I'm listening to From the Cradle, by Eric Clapton. I'm done with what I wanted to do today, which is to play golf. Had some good shots, lots of bad shots, and made a 35-foot par putt. I hope to do it again, Friday morning, and have an 8:48 am Tee time with Mr. Bill on Saturday. Now that I've had my back "stabbed," I'm in pretty good shape, back-wise. It's ESI Therapy, a steroid injection, near my disks at L5/S1 to shrink the disks, and take pressure off the sciatic. My doctor, Captain David Gover, RD, USAF, is a real nice person, and fun to joke with. After my first ESI Therapy, he looked at me and said, "I didn't realize you were that tall." I've been doing this long enough to know everybody in the Interventional Radiology (Angio) Clinic, nurses, techs, they take great care of me, and I appreciate them more than they'll ever know.
Anyway, the Blues...
I don't remember, exactly, when I first started listening to the Blues, probably in junior high, maybe high school. I was pretty young, though, enough so that I couldn't identify with some of the themes. I mean, c'mon, white kid, living at home, life being somewhat handed to him. I just liked the sound. I know I became a real fan in high school, getting dumped by a girl, or some of the love-themed Blues seemed to "speak" to me. I started to relate to the lyrics, and I was hooked. I realized that it's not a black/white thing; it's a living life thing. A shared common experience. Listening to BB King sing about how "[n]o body loves me but my momma, and she could be jiving, too" always seemed to make me feel that things weren't all that bad.
A few decades have passed since then, and the Blues genre is pretty popular. For me, personally, the songs have become the littany of my own experience. I've had the blues many times, but I guess that goes with depression. The music still helps me to think that things could be worse, and I move on. Now that we've officially reached Spring, we're on DST, and things are starting to warm up, I'm ready to get outside. I tell everyone that I am "solar powered," as my down-cycles mostly come in late-Fall and Winter. I've never been diagnosed with seasonal affective disorder, but I know what goes on in here, and it ain't very pretty. Between you and me, one of us is insane.
My African-American friends have all gotten a kick out of the "white boy" who digs the Blues. 'Course, I'm not much of a "boy" anymore, but I still dig the Blues. They'd bring out some obscure Blues albumn, old recordings, stuff like that, and I dug it very much.
I guess I can relate to Eric Clapton a great deal. Both of us have survived substance abuse, and we've both had to bury a child. Tears in Heaven tore me up the first time I heard it. Even my African-American friends recognize Clapton as a "Bluesman," for some it was a difficult admission, too. Eric has such a gift. Few of his songs are his "own" anymore, but he can take an old blues standard, and give it new life. The rawness of the emotions reflected in his music testify to his authenticity as a Bluesman. His story is my story, so to speak, he just had a lot more money and fame.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Thirty-Nine Years Ago...
I missed my opportunity to touch on my experience of going into the Navy on the actual anniversary. Thirty-nine years ago, however, I woke up in the Receiving and Orientation barracks, to begin my second day of confinement at the Naval Training Center, San Diego. Getting that far, however, was not uneventful.
After the phone call from the Navy Recruiter, my parents were pretty stunned. They had no idea. I had made up a "plausable" story, going to spend the night with friends after going to the Fillmore, to take a Greyhound to SF in order to take my Basic Battery Tests (GCT/ARI/Sonar/bunch of others, now called ASVAB's), to see if I qualified for professional training. I did pretty well, a combined GCT/ARI of 127, well above any minimum requirements for any of the schools. I chose DP, Data Processing Technician, and was guaranteed to attend the Class "A" School after Boot Camp.
Now that the word was out, so to speak, I think my dad was very pleased, perhaps a bit proud, but he would never actually tell me. Mom was worried, probably for a good reason, as she had been a Navy Wife for a long time, and knew what sailors went through. There was also, on her side, a genetic link to alcoholism, and she knew I had been drinking for a while, already. They took me to the Induction Center, witnessed my swearing-in (actually my second), and spent some time hanging out with me until the bus to the airport came. They actually went to the Oakland Airport, and hung out with me until the plane boarded. This did a lot for my "reputation" going in. Most everyone else was alone.
