About an hour before the evening mess Corporal Michulski and Private Bowan went into the kitchen early. They had both been assigned as mess servers for the evening meal. They had planned this one earlier in the day with Sergeant Fulmer and Corporal Mahann. Bowan stepped behind the food line counter and picked up the juice dispenser. He unbuttoned his trouser flap and pissed into the dispenser.

“Aw, man..I’m still pissin’ last night’s beer. There’s too much foam; he’s gonna know,” he whined.

“No he won’t. Just fill it up, The foam will be gone by supper time.” answered Michulski. Bowan finished and handed the dispenser to Michulski who also pissed into it. Michulski replaced the dispenser back into place and dumped several ice cubes into it. They were already laughing , imagining Ledbetter’s face when he tasted the piss.

At 5:00, the sidewalk leading to the mess building was littered with soldiers heading for the evening meal. David Fulmer, a sergeant with 9 years service and the platoon leader, walked with Corporal Phil Mahann toward the mess building. Walking not far in front of them was Private Horace Ledbetter.

“Hello, H – H – H – orace.!” Fulmer shouted, mocking the stutter that Ledbetter sometimes spoke with.

“ ‘lo,” Ledbetter replied, looking over his shoulder and just walking on.

In an almost whispering tone, Mahann said to Fulmer, “Man, I can’t wait for this one!”

Fulmer replied, “Just make sure you’re not close to him when we drinks it. He might puke.”

As the servers piled the food onto the trays of the soldiers passing through the chow line, Fulmer and Mahann grinned at Michulski and Bowan. Bowan, wearing the white service apron, spoke to the approaching Ledbetter, “Hey, Horace, you gotta try the ice cold lemonade. It’s just whatcha need in this frickin’ heat.”

Ledbetter placed his glass under the dispenser tap and filled the glass. Putting it on his tray, he found a seat and sat down. The ice in the urine had suppressed it’s odor, so Ledbetter had no idea what he was about to put into his mouth. He lifted the glass to his mouth and took a sip. He immediately knew something wasn’t right. For a split second he was confused, but then realized it was piss! He spewed the liquid from his mouth and began gagging. He felt like vomiting.

At first, he chastised himself and said “Fuck, I can’t believe I fell for it again..”

“Goddam, you mother fuckers!”. He couldn’t eat now. He got up, left his tray and stormed out of the building. The howling laughter from Fulmer, Mahann, Michulski and Bowan interrupted the meal and got everyone’s attention. Several of the soldiers joined in the laughter even though they had no clue what the joke was all about. One of the mess soldiers in the serving line looked angry,

“Why don’t you sons-of-a-bitches leave Ledbetter alone?! You gonna cause some bad shit to happen!”

“Lighten up. We’re just havin’ a little fun. We ain’t hurtin’ him,” Bowan yelled back.

Ledbetter stomped his way back to the barracks. He just kept thinking to himself,

“Why do I keep falling for it?” But even more important in his thoughts was “Why don’t they like me?” He wiped a small tear from his cheek and turned his head from two approaching soldiers so they wouldn’t see.

Such was the life in the 1200th Quartermaster Corps for Horace Ledbetter. He was 24 years old and had joined the Guard two years earlier. He had always wanted to be in the military, but his father needed him to help with the family farm in his home town of Whitford, Alabama. He had thought that joining the National Guard was the answer. He could attend training once a month and two weeks in the summer, and still help his father out with the farm. Despite having a problem with weight, he made it through boot camp and got assigned to the 1200th. Horace had not finished high school, so he struggled to pass the training he needed to learn the Army’s water purification systems. Now, after a year with the 1200th, he just wanted to fit in with the rest of the guys and do his job. Even though he was able to control it most of the time, Horace’s stuttering gave Fulmer and his bunch one more reason to taunt him.

For Fulmer, Mahann, Michulski and Bowan, Horace Ledbetter made an easy target for their “jokes.” Fulmer, besides being the platoon sergeant, was a “man’s man”, well built and Army all the way. He considered himself the best the Army had to offer and the men in his platoon were not about to argue that point. Mahann, Michulski and Bowan were all  Alabama good ‘ol boys, and they followed Fulmer like their own personal hero, going along with his harassment of Ledbetter without question. Ever since Ledbetter had been assigned to his platoon, Fulmer had picked on him unmercifully. He didn’t like him, and he really didn’t know why. Was it because his lack of education made him seem stupid, or his portly physique or perhaps his stuttering? To Fulmer, Ledbetter was a liability and he wanted him out of his platoon. But, in the meantime, it was fun to make his life miserable. But, he was always careful to keep his treatment of Ledbetter out of the sight of the Lieutenant; he couldn’t afford to get a bullying charge against him.  Thar would hurt his chances for promotion. The only one of the four who felt any apprehension with Fulmer’s “jokes” on Ledbetter was Michulski, who felt a little guilty every time they pulled one on Ledbetter. Sometimes he hated himself for it.   But, still, he went along. Fulmer was “the man”, after all.

