma in the next room. Even though the house was small on size, it was always large on the laughter of family and friends. Florence Etta’s house was renowned in Eastland for hospitality and some of the best southern cooking that could be found. These family gatherings surrounded a red hair pin styled kitchen table. This is the only kitchen table the family ever owned. I presently take my meals from this same table with the original red vinyl chairs; one of which, Dad burned a cigarette hole in decades ago. Ironically enough, the hole is still there as are all of the fond family memories. In preparation for these feasts, Mom was known to take a daily excursion, several blocks away, to her Uncle Leslie’s neighborhood store to acquire a quart of milk and whatever other staples which may be required. From time to time, Uncle Les would be known to give Little Nan an extra treat for her troubles, as Brother Johnnie was often her daily nemesis on a bicycle as little brothers are so oft to do.

For fun, Mom and the Clark Street Curtis clan would enjoy playing box hockey. This is a most violent dual to the death, played with a baseball, a box, two hockey sticks and two bad attitudes. This gladiator gridiron was usually about four feet by about six feet or whatever dimensions, material and imagination would allow. The box was made of the most sturdy wood as could be acquired with a ‘goal hole’ cut in each end. The box was subdivided with another board, with another two holes cut towards each end of the middle board. A many of bruised egos and bloodied body parts were often accrued during these epic battles. When box hockey was not being pursued, the family occasionally attended the Calvary Baptist Church, which was located a few blocks away in Eastland. Unfortunately, faith in Jesus Christ was not at the forefront of the Lucas home, but instead, strict Victorian morals took its place. These attitudes, for better or worse, played a strong influence that shingled the values in our home. It was not until later, that Mom and Dad found Jesus.

Dad, on the other hand, grew up in the wild and wide open spaces of Fleming County in a log cabin on the edge of the Appalachian Mountains. Although, only a county away, it was somewhat culturally different. Like my Mom, Dad also lost a parent quite young, his mother, Thelma Filson Roberts, to cancer. Because of this, Dad grew up rough, ready and raw. Dad was the baby of the family, but most were best advised not to call him such as the nay-sayer may find themselves looking up at him from the ground, either immediately or at some time later as physical condition allowed. Dad has an older brother, Weldon Filson Roberts, who due to being many years his senior, was mostly carving his own path in this world, which is a another book unto itself. Additionally he has two older sisters, Brenda and Helen, with Helen being the eldest. Dad learned the ways of hard work, which would serve him well for the rest of his life; instilling in me a rough and tough work ethic which in turn would serve me well for the coming rigors in my life. Besides having to work hard, Dad learned to play hard on the historic farm as well. In spite of Dad not having much formal education, Dad had the natural education of exploring the farm and forest, an education in and of itself. It is here, that Dad grew to have a love of nature and the great outdoors while learning the ancient arts of hunting and fishing. The latter of which, Dad would become rather proficient, as a semi-pro Bass angler.

The farm where Dad grew up was known as the Filson Farm. It was settled in 1805 by Samuel Blackburn Filson and his second wife, Mary Cooper Filson and their many children. Samuel was a veteran of the American Revolutionary War, where he was a Sergeant in the 7th Maryland Regiment. As was the case in those days, veterans were often given land grants for their military service. Samuel’s grant was in the Miami Valley of southwestern Ohio, but as it turned out; he sold it to one of Mary’s nephews and took the land in Fleming County, Kentucky instead, because of its natural beauty and abundance of wildlife. Eventually his estate was about 2,000 acres. Samuel became the first Sheriff of Fleming County. Upon Samuel’s death, he was buried in an above ground tomb which he engraved himself. This stands in the Filson Cemetery on the Farm, where Dad’s sister, Helen Roberts Hamilton and some of my cousins still live today. I can remember the first time Dad took me to the cemetery and showed me his mother’s grave and the Filson tomb. It was here, I was first connected to love of family and country.