We got on a PSA 727 bound from Oakland, direct to San Diego. I had a gym-bag, and a hefty envelope containing all of my paperwork. Taped to the front were my orders, identifying me as D82-31-8274, my Service number. We were all told not to order alcoholic beverages during the flight, so I drank a cola; the flight took about an hour.
When we arrived at Lindberg Field, we were met by a Navy/Marine Corps Recruit Liason, who shouted a lot, and got us in three lines, standing at Parade Rest, baggage and records between our feet. There were a total of 110 of us, 14 Marines, and 96 Navy. The bus to NTC had a capacity of 90, and I watched everyone, including the guy next to me, get on the bus. I was 91. "Great," I thought, "now we have to wait for the bus to go back, unload, and come back." It was my first day, what the heck did I know.
The Navy driver, upon reaching his limit, went in to tell the Recruit Liason that there were still six Navy recruits left. While he was inside, the MCRD bus came, a smaller, 30-passenger, Marine OD green stopped. The driver was loading his 14 recruits as the Recruit Liason, a Navy CPO, burst through the doors, screaming profanities at everyone, but no one in particular. He got on the Navy bus, looked around, and got off; got back on, then off again, swearing like a Mule Skinner, and stomped off to the MCRD bus. Noticing that the MCRD bus was only half full, he approached the Corporal-driver, and a short, but angry discussion ensued. When it was over, the Corporal got on the bus, moved all the Marine Recruits to the front of the bus, giving the last two rows of seats to the six Navy-guys. "This ain't gonna work," the Corporal kept muttering. When we were all situated, he told us to stay in our seats, no matter what happened at MCRD, and he would drive us to NTC.
The drive was quiet-ish, some general conversation, getting to know one's fellow recruit, stuff like that. As we pulled in to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, things got real quiet as we entered the gate, and pulled up to the main building. A Drill Instructor, complete with his "Smokey the Bear" hat waited patiently for the bus to stop. As soon as the door opened, the largest, meanest, angriest black man I have ever seen leaped onto the bus, put his hand on his hips (effectively blocking the forward exit), and started screaming. "Maggots, you got ten seconds, and ten seconds only to get off this bus, and get on those yellow footprints outside; we've already used up five, and you won't touch me on the way out, now MOVE!"
Fourteen Marine Recruits got busy throwing things out the windows, going out the emergency exits, and otherwise getting out of this man's immediate vicinity. It was Marx Brothers, Keystone Kops, and Three Stooges, all at once, live. It struck me as funny, and I laughed, attracting the attention of the DI. "What the [explicative] is your problem [explicative]?" The Corporal tugged on the DI's trouser-leg, and told him we were headed for NTC. A look of hatred passed across the DI's face, "Pussies!" He yelled, exiting the bus. Our journey continued not a moment too soon.
The short ride between MCRD and NTC was very, very quiet. I looked around at the other guys, and they all had the same look on their faces, "What have I done?" After the experience with the Marine DI, none of us knew what to expect when we reached our destination. I worked on steeling myself up for a repeat performance, a badass shouting orders. For the second time, as a newly-enlisted Navy recruit, I was wrong.
I swear, the man who got on the bus was Wally Cox. Looked like him, sounded like him, I almost laughed when he said, "OK you guys, they have already started a session, you need to wait out here, and you can smoke if you want, until they come to get you." Getting off the bus, I noticed a guy in dungarees, folded up once, at the bottom, wearing a white helmet, and deck shoes. He was walking around the compound, going from floor-to-floor, and he looked like he was in some kind of pain. Some of my previous doubts returned.