Not long after coming to the 1200th, Ledbetter had talked of his desperate fear of snakes, a genuine phobia which caused him extreme anguish every time he had encountered one while working on his father’s farm. This is what gave Fulmer his idea for his next little trick for “Ledbelly”, as he was fond of calling him.. Friday was Ledbetter’s turn for sentry duty at the training site. The small pond that was used to extract water from for the purification training was infested with water moccasins, one of the most poisonous of snakes. Before breakfast that morning, Fulmer and Michulski went to secure the site and relieve the night sentry. There, lying by a pine stump was an adult moccasin, about two feet long. Fulmer took a small green utility bag from the hummer, opened it and with a long stick urged the snake into the bag.

“What the hell you gonna do with that damn snake?”, Michulski asked.

“It’s for our boy, Ledbelly. You know how he loves snakes.” Fulmer said with a grin.

Michulski started feeling uncomfortable. “Where you gonna put it?”

“Well, he’s got sentry duty down here tonight. Be a nice ‘lil surprise in his sentry bag.”

“I dunno, Dave. That’s a bit too far, doncha think? What if the fuckin’ thing bites him? We’d be in a world of shit for that. And you know how scared shitless he is of snakes. What if he has a heart attack or something?” Michulski complained.

“Ah. Don’t worry about it. I’m gonna kill it before I put it in the sentry bag. Just wish I could be there to see Ledbelly’s face when he opens that bag.”.

Michulski wasn’t happy with this one. It’s one thing to trick him into drinking piss, it’s another to get him bitten by a poisonous snake. But, like always, he just went along with prank.

Shortly after dusk, the platoon was in the barracks getting ready for night chores. Ledbetter was sitting on his bunk puttng on warmer socks for his duty at the pond training site that night. Even though the heat of the day was unbearable, the nights could be a little chilly.

Fulmer walked over near Ledbetter’s bunk and yelled,

“Ledbetter! Get your ass in gear. You got ten minutes to get to sentry duty..”

“I’m ready. Just puttin’ on my boots,” Ledbetter replied.

While everyone else hated sentry duty, Ledbetter actually looked forward to it. He could sit under the stars and think. It was quiet, nothing ever happened down there. Most of all, there was no Fulmer or Michulski or Bowan or Mahann to pick on him. It was peace, even if for just the one night.

He arrived at the pond just as it was getting dark. He parked the humvee near the tent. Inside the tent was a small portable desk and radio. His only duty for the night was to do a walk around four times and make sure all of the water purification equipment was secure. He was to radio in any suspicious activity he saw. What a joke, he thought; suspicious activity down here. The only thing that ever happened down here was frogs courting or an old hoot owl making a fuss. Just peace and quiet until 6:00 in the morning.

Ledbetter walked into the tent and sat down at the desk. He turned the radio on and tested it. All OK. He needed to put on his sentry belt and helmet from sentry bag. Where the hell did they leave the sentry bag? It was usually left on the desk by the last sentry. It wasn’t there. Ah, there it is….over against the back of the tent. Why wasn’t it on the desk as usual? Oh well, doesn’t matter. He walked over to the bag, picked it up and put it on the desk. The top was closed with a string tie. He pulled the string loose and pulled the bag open. He looked inside and took out the white sentry belt and put it on. The gate keys and white helmet still remained in the bag. He only needed the helmet while he was making his rounds so he thought he would just leave it on the desk for right now. He opened the bag a little farther to pull the helmet out. He reached under the rim of the helmet and lifted it out. Just the keys left. He open the bag as far as it would go and looked inside. There, to his disbelief, was the curled up snake, his head raised back as if ready to strike. The snake looked straight into Ledbetter’s eyes, angry and hissing, his tongue darting in and out. Ledbetter stood there frozen in sheer terror. He began trembling and sweating, but he couldn’t move. Gradually, he was able to slowly move his feet backward. When he had put about four feet between himself and the bag, the snake crawled out of the bag onto the desk and finally to the ground where it writhed its way out of the tent. Ledbetter, still gasping and trembling, sat on the ground and pushed with his feet until he was sitting curled up against the back of the tent. He did not move from this position until Fulmer arrived in the morning to relieve him.

Fulmer walked into the tent and saw Ledbetter curled up against the tent on the ground.

He knew why he was there and he laughed as he said, “Mornn’, Ledbelly! How was your watch? Anything unusual happen?” Michulski followed immediately after.

“There’s a snake in that bag,” uttered Ledbetter in an almost inaudible voice.