Even more famous than Samuel, was his first cousin, John Filson. He was an author. He wrote the first history of Kentucky, The Discovery, Settlement and Present State of Kentucke. This book thrust Daniel Boone onto the national and world stage as a living legend and a topic of much lore and legend. John Filson also drew the first commercial map of Kentucky as well as being the original surveyor of Cincinnati. He originally named the town Losantiville, but upon his death on the Miami River, at the hands of Shawnee Indians, the town was promptly renamed Cincinnati. The Filsons, as were the Roberts and most all of my family were Scottish, Scots-Irish and Irish in stock. These Celtic ancestors began making their way to American shores as early as the 1720’s. They cut their way through the frontier forest questing for freedom in the vast American wilderness. These pioneering efforts, helped build the foundations of America. It is because of all of this, that I have such a love for family and American history, as our family is so deeply woven in it. But above all, my faith in Jesus Christ, supersedes all of this and is the foundation of all I am and believe, and without that, there would be nothing else on which to stand.

I was born on my Dad’s 22nd birthday. It was a cold snowy fall morning, with about 6 inches of white blowing snow, quite heavy for Maysville that time of year. It was Mom’s first experience with child birth … and her last. As a nearly 21 year old, Mom was a quick learner. She never got pregnant again. Consequently, I had the oddity of growing up as an only child. I guess one could say, They got it right the first time or perhaps, they were too afraid to try again. Either way, I grew up with all of the unique experiences of being an only child. To be sure, this had its advantages. I didn’t have to compete for food, attention, share a room or all of the other sibling tortures of this sort. On the converse, it had its disadvantages. I was in the front of the line for all of the childhood chores of taking out the garbage, clearing off the dinner table and so forth. There never was any argument about who was going to cut the front or back yard – I was the master of both. If something in the house was broken, I was near certain, to be the prime suspect. Later in childhood, I learned to pawn off the blame on Dad, as he was more often than not, the guilty party anyway.

My Mom’s sister, Margaret, had since married my Uncle Eugene Smith and moved to Cincinnati, then to the Knoxville-Oakridge area and then to the Dayton Area where they laid roots in the Fairway Terrace Mobile Home Park; right in the flight pattern of the Wright Patterson Air Force Base. It was here that we would later move six months after I was born in the Bluegrass. Jack, you and Nancy ought to move up here to Ohio and get some work. So we followed the beckoning call of Mom’s sister and husband. Thus, we were the tail end of the Great Appalachian Migration. Of course, we didn’t know that at the time, we were just moving to Ohio.

Here, we were introduced to the tormenting theme of ‘Briar Jokes.’ These were ethnic/racial slurs from the local Buckeye stock, slapped against the new-comer Appalachians from the far reaches of Kentucky, West Virginia, Tennessee and the like. Many of the hill people were mocked for their southern accents and Appalachian backwoods brogue as well as their provincial and backward ways. Dad or my Uncle Eugene would often come home from work relaying such folly to us. These jokes and southern humor were likely the forerunning comic material as offered by Jeff Foxworthy, Larry the Cable Guy and Duck Dynasty.

So thus we moved the turquoise and white ten-wide trailer to join my Mom’s sister in the vast paradise of the trailer park. By most standards, it was and still is a top shelf mobile home park. We had black top streets, with street signs, street lights and real concrete sidewalks. But the problem was, we were once again, way out in the middle of nowhere on the Huffman prairie, where the Wright Brothers conducted some of their initial flight experimentation.

Since we were once again miles away from anything, this was a problem. We only had one car and Dad drove it to work each day. It is here, Mom got industrious by selling Avon and trying to raise me without a car or a phone. In today’s world, it is unimaginable to believe someone does not have a phone. If we wanted to use the phone, we went the next street over to my Aunt Margaret’s to use the phone. But we did have a black & white TV, complete with rabbit ear reception. And just like everyone else, we received three regular channels in addition to being able to dial in PBS on UHF, in case you wanted to watch National Geographic in the odd chance that the President might be on monopolizing all three networks. Of course now, the President is on a hundred channels all the time, but we still have National Geographic as a default.