It was all pretty smooth. We went in, took everything out of our pockets, dumped any baggage into a box, kept our razors and shaving cream, sealed it all up, and mailed it to our home address. Relieved of any possible contraband, we were handed linens, pillows, and blankets, and led to a second-story barracks room. We were directed to remove any facial hair, including sideburns, up to the tops of our ears, immediately after we claimed, and made, a bunk. It was after "Taps," but the room was a-buzz with noise, as we shaved, and prepared ourselves for a sleepless night.
Crash! "Get the [explicative] up!
It was the loudest sound I'd ever heard (OK, up to this point). Up? I was half-way dressed before the trash can stopped bouncing down the "centerboard". Up? I had slept maybe an hour, the image of that poor guy in the white helmet had me worried. Up? I'm scared out of my wits, and you come in bouncing a trashcan through the middle of the room, screaming your lungs out, and expect me not to be up? That was March 16, 1971.
Thirty-nine years ago, today, the wake-up was much less dramatic.
After the phone call from the Navy Recruiter, my parents were pretty stunned. They had no idea. I had made up a "plausable" story, going to spend the night with friends after going to the Fillmore, to take a Greyhound to SF in order to take my Basic Battery Tests (GCT/ARI/Sonar/bunch of others, now called ASVAB's), to see if I qualified for professional training. I did pretty well, a combined GCT/ARI of 127, well above any minimum requirements for any of the schools. I chose DP, Data Processing Technician, and was guaranteed to attend the Class "A" School after Boot Camp.
Now that the word was out, so to speak, I think my dad was very pleased, perhaps a bit proud, but he would never actually tell me. Mom was worried, probably for a good reason, as she had been a Navy Wife for a long time, and knew what sailors went through. There was also, on her side, a genetic link to alcoholism, and she knew I had been drinking for a while, already. They took me to the Induction Center, witnessed my swearing-in (actually my second), and spent some time hanging out with me until the bus to the airport came. They actually went to the Oakland Airport, and hung out with me until the plane boarded. This did a lot for my "reputation" going in. Most everyone else was alone.
We got on a PSA 727 bound from Oakland, direct to San Diego. I had a gym-bag, and a hefty envelope containing all of my paperwork. Taped to the front were my orders, identifying me as D82-31-8274, my Service number. We were all told not to order alcoholic beverages during the flight, so I drank a cola; the flight took about an hour.
When we arrived at Lindberg Field, we were met by a Navy/Marine Corps Recruit Liason, who shouted a lot, and got us in three lines, standing at Parade Rest, baggage and records between our feet. There were a total of 110 of us, 14 Marines, and 96 Navy. The bus to NTC had a capacity of 90, and I watched everyone, including the guy next to me, get on the bus. I was 91. "Great," I thought, "now we have to wait for the bus to go back, unload, and come back." It was my first day, what the heck did I know.
The Navy driver, upon reaching his limit, went in to tell the Recruit Liason that there were still six Navy recruits left. While he was inside, the MCRD bus came, a smaller, 30-passenger, Marine OD green stopped. The driver was loading his 14 recruits as the Recruit Liason, a Navy CPO, burst through the doors, screaming profanities at everyone, but no one in particular. He got on the Navy bus, looked around, and got off; got back on, then off again, swearing like a Mule Skinner, and stomped off to the MCRD bus. Noticing that the MCRD bus was only half full, he approached the Corporal-driver, and a short, but angry discussion ensued. When it was over, the Corporal got on the bus, moved all the Marine Recruits to the front of the bus, giving the last two rows of seats to the six Navy-guys. "This ain't gonna work," the Corporal kept muttering. When we were all situated, he told us to stay in our seats, no matter what happened at MCRD, and he would drive us to NTC.