“What, you mean this sentry bag?” Looking inside the bag, he looked up and said, “There’s nothin’ in here but the gate keys.” He was almost in a full-blown laugh as he said to Ledbetter, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Ledbelly. You look like shit.” It was at this point Michulski realized that Fulmer had never killed the snake and it was fully alive when Ledbetter had opened the bag.

Fulmer barked at Ledbetter, “Get your ass up, Ledbelly. Get back to the barracks and get some shut-eye. Got some shit for you to do this afternoon. Now move it!” He was still laughing.

Ledbetter pulled himself to his feet, looked down at the ground and walked out. As he was driving back to the barracks, he knew that it was Fulmer who had put the snake into the sentry bag. He considered going to the Lieutenant with this one. But, by the time he had arrived back at the barracks, he knew he couldn’t do that. He still just wanted to be one of the guys. Someday, he would have that. Taking all this shit from Fulmer and the guys would some day be worth it. They’d see. He was a good soldier. He was worth something.

When he walked into the barracks, Mahann and Bowan where just finishing getting dressed. Ledbetter walked to his bunk and sat down. Mahann walked over to him and, with a giggle in his voice said,

“Damn, Ledbelly, you look like you’ve seen a snake, er, I mean ghost!” Mahann and Bowan laughed out loud and both walked away. Ledbetter was calming down now. Just get some sleep. Things will get better.

Fulmer and others in the platoon had often thought ‘how the hell did a fuck-up like Ledbelly even get into the Guard?’ He was stupid and just too fat to be a soldier. For his part, he thought if he could make life in the Guard hard enough for him, he would just quit, doing everyone in the platoon a favor. He felt no remorse for all the pranks he and the others played on him. In his mind, Ledbelly deserved it. He had no right to be among real soldiers. Still, he did what he was told to best of his ability. And, even after the short sheeting, the dog shit in helmet, tricking him into drinking piss, and now the snake in the bag, he had never filed a complaint with the Lieutenant. It was not going to be easy to get Ledbetter to quit. Was he just stupid or what? If the unit were to be called into a combat mission, he was sure Ledbelly would cower under fire. He just wouldn’t be able to take it. After the snake trick, it looked like Ledbetter was finally about to break. He needed one more good prank to get Ledbelly to fold and finally get out of the Guard. He knew just how he would do it.

Fulmer was an infantry NCO before coming to the 1200th. He had formerly been in charge of ordinance and was familiar with small arms and explosives. He had access to the armory locker and was able to “borrow” one of the demo incendiary grenades. It couldn’t be distinguished from the real thing. With a dummy grenade, he and his cohorts could pull off one last prank which would surely push old Ledbelly over the edge. After this one, he was sure he would just quit.

It was the Friday of the last week of camp. The platoon would be going home on Saturday. As always, the last day of training included mock war games with the other platoons. This was to meant to simulate what real combat was like. But, the 1200th was not a combat unit, they were a support unit, so they were not meant to experience actual combat. This “combat” training was really nothing more than finding their way through the woods with tank and mortar fire in the distance. Fulmer had planned with the others that they would isolate Ledbetter on one of the rest stops, “accidently” pull the pin on the dummy grenade and drop it at his feet. If they played it just right, they could scare Ledbetter into believing he was just about to be blown up. Not only would it be hilarious, but this would show Ledbetter that the Army was not the right place for him. They could picture him actually pissing in his pants, and they laughed uproariously among each other just talking about it.

It was already hot at 7:00 when the platoons mustered for the combat training day. The company Lieutenant stood the entire unit to attention and shouted out final instructions for the event. Fulmer’s platoon was to travel the south side of the woods and rendezvous with 3^rd Platoon. In the distance, tank fire could already be heard. The weight of the back packs and hot uniforms were going to make for tough walking and Ledbetter wished he was more fit. His extra weight was going to be a real problem today. He hoped he could make it without fainting from the heat. If he fainted, the others would never let him forget it. He had to keep up. Five minutes after the Lieutenant finished his speech, Fulmer yelled to his platoon, “Fall out! Let’s get this done!”

It was nearly 11:00 before Fulmer called the first rest stop. Panting soldiers scurried about to take off their back packs. Ledbetter took off his pack and sat on his helmet under an oak tree. Sweat flowed from his entire body and he could barely move his legs. He was so exhausted that he didn’t even notice Fulmer, Mahann, Bowen and Muchulski all huddled together whispering. The rest stops only lasted for fifteen minutes, so Ledbetter was going to make the most of it. He was wiping the sweat from his forehead when Fulmer and the others walked over to him.

Fulmer reached into his side satchel and pulled out the dummy grenade.

“Hey, Ledbelly, ever seen one of these?” he said tossing the canister in the air like you would a baseball.