It was while here, on the windswept meadows of the Huffman prairie that the phrase, ‘down home’ came into my everyday vocabulary. With Mom and Dad often being homesick for Kentucky, we would often make the titanic two hour trek on US Route 68 to Kentucky as much as possible. By the time I started school, I could tell you in painful detail, every twist & turn and barn & burg between the trailer park and Grandma’s house in Maysville. It was a many a mile, that we rode to & fro, up & down Route 68 about every other weekend if possible in the 1972 metallic olive green Plymouth Scamp. In spite of it only being about one hundred miles, it seemed as if it were on the other side of the universe. After the untimely divorce of Mom’s sister, we moved into town into the house that Mom & Dad still live in today. Until the death of my Uncle Eugene in 2012, I would visit him often in the trailer park of my early childhood memories.

Times were often tough, but I didn’t mind, mostly because I didn’t know it. What I did know was that every Christmas and birthday, I would get plenty of toys and clothes and often the dreaded wrapped gift of socks or underwear. Often, these ‘special gifts,’ were wrapped in a cracker box. If I started carefully peeling back the wrapping paper and saw anything that looked like ‘Saltines’ – I knew that underwear or socks could not be far behind. And yes, you had to carefully unwrap the present, because we were going to reuse the wrapping paper. Long before ‘re-gifting,’ ‘being green’ or recycling came into vogue, we were reusing wrapping paper. I didn’t get much throughout the year, because I didn’t need it, nor did I expect it. However, I must admit, my Mom and my Grandma Florence, were the queens of the yard sale; both in having … and in going. So there was always the ‘new-to-me’ clothes that often showed up in my closet to keep me as well dressed as any other JC Penny or Kmart clad kid.

Some would say that my Mom, Nancy, never worked because she never held a job in a factory or other such thing. But oh yes, she worked. Keeping an eye on me alone was a full time job. If it could be sold in a party plan, Mom sold it. Avon, Amway, Tupperware, Jewelry, Beeline Clothing and perhaps something else I am forgetting. This kept her busy, tromping through the snow, to deliver a twenty-five cent tube of lipstick, taking phone calls all hours of the day and night, which were most unpopular with Dad during dinner time. Then there was the constant chasing down of orders and collecting money which was always an adventure in and of itself. If this were not enough, there was the constant carting me around to all of the various activities in which I seemed to perpetually be involved. Yes – Mom worked. While I was in high school, Mom also worked as a ‘day aid’ to a retired General Motors executive who had fallen victim to a stroke. Old fashioned wheel chairs are heavy – Mom worked hard.

One could not mention hard work, without mentioning my Dad, Jack. His real name was Jackie Allen Roberts, supposedly named after his dad, my Grandpa, Jack Roberts. But of course, Grandpa’s real name was Hobert Leon Roberts. At the very least, Dad’s middle name, like mine is Allen, named after the doctor that delivered Dad. At least the Dr. Allen part makes sense … I think. In the eighteen some years that I actually lived in the house (or ten-wide trailer), I can’t seem to recall Dad missing a day’s work, or for that matter, ever being late. About zero-dark every week-day morning, I could always hear that most annoying sound of BHHHAAAWWW, coming from that stand-up-tall clock radio alarm that Mom won for her gallant efforts as a party plan sales queen. Now, if it were a morning following a late night of bowling; the most horrendous sound of the alarm was followed up by a persistent chorus of Mom’s invitations of, Jack – get up, Jack – get up. And then, like a thunderous eruption, I could hear Dad bound from the bed and bolt to the bathroom. This was quickly followed by Dad preparing for his daily ritual and routine.

Most people would not believe that the making of a peanut butter & Jelly sandwich or better yet; a peanut butter & bologna sandwich … with ketchup, would actual involve SOUND. But Dad could make some sound. When peanut butter jars were glass and had metal lid-tops; Dad was no doubt, the undisputed world champion peanut butter lid-top spinner. Taking off or replacing the jar lid was not simply a mundane domestic chore – it was an Olympic event.

It is amazing what you can hear in a dark house just before dawn. Then there was the making of coffee and cigarette smoking. It was always the sounds of a demolition derby, as Dad would so nimbly attempt to fill the glass coffee pot with tap water and place it into its plastic and metal heating element. Dad had this ash tray that he and Mom acquired in Canada