The drive was quiet-ish, some general conversation, getting to know one's fellow recruit, stuff like that. As we pulled in to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, things got real quiet as we entered the gate, and pulled up to the main building. A Drill Instructor, complete with his "Smokey the Bear" hat waited patiently for the bus to stop. As soon as the door opened, the largest, meanest, angriest black man I have ever seen leaped onto the bus, put his hand on his hips (effectively blocking the forward exit), and started screaming. "Maggots, you got ten seconds, and ten seconds only to get off this bus, and get on those yellow footprints outside; we've already used up five, and you won't touch me on the way out, now MOVE!"
Fourteen Marine Recruits got busy throwing things out the windows, going out the emergency exits, and otherwise getting out of this man's immediate vicinity. It was Marx Brothers, Keystone Kops, and Three Stooges, all at once, live. It struck me as funny, and I laughed, attracting the attention of the DI. "What the [explicative] is your problem [explicative]?" The Corporal tugged on the DI's trouser-leg, and told him we were headed for NTC. A look of hatred passed across the DI's face, "Pussies!" He yelled, exiting the bus. Our journey continued not a moment too soon.
The short ride between MCRD and NTC was very, very quiet. I looked around at the other guys, and they all had the same look on their faces, "What have I done?" After the experience with the Marine DI, none of us knew what to expect when we reached our destination. I worked on steeling myself up for a repeat performance, a badass shouting orders. For the second time, as a newly-enlisted Navy recruit, I was wrong.
I swear, the man who got on the bus was Wally Cox. Looked like him, sounded like him, I almost laughed when he said, "OK you guys, they have already started a session, you need to wait out here, and you can smoke if you want, until they come to get you." Getting off the bus, I noticed a guy in dungarees, folded up once, at the bottom, wearing a white helmet, and deck shoes. He was walking around the compound, going from floor-to-floor, and he looked like he was in some kind of pain. Some of my previous doubts returned.
It was all pretty smooth. We went in, took everything out of our pockets, dumped any baggage into a box, kept our razors and shaving cream, sealed it all up, and mailed it to our home address. Relieved of any possible contraband, we were handed linens, pillows, and blankets, and led to a second-story barracks room. We were directed to remove any facial hair, including sideburns, up to the tops of our ears, immediately after we claimed, and made, a bunk. It was after "Taps," but the room was a-buzz with noise, as we shaved, and prepared ourselves for a sleepless night.
Crash! "Get the [explicative] up!
It was the loudest sound I'd ever heard (OK, up to this point). Up? I was half-way dressed before the trash can stopped bouncing down the "centerboard". Up? I had slept maybe an hour, the image of that poor guy in the white helmet had me worried. Up? I'm scared out of my wits, and you come in bouncing a trashcan through the middle of the room, screaming your lungs out, and expect me not to be up? That was March 16, 1971.
Thirty-nine years ago, today, the wake-up was much less dramatic.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Some Blasts From the Past
Just made contact with an old Shipmate, and an old classmate, in the past two days. As much as I gripe about technology, it is great. Angelo Olivo (such a nice Irish name) was a DP1 when I first met him at FCTCP, one of the LHA Training Instructors of Code 37/337. John Vasquez and I used to wrestle for Vaca High, and graduated in 1969.
Thinking about Angelo, takes me back a ways, 1974 to be exact. I was a DP2, on his second tour. Angelo probably remembers the stupid things I did, and I know he probably laughs, but Angelo taught me a very good, and long-remembered lesson. I arrived at FCTCP in November of '74, right in the middle of the NFL season. Angelo was a NY Giants fan, his desk modestly adorned with Giants paraphernalia; I was a Raider fan (have been ever since the Raiders came into being). What I remember most about Angelo was his pride in being from New York. On the few occassions when he'd tell me about his "home," even he would admit that it "sucked," but it was his home, born and raised. When I looked back on my own "home," I really didn't have any strong attachments to any place in particular. I had lived in Vallejo the longest, but I was actually glad to leave that city for Vacaville.