“No. What is it?” he asked, his eyes following the up and down motion of the canister as Fulmer juggled it.

“Incendiary grenade. Bad shit, man. Blow everything to hell within fifty feet.” Fulmer arrogantly answered..

“What the hell you doin’ with that thing. We don’t need it, we ain’t a combat unit.” Ledbetter said.

“Got it from the armory. Just wanted to show it to you guys. Wanted you to see what real war toys are like.” Fulmer held it out in front of him said,

“Don’t worry, it’s safe as long as this here pin stays inside it. But, if you pull out like this….HOLY SHIT! I PULLED THE PIN!” Fulmer pretended to be frantic and threw the canister down two feet in front of Ledbetter. “FUCK! RUN”, yelled Mahann and Bowen together, trying to keep the laughter in.

As the four culprits watched, they expected a horrified Ledbetter to start running, screaming with terror. But what happened next would haunt them for many, many years to come. Ledbetter stood to his feet, screaming “OH SHIT!” and turned to run. But, instead of running, he scooped up the helmet he had been sitting on and covered the grenade, falling onto it with his chest, his eyes closed so tight his forehead was taunt. He screamed, “RUN, Y’ALL. RUN! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” He knew in just a few seconds he was going to be dead, but maybe he could save the others by covering the blast.

Fulmer, Mahann and Bowan were bending over with laughter, high-fiving each other. Michulski had stayed back. It only took a few seconds after he heard the laughter for Ledbetter to realize he had once again been had. He started crying,

“Shit! Shit! Shit! I did it again. I fell for it again,” he said, both fists pounding the ground in front of him. But, suddenly it was quiet. The laughing had ceased.

Fulmer began to grasp what he just witnessed. This man who had been the patsy in so many of his pranks, this man whom he had harassed for two years, this fuck-up of a soldier had just jumped on top of a grenade he thought was live. In an instant, this fuck-up of a soldier had decided to give his own life to try to save the lives of others. It was silent now. No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity. Ledbetter was still on the ground when Fulmer spoke in a quiet, subdued voice,

“Come on, man, it was just a joke. Get up. Come on.”

“Yeah, come on, Ledbetter, get up. We were only kidding,” Mahann and Bowen said, almost in unison. Michulski felt sick. The depth of what they had just witnessed took time to settle in to each of them. Hardly a word was spoken by anyone for the rest of the training day. Fulmer walked about fifty yards ahead of the rest, his head down as if in deep thought. He wondered if Ledbetter would finally go to the Lieutenant. Somehow, he wished he would. The guilt which would last for a long, long time was already setting in. But, Ledbetter didn’t go to the lieutenant. Ledbetter seemed to be the only one who did not think about heroics. To him, he had just fallen for another one of Fulmer’s pranks.  In time. he would get over this one, too.

When the soldiers in Fulmer’s platoon started talking back at the barracks, it didn’t take long before the story of what Ledbelly the fuck-up had done spread throughout the 1200th. On Saturday morning, the mess hall for the final breakfast before the unit went home was already full of soldiers when Horace Ledbetter walked in. He got in the chow line and noticed how eerily quiet it was. When he had filled his tray, he walked toward the tables and there wasn’t an open seat anywhere. He had decided to wait for a free seat, as he had to do many times before. Within seconds, a soldier he didn’t even know stood up, looked at Ledbetter and said,

“I’m finished, Horace. Have a seat here.” Nervously, he walked over and sat down, noticing that the soldier leaving his seat still had a tray full of food. It remained quiet for the whole meal and Ledbetter could sense the others looking at him now and then. Three tables away, he saw Fulmer and the others occasionally looking at him, as well, but when he would return the look, their heads would immediately turn down to look at their food. But, the fact was, none of the soldiers from 1200th would ever look at him the same way again.

At three in the afternoon, the soldiers of the 1200th Quartermaster Corps we all gathered outside the barracks waiting for the buses to arrive to load their gear for the trip home. When Ledbetter’s assigned bus arrived, Horace loaded his gear in the under belly and said so long to a couple of the other soldiers and started to board the bus. In the distance he could see Sergeant David Fulmer running toward him. Oh no, he thought, doesn’t this guy ever let up?

“Horace, wait before you get on…wait!” Fulmer yelled. Ledbetter started to just continue getting on the bus, but decided to wait for Fulmer.

Lightly panting from the run, Fulmer looked up at Ledbetter and said,“Horace, I…..well, I….well, I just wanted to…..never mind. I’ll see you at drill next month. Have a good trip.” Ledbetter just nodded his head and got on the bus.

The trip back to Whitford takes about five hours. He thought about the misery he had gone through for the last two weeks. He still wasn’t sure why, but somehow he knew that life in the National Guard was going to be better from now on.

