This is the story of me being called
“Charlie”.

I will not use his name as his descendants may not like it.
But I loved that old man.

I was forced into retirement as a truck driver in 1982. My company went broke and did away with the Teamsters Union. Bearing in mind that is 1982 I was 54 years old. Further I never claimed to be smart. But if you beat this old boy over the head you can get my attention. It didn't take a lot of licks to the noggin before I figured out you can't live in Northern Illinois on a small pension and not old enough to draw Social Security.

Also not having enough education to get another “decent” paying job driving truck I started a “Handyman” business.

Now really this isn't as dumb as it sounds. Most of the people around my area of Illinois had know me for years and knew that I always did a good job. This is where I met my friend.

This very special friend was born December 30, 1899. To quote him “He was two days older than the 20th Century”.

He and his descendnts ran an import machinery business, where the machinery came from Germany in good well built wooden crates. These made great storage sheds and my friend and I started selling, delivering and setting them up.

So with the sheds and my experience in the Navy as a paint chipper, deck scrubber and head cleaner I was making a pretty good living. This continued for 10 years until my friend got Alzheimer's. His lovely wife who was a whole year younger than him tried so hard to take care of him, but couldn't handle him. So she had to put in the V.A. Home in Mantino, Illinois.

I went to visit him as regular as possible. But we had to move to Kentucky to tale care of my Mother through he bout with lung cancer. I would go to see my friend every time we went to Illinois.

Once when I walked into the “Day room” where he was, he broke out with a big smile and I honestly thought he had recognized me. WRONG! He grabbed my hand and shook it and started introducing me to other WW1 vets at the table.

He introduced me as “Cabbage Charlie” and proceeded to tell the people in the room about our service together in France in1917 and how we were so hungry and how much Cabbage I could eat.

I spent the rest of the day with him and his friends.

Before I left one of his sons came to see him and asked me if I did serve with his Dad in France. His son is 3 years older than me and his Dad had been home from France 10 years before I was born.

The last time I saw my friend he was still calling me “Cabbage Charlie”.

This is the story of me being called “Charlie”.