Angelo, "Smitty," Master Chief Sam, LT Losli, Frank, Marty Cluck, Tom, and a few others, were Code 37. It was a pretty loose organization, our assignment was to learn ITAWDS, and the applications of an AN/UYK-7 computer. From the designer's training, we were to develop a series of instruction by which to train subsequent users. "What Litton handed us," Gerry Losli used to say, "was a burning bag of [explicative], and we were barefoot."
It was a great environment to hone my alcoholic tendencies. Everybody drank. Beer at lunch; beer after work; beer at the bowling alley... you see where I'm going here? I got my first DUI. Paid a $127 fine, and two-points on my license. Got stopped a second time, three years later, but charges were dismissed. Yeah, it was pretty loose.
John Vasquez, excuse me, Supervisor Vasquez, is an old friend, and foe. In our Junior year at Vaca High, John and I competed in the same weight-class, 127 pounds (been a long time since those days, eh Johnny?). I was pretty good, John was a little better. One-on-one, John usually came out on top, but he never pinned me. Oh, I got my share of chances at Varsity matches, but I'm sure that was mostly Larry Nelson's doing.
John taught me about family, early in my life. The Vasquez family was always involved in the community, even to the extent that they entered a "mounted-unit" in local parades. The Vasquez's seemed to be related to everone, either through marriage, or business. I once attended a Cinco de Mayo celebration at El Rancho Vasquez, when the family held the property between the Coffee Tree and the overpass to Nut Tree Road from Monte Vista. There's no trace of the place, anymore, it's all shopping centers. Even the Coffee Tree is gone, in favor of an Olive Garden. I ask you, Mr. Supervisor, don't you have the least bit of sorrow over the fate of your old homestead?
Thinking about Angelo, takes me back a ways, 1974 to be exact. I was a DP2, on his second tour. Angelo probably remembers the stupid things I did, and I know he probably laughs, but Angelo taught me a very good, and long-remembered lesson. I arrived at FCTCP in November of '74, right in the middle of the NFL season. Angelo was a NY Giants fan, his desk modestly adorned with Giants paraphernalia; I was a Raider fan (have been ever since the Raiders came into being). What I remember most about Angelo was his pride in being from New York. On the few occassions when he'd tell me about his "home," even he would admit that it "sucked," but it was his home, born and raised. When I looked back on my own "home," I really didn't have any strong attachments to any place in particular. I had lived in Vallejo the longest, but I was actually glad to leave that city for Vacaville.
Angelo, "Smitty," Master Chief Sam, LT Losli, Frank, Marty Cluck, Tom, and a few others, were Code 37. It was a pretty loose organization, our assignment was to learn ITAWDS, and the applications of an AN/UYK-7 computer. From the designer's training, we were to develop a series of instruction by which to train subsequent users. "What Litton handed us," Gerry Losli used to say, "was a burning bag of [explicative], and we were barefoot."
It was a great environment to hone my alcoholic tendencies. Everybody drank. Beer at lunch; beer after work; beer at the bowling alley... you see where I'm going here? I got my first DUI. Paid a $127 fine, and two-points on my license. Got stopped a second time, three years later, but charges were dismissed. Yeah, it was pretty loose.
John Vasquez, excuse me, Supervisor Vasquez, is an old friend, and foe. In our Junior year at Vaca High, John and I competed in the same weight-class, 127 pounds (been a long time since those days, eh Johnny?). I was pretty good, John was a little better. One-on-one, John usually came out on top, but he never pinned me. Oh, I got my share of chances at Varsity matches, but I'm sure that was mostly Larry Nelson's doing.
John taught me about family, early in my life. The Vasquez family was always involved in the community, even to the extent that they entered a "mounted-unit" in local parades. The Vasquez's seemed to be related to everone, either through marriage, or business. I once attended a Cinco de Mayo celebration at El Rancho Vasquez, when the family held the property between the Coffee Tree and the overpass to Nut Tree Road from Monte Vista. There's no trace of the place, anymore, it's all shopping centers. Even the Coffee Tree is gone, in favor of an Olive Garden. I ask you, Mr. Supervisor, don't you have the least bit of sorrow over the fate of your old homestead?