Sharon is 22 years younger than I and I have always felt that being with a younger woman had kept me physically and mentally vibrant.  We both have careers in the jewelery business, her with a large company and me with a local independent store.  Life is busy and fast paced.  I  never contemplated the idea that Sharon is still in her child bearing years.  I knew she wanted children, but she seemed to be slowly resigning  that it was never going to happen since I was so much older.  Then, in the first week of March (I don’t remember the exact day), as I was making the morning coffee, she walked over to me and handed me a small tubular plastic item.  It was a pregnancy test. Positive.  She wasn’t showing any expression at all, but I could sense the hope and excitement she was feeling.  It took me a few minutes to come to grips with just what this meant.  We are going to be parents.  Sharon is going to have the child she always wanted.  Twenty-three years after the birth of my youngest son (from a previous marriage) I was again going to be a dad.

During the first few days after learning that I was going to be a dad, I didn’t think at all about how old I was.  I suppose I had just the typical thoughts that any man would.   I felt apprehensive and excited all at the same time.  But, shortly thereafter, I began to have doubts about how I would cope at my age.  A baby?!  Are you kidding?  I’m 60 years old.  I can’t be a new father.  I should be experiencing grandfatherhood, not fatherhood.  No matter how many times I rationalized all the reasons why this shouldn’t be happening, the fact remained it IS happening.  Then it dawned on me like the sun coming from behind a cloud.  This is one of life’s great adventures.  For whatever reason, I have once again been chosen to be a dad.  The hell with worrying about my age.  I’m going to be a dad again!  Now, as everyday passes and we get closer to our due date in December. I get a few more butterflies in my stomach with anticipation.  I suppose by the time the day comes the butterflies will turn into helicoptors!

Whatever apprehensions I have had, they all evaporated the day we went for our first scan.  As I sat there in the chair staring at the flickering black and white screen, I marveled and was overwhelmed.  I tried very hard not to let anyone see the tear streaming dowm my cheek.  My baby, my child.  It was almost too much.  I hadn’t experienced those things in so long I had forgotten what it felt like.  I was bursting with love for a child I had not even met yet.
At the next scan, we learned that we are having a little girl.  My first daughter.  I have three sons (all grown up now), but the idea of having a daughter now, at this stage of my life, seems fantastical.  Now, I am going to have a precious little girl.  Besides the usual anxiety about hoping your baby is healthy, a whole new set of fears set.in.

Since our two scans (which thankfully have indicated a totally normal pregnancy thus far), my mind has been preoccupied with thoughts about how our little girl will grow up.  Will she be embarrased by having such an old dad when she brings her friends over?  Will I still be physically able to do the outdoor things children love to do?  When someone mistakes me for “Grandad” (as they inevitably will), is she going to be disappointed that I am not younger?  Will she compare me to her friends’ younger fathers and be sad that her dad isn’t like them?  Will I ever become a burden to her in her young adult years (which would be terribly unfair?)   I can’t seem to help thinking about these things.

There are some things, however, that I can give her now that I could not have given her in my younger years.  While we are not totally money independent, we are much more financially sound than many younger families are.   With the wisdom of age, I am much more tolerant of the things that once were a source of anxiety,   The long sessions of uncontrollable crying that babies sometimes have do not worry me, as they did when my sons were infants.  I am no longer trying to climb the career ladder that used to cost so much of the time I can now give to her.  I now have the invaluable gift of patience, which will allow me to teach what I have learned in 60 years of life at her pace, not mine.  But, more than anything else, she is being born to parents who already love her and want her more than anything the world has to offer.

It is said that our children do not belong to we parents, they are only on loan to us for a short while; entrusted to us to give them the best start in their own lives that we can.  We will love them and worry about them all of our lives, but we cannot keep them.  They must eventually find their own way.  Eventually, they, too, may be loaned a child to love and give their wisdom to.   I suppose that I have always known this.  It’s just that it has taken me 60 years to finally understand.

To my three sons, men now, making their way through life, I love you more than I ever thought possible.  To my yet unborn daughter, may I be the dad you want and need.

FICO has found that it takes up to three years to repair your damaged credit score after foreclosure to a mediocre score of 680, and more than double that time to get back to a near perfect 780. Bankruptcy, though some debt is is eliminated, takes even longer to fully recover from, as it remains a negative event on your credit score for up to ten years.

There are also residual difficulties which can effect your day to day life after such a pounding on your credit score. Many jobs are out of reach or even lost if your credit history is bad, particularly in the financial and security industries. It can sometimes be difficult to rent, as many rental agencies use credit scores as a selection criteria. Banks can reduce credit card limits or even cancel your card altogether after a credit check. Even if you are able to secure a loan or other account, the interest rate is considerably higher for a customer with a poor credit score. But, the most damaging aspect of financial strain is the toll it takes on your emotions and relationships.

