I Think I Saw My Father's Gun Last Night...

When I was a boy, my father had a Smith & Wesson Model 2, Top Break revolver which had belonged to a relative of his who had been a policeman in Atlanta.
After he died in August 1981, my mother gave it to me, along with several other guns he had bought and a couple of his rings, including his Knights of Columbus ring.

When I was about 10 years old, I dropped the revolver and broke off part of the hammer spur.

In the 1980's, while stationed at Fort Hood, Texas, a family member needed some medical attention, and not all costs were covered by the military system. I did not have a lot of money at the time, so I pawned almost everything I had of any value to try to take care of them.

I figured I would never see any of the stuff again, but, the other night, while searching onine, I found a Smith & Wesson Model 2 with a broken hammer spur which had been auctioned in 2006. I have no way of knowing if that gun was my father's, and no way of knowing who bought it. All I can do is keep looking and hope it comes up for sale again.

The Rumba Bar, Munich - Annie the Prostitute Has a Lonely Birthday

When I first hit Europe in 1967, I was exploring a new world in more ways than one. One thing I learned was that sexual mores were a bit different in Europe. To a young man of my age, this was a good thing.

I was also learning how great German beer can be, and I set about trying it in as many forms and venues as possible.

Being stationed only about 35 miles south of Munich, it was not unusual for me to wind up there with others who were interested in the seamier side of life.

That's how I came to be a welcome regular at the Rumba Bar on Goethe Strasse, just around the corner from the Munich train station.

Now, I was still a kid from the sticks and the first night there, being surrounded by prostitutes who were trying to convince me I was the hottest guy they had ever seen was a heady experience. However, at the moment I just wanted to drink beer and figure out how the game was played.

First of all, the girls were all a bit surprised at how politely and respectfully I treated them. Then, I noticed that one of the girls at the bar was crying.

I asked why she was crying. One of the other girls told me her name was Rosie and she was crying because it was her birthday and she was having to spend it trying to pick up guys in a bar. On an impulse, I told the girls I was talking to that I would be right back.

There had been a flower seller at the train station which was a little over a block away. I walked down there and bought a small but pretty bouquet of flowers. I then marched back into the bar, walked up to Rosie, handed her the flowers, and wished her a happy birthday.

The look of surprise on her face, followed by the realization that somebody really wanted her to feel special on her birthday, no matter who she was or what she was doing, was priceless. Immediately, she put her arms around me and kissed me, and most of the other girls followed.

The "party" didn't last long, however, as the owner, Eddie, who used to be a jockey, and, I later learned, carried a knife...and was good with it, made it plain that the girls needed to "get back to work".

However, from that time forward, I was always welcome in the Rumba Bar, and even Eddie eventually let me know that he respected me for the way I had treated Rosie and always treated his girls.

I went back to the Rumba Bar many times in the three years I spent in Germany, and was always welcomed, and treated, just a little bit differently than the other customers. It was a dive and the people there might have been from a different strata of society than I was accustomed to, but I was always welcome and treated like a friend (a paying one) when I was there.