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Day My World Ended
I've never talked about this, nor have I ever written about it, either. The day my world ended was November 27, 1979. It should have been a "happy" day, Mary had just given birth to our second child, Amy Lynn Martin, but it was far too early, and Amy died. I didn't know what to do, I hadn't been prepared for anything like this to happen. The only thing I knew to do was to be the "Man," to take care of business. I thought I was doing pretty good, until a nurse approached me and asked, "What do you want to do with the remains?"
I knew I needed help, so I took my dilemma to the Navy. Fortunately, the Navy would take care of "collecting the remains," and transporting them back to Vacaville for interrment in Mary's family's plot. I put the wheels in motion, and things got done in a prompt and orderly fashion. It wasn't quite that easy, as is the case of reporting anything in the Navy. I was having trouble getting over the denial stage, but I must have had to tell the same story to fifteen different people. fifteen different times.
I was going back to the office, to collect my leave papers, and clean-up my desk, when I was approached by a woman, a civilian programmer in our office, who had recently lost her husband of 20+ years. "I know exactly how you feel." She stated simply. She didn't realize she was going to jump-start the Anger-stage. I know she meant well, but she had no more idea of how I felt than I did, and I was really confused. Unfortunately, for her, I let her have it. I dumped a load on this woman, asking how losing a husband and losing a child were, in any way, similar, and how dare she presume to know anything about how I felt. It was ugly. In time, I appologized to her, but we never became friends, or anything.
I still cannot put my finger on what I was feeling. Probably because I was drinking pretty heavily, trying to stave off the grief. I wrecked a car, drunk, and got taken in by a guy I knew. When I told him about Amy, and broke down crying on his desk, he took me home, and filed no charges. I got sued by the guy who's truck I hit, but was advised by my attorney to stall until I could get transferred, as Louisiana civil-law is only binding within state boundaries. The guy's lawyer, somehow, found out I was in San Diego, and called me on the ship. I told him, yes, I understood I had a civil judgement against me in Louisiana, but I also understood it wasn't valid in California, and to never call me again. The lawyer wasn't happy, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one.
Losing Amy was a convenient exuse for me to drink. It was a subject non grata at home, and one of the last few planks in the fence we'd built between us. At the start of 1980, Mary became obssessed with having another child, but by that time, physical relations were about our only form of communication with each other. When Cory was born, 355 days after Amy, I was relieved, another loss would have killed me. The entire pregnancy was text-book, and proceeded right along, but I was scared, the whole time, and drank to make the scary stuff go away. It didn't (Duh!).
When I finally drank my way into the Navy Alcohol Rehabilitation Center, in 1984, I dealt with a lot of issues, primarily in my relationships with people, Amy came up, and was successfully deflected. I got sober, started talking to Mary again, created new and better relationships with my kids (Jacki being born about six-months prior to ARC), and took responsibility for my alcoholism. Amy was still one of those "nagging, unfinished" issues in my life, but it was burried pretty deep.
From '84 to '89, I would, on occassion, think about Amy, and get that uneasy feeling that something had been left undone. While on deployment to Misawa, Japan, I got a letter from home, containing a picture wrapped up in a piece of stationery, upon which were warnings written to prepare myself for the picture. The photo was of Amy's permanent marker in the cemetary. That was it! That's what was left undone. Ten years worth of grief welled up in a day, my co-workers wondering if I'd lost my mind. But it was over.
All that remained, until now, was to write about it.
I knew I needed help, so I took my dilemma to the Navy. Fortunately, the Navy would take care of "collecting the remains," and transporting them back to Vacaville for interrment in Mary's family's plot. I put the wheels in motion, and things got done in a prompt and orderly fashion. It wasn't quite that easy, as is the case of reporting anything in the Navy. I was having trouble getting over the denial stage, but I must have had to tell the same story to fifteen different people. fifteen different times.