I recently read the story of a couple who had received a 100% mortgage on a property. Within just a couple of months it was obvious they could not afford the payments. In desperate attempts to keep up with the mortgage, other obligations became delinquent. The strain that this stress put on their relationship became so bad that by the time foreclosure ultimately occurred, divorce followed shortly after.

While the effects of foreclosure and bankruptcy will wreak havoc with your life, you CAN recover from it. Lending institutions have guidelines which they follow regarding time frames for lending after a foreclosure or bankruptcy and, though it can take years to recover, you can repair and restore your credit score. However, the key to saving yourself from the long term anguish is to avoid foreclosure if at all possible.

 There was a time when choosing an engagement ring was a task that a young man would take upon himself, and the gift of the ring was part of the ritual of asking her to marry you. Nowadays, it is common that the search for the engagement ring is a joint venture making the final choice together. This change in the tradition of offering her a ring at the same time as the proposal has had both positive and negative effects on the experience. When the engagement ring choice is made solely by the groom with no input from the bride, he is able to consider his finances privately without the pressure of finding that he cannot afford the one she has fallen in love with. On the other hand, you run the risk of presenting her with a ring that she might not like and she may not reveal this to you.. Whether you are planning to surprise her with a ring or to choose it together, it is wise to discuss the subject of your engagement ring with your partner before you start visiting the jewelery stores. You should be open and frank about what you can afford and she will be able to tell you if she has a particular style or design in mind. I have seen many couples experience frustration and disappointment when she chooses a ring that he cannot afford, or he has chosen a design on his own which she wants to exchange. The experience of purchasing your engagement ring can a joyous occasion if there are no surprises.

 When you are ready to start looking for your engagement ring in earnest, whether searching together or on your own, there are some common myths about buying an engagement ring that should be dispelled. These myths evolved because of intensive marketing by the jewelery industry and traditional erroneous assumptions. Lets deal with some of these myths right now.

 MYTH NUMBER ONE: YOU MUST SPEND AT LEAST TWO MONTHS SALARY.

Many years ago, the De Beers marketing group created a very effective advertising campaign which suggested two months salary is the appropriate amount to spend on your diamond engagement ring. This campaign was so effective I still have clients tell me that is the amount they feel like they MUST spend, twenty-five years after this marketing campaign ended. The truth is, there is no minimum or maximum amount that you must spend to get just the right ring for you and your partner. Set a comfortable price range for yourself that will not put unnecessary strain on your other finances. The amount you can afford may or may not represent two months salary, but there is certainly no rule that you must spend a pre-determined percentage of your salary.

MYTH NUMBER TWO: A RING MUST BE EXPENSIVE TO BE TRULY BEAUTIFUL.

Award winning ring designers never win accolades solely because their designs are high priced. Some may indeed be very expensive, but many modestly priced rings have won design awards. Look at rings that appeal to you for the beauty that YOU see in them, regardless of price. If your choice is indeed too expensive, there are usually alternatives with the same design features in much lower price ranges. Many times you can find the same exact designs with slightly smaller stones, or with a less expensive choice in the ring metal; white gold, for example, instead of platinum.

MYTH NUMBER THREE: YOU SHOULD BUY THE LARGEST DIAMOND YOU CAN AFFORD.

The 1950′s hit song “Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend” celebrates the passion women have for this precious stone, but the words to this song never say that only large diamonds are a girls best friend. The fact is, diamonds are graded for quality characteristics, such as internal clarity, body color and the precision of the cut and proportions. A diamond of very high quality can cost just as much as a much larger diamond of lower quality. For this reason, you should understand the quality of the diamond you are purchasing, and, if possible, choose a diamond that is accompanied by a grading certificate. Regardless of size, choose the highest quality diamond that fits into your price range.

MYTH NUMBER FOUR: ONLY A DIAMOND RING IS A PROPER ENGAGEMENT RING.

Don’t tell this to Prince William and Kate! The sapphire ring worn by Kate Middleton (and formerly worn by Princess Diana) is currently the most well known engagement ring in the world. While it is true that the diamond solitaire ring is the most popular engagement in western cultures, ANY ring can be used as an engagement ring. I have known couples to use many different gemstones and styles of rings as an engagement ring. An engagement ring is a symbol of your commitment to each other. Feel free to go against the grain and choose anything you like.

MYTH NUMBER FIVE: THERE IS NO NEED TO THINK ABOUT THE WEDDING BAND YOU WILL BE WEARING WHEN LOOKING FOR YOUR ENGAGEMENT RING.

Matched wedding sets (where the engagement ring and wedding band are manufactured as a matching set) are popular in the United States and there are literally hundreds of different designs to choose from. Matched sets are not nearly as popular in the United Kingdom, though they can be found. When you opt for a matched set, the decision on what wedding band you will wear is made for you. However, if you are not choosing a matched set, then you should be aware while you are making your decision about an engagement ring, you will at some point need a wedding band. Because virtually any ring can serve as your engagement ring, not all rings will fit flush and snugly against a plain wedding bad. Does your engagement have a lot of curves and protrusions along the sides? Does the center stone extend outward wider than the ring shank? Once you have chosen your engagement ring, try several wedding bands of your liking with it. Do they fit snugly or is there a gap between the two rings? Most solitaire rings (a conventional ring with only one center stone) will usually fit nicely next to most plain wedding bands. Even if you do choose a ring that does not fit flush with a plain band, many jewelers offer a design service whereby they will custom make your band to fit like a puzzle next to any ring you choose. Considering your wedding band while looking for engagement ring might save you a lot of frustration later.

 By taking your time, having open discussions with your partner and doing a little research, you will enjoy the experience of buying your engagement ring. After all, she will treasure her engagement ring for the rest of her life; it is the most important item of jewelery you will ever buy.

The passing score for this examination was 60. My score: 65, passing, but barely. What? There must be something wrong, the test scoring system was flawed……something. How could I have not scored better? I began to have doubts about the internationalization of my English that I thought I had achieved. I began to reflect on the day I first arrived in Britain over eleven years ago.

Standing by the luggage ramp at Birmingham International Airport, I remember looking around and thinking how familiar everything looked. What did I expect to see? This was England. A foreign country. Why did everything l saw look so much like any medium sized airport in the States? I suppose deep in my imagination I thought it should look and feel like the England I had pictured as young boy: Royal Guards in red coats with those huge woolly hats marching in formation, pictures of the Queen everywhere, Beatles music piped in through loud speakers and all the men would be wearing derby hats and carrying umbrellas. But, there was none of what my juvenile mind had conjured up and it was just one more dirty and crowded airport. I didn’t speak to anyone inside the airport, apart from the customs officer who stamped my passport.

When I left the terminal to look for the taxi stands it was pouring rain (I quickly learned that this was a weather feature in England that I had better get used to.). I approached the first cab in the line.

“Can you take me to Great Barr?”

” ‘ello, mate. ‘ course I can. I’ll put your bags in the boot. In the back with you, then.” I had thought that I might have asked a stupid question when he replied “of course I can,” but soon realized that this was the British equivalent of “sure I can” and I would hear it a lot when when asking questions in stores and restaurants.

I got in the back seat while he loaded my luggage. He was large man with a gray beard and I could notice several missing teeth when he smiled. He mumbled something about the distance to my destination as we drove off. For the first mile or so, there was silence. Then he spoke with a question,

“Not from ‘ollywood are ya?”

What an odd question, I thought.

“No. I’m from the state of Alabama.”

“Ah, I see.” I could tell he didn’t want to reveal that he didn’t have a clue where Alabama was located. As I was to learn, most Brits are very much like their American counterparts when it comes to their knowledge of the geography of each other’s country. To many Brits, America consists of New York City, Florida, California and maybe Texas. To many Americans, England only has one city, London. Any mention of Newbury, Basingstoke, Southampton or most any other smaller British city, and you may draw a blank look from many Americans. If you try to explain to the average Brit what Baton Rouge, Biloxi, Montgomery or Mobile is like, their correlation to location is likely to draw a similar look.

The cab ride to the house I would be staying at in Great Barr (a somewhat run down division of Birmingham) took about thirty minutes. The driver chatted away to me for most of the journey and I realized when we arrived at my destination that I had understood only about half of what he had said. He must have thought that I was a lot more reserved than most of the Americans he had carried from the airport because I had hardly said a word, except for an occasional forced giggle or just “yep.” I had no idea at this point that over the next few months I would hear many different accents and variations of the dialect in a country that encompassed about the same square miles as my home state of Alabama, throughout which one will hear a single accent.

The job that had brought me to England required travel throughout the entire island of Great Britain, setting up promotional programs in retail shops for two large chain store companies. There were two British consultants working with me to aid in this project. These two individuals (one man and one woman) also introduced me to the social side of Britain, and after a day or so of jet lag recovery, I visited my first British pub with them. Stewart was from Somerset, and Joanne was from London. These two people had completely different accents to the cab driver I had met, and still slightly different from each other. But, what I did notice immediately was that I clearly understood every word from both Stewart and Joanne.

“I was a little worried about being here,” I remember saying to Joanne,

“Why?”, she asked.

“Well, the cab driver who drove me from the airport spoke in an accent that I barely understood, and I was worried that I would not be able to communicate.”