I was going back to the office, to collect my leave papers, and clean-up my desk, when I was approached by a woman, a civilian programmer in our office, who had recently lost her husband of 20+ years. "I know exactly how you feel." She stated simply. She didn't realize she was going to jump-start the Anger-stage. I know she meant well, but she had no more idea of how I felt than I did, and I was really confused. Unfortunately, for her, I let her have it. I dumped a load on this woman, asking how losing a husband and losing a child were, in any way, similar, and how dare she presume to know anything about how I felt. It was ugly. In time, I appologized to her, but we never became friends, or anything.
I still cannot put my finger on what I was feeling. Probably because I was drinking pretty heavily, trying to stave off the grief. I wrecked a car, drunk, and got taken in by a guy I knew. When I told him about Amy, and broke down crying on his desk, he took me home, and filed no charges. I got sued by the guy who's truck I hit, but was advised by my attorney to stall until I could get transferred, as Louisiana civil-law is only binding within state boundaries. The guy's lawyer, somehow, found out I was in San Diego, and called me on the ship. I told him, yes, I understood I had a civil judgement against me in Louisiana, but I also understood it wasn't valid in California, and to never call me again. The lawyer wasn't happy, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one.
Losing Amy was a convenient exuse for me to drink. It was a subject non grata at home, and one of the last few planks in the fence we'd built between us. At the start of 1980, Mary became obssessed with having another child, but by that time, physical relations were about our only form of communication with each other. When Cory was born, 355 days after Amy, I was relieved, another loss would have killed me. The entire pregnancy was text-book, and proceeded right along, but I was scared, the whole time, and drank to make the scary stuff go away. It didn't (Duh!).
When I finally drank my way into the Navy Alcohol Rehabilitation Center, in 1984, I dealt with a lot of issues, primarily in my relationships with people, Amy came up, and was successfully deflected. I got sober, started talking to Mary again, created new and better relationships with my kids (Jacki being born about six-months prior to ARC), and took responsibility for my alcoholism. Amy was still one of those "nagging, unfinished" issues in my life, but it was burried pretty deep.
From '84 to '89, I would, on occassion, think about Amy, and get that uneasy feeling that something had been left undone. While on deployment to Misawa, Japan, I got a letter from home, containing a picture wrapped up in a piece of stationery, upon which were warnings written to prepare myself for the picture. The photo was of Amy's permanent marker in the cemetary. That was it! That's what was left undone. Ten years worth of grief welled up in a day, my co-workers wondering if I'd lost my mind. But it was over.
All that remained, until now, was to write about it.
Friday, March 12, 2010
A Spiritual Moment (1)
I admit to being a spiritually-oriented kind of guy. I believe in a God, Who Lives, and who will guide me, if I am living my life in a worthy manner. I feel His Spirit, mostly in small ways, which can often be misinterpreted. A quick example:
I was sitting at a red light, at the intersection of Elmira and Leisure Town Roads, planning to take a left-turn onto Leisure Town when the light changed. When it did change, I was just about to accelerate, and a loud "DON'T MOVE!" sounded in my head. I'm telling you, I HEARD these words. Sure enough, a woman in a big, green SUV, traveling about 50 in a 40 zone, talking on a cell phone, blows right through the light, almost taking out a car turning right onto Leisure Town Road. Had I moved, I'd have been road-kill.
There have been many more occasions, sometimes little more than deep impressions, but I know that the Spirit has been a companion, when I get humble enough, upon whom I can rely. I know that, through earnest prayer, I was once given a glimpse into a future that frightened me badly.
It was 1981, I was on the pre-commissioning crew of USS McKEE (AS-41), Tyffany was 5, Cory 6 mos. Eighteen months earlier, we had lost Amy, Mary and I were no longer communicating, and we were legally-separated