She and Stewart both laughed. “Don’t worry about that. They speak with a “Brummy” accent here. I doubt if they even understand each other! ”

I felt a little better to learn that this was the only place in Britain they spoke with this accent. Everyone in the rest of the country would be easy to communicate with. This is just one of many wrong assumptions I made about being a “Yank” making his way through Britain. It isn’t just the accents that vary in Britain, it is also the diction, parlance and jargon that you’ll find throughout the country.

Slang and jargon is a large part of any local language. I wasn’t prepared for just how unfamiliar I was with the English jargon, but sitting there in that pub I learned quite a few of their common quips, and they a learned a few American ones. When I remarked that I was going to the rest-room, Stewart said, “I don’t know how much rest you will get, mate, smells a bit manky in there.” And, a little while later, when Stewart said he need to go to the toilet to “spend a penny”, I could only think of a very cheap condom machine. My look of dismay must have been apparent when the very masculine Stewart said he was to going step outside to have a “fag”. I had even more doubts about Stewart when something I said surprised him and he exclaimed, “blow me!” Any Brit reading this will know right way that a “fag” is a cigarette and “blow me” is simply short for “blow me down.” Stewart, by the way, is quite heterosexual.

It isn’t just slang that creates confusion between the American and British dialects of English. Sometimes it is just the words used in everyday life that cause us Americans to cringe. I was walking on the High Street in Newcastle on my first trip there and saw a chalk board advertising the lunch menu at a pub. “We serve faggots.” Holy cow! Did I read that right? Were they being downright mean or were they trying show how tolerant they were? At a small bakery across the street they were selling “Fairy Cakes” and “Spotted Dick.” I needed to get out of Newcastle fast!

Early on, when I had referred to my derrière as my butt, I was advised that it is called a “bum” in Britain. OK, so where do my cigarette bums go? And, you would probably be seen as a little odd if you told a Brit you like girls with nice hooters. Do Yanks really pay that much attention to a girl’s nose? When I bought my first car in Britain, I was asked if I was a member of AA. I don’t even drink, why the hell would I need the AA? When a minor accident dented my fender, the garage I called told me they don’t repair guitars. Do you mean the wing? No, it’s my car, not my bird! Did your boot get damaged in the accident? No, my shoes are fine, but there is a small dent on the trunk of my car. Is your bonnet OK? I don’t wear one, but the hood of my car also has a small scratch.

Sometimes, even words that mean the same thing and are spelled the same sound so different when spoken. Usually, this is simply because the stress or accent is on a different syllable of the same word. MARgerine and MargerINE, adverTISEment and adVERTisement, URineand urINE and many, many others. An American new to Britain may have to listen closely to understand exactly what is said. Be aware, the Brits are fierce about protecting their pronunciations against any foreign variations.

Top tip: never correct a British speaker about their pronunciation with the American version.

A British colleague once said in a conversation, “There is a lot of conTROVersy about it.” Sadly for me, I said “Did you mean CONtroversy?” After a long lecture about my tax dodging ancestors, I got out with my teeth intact.

To make communication even more difficult for an American new to Britain, there are regional accents which can sound dramatically different to one another. I have already mentioned the “Brummy” accent, but there are also “Scousers” (Liverpool), Jordies (Newcastle), Mancunians (Manchester), “Cockneys” (a small area of London) and Estuary (parts of London, Kent and Sussex). All of these accents have their own idiosyncrasies and local jargon. When the movie “Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels” played in some US cities, there were actually sub-titles shown so the American audience could understand the dialogue. Imagine that: a movie filmed in the English language and shown to English speakers requiring English sub-titles. Well, now we know that not all Brits sound like Colin Firth.

As I sum up this article, I am reminded that after nearly twelve years of living and working (and now married to a beautiful and wonderful English lady) in Britain, I have “absorbed” the British dialect into my communicative life. I no longer marvel at the number of different accents in such a small country. I am sure that, while I can’t think of any right now, I will have picked up some of the local lingo in my everyday conversation (I still refuse to say “blimey”, though.) I will be American for the rest of my life and I am proud of my heritage, including the way I speak and write the English language. Sometimes, in lighthearted banter about our different dialects, a British colleague will say,

“At the end of the day, we invented the language,” to which I reply,

“Yes, you did, and we Americans perfected it.” (Note: DO NOT make this comment in a serious conversation unless you are prepared for a third British-American war)

My respect for the way the Brits protect their dialect grows every year I live here. Even as everyday of their lives they are inundated with American English through television, movies and the internet, the British try to steadfastly hold on to their claim to the language. This is probably why I did not score as well on this test as I had thought I would. The British dialect is now part of my environment, just the like the weather and the crappy public transportation. How well would you do if you had to arbitrarily dissect something you experience everyday?

Well, ‘ere ’tis, Guv. Cheers Mate!

WECLOME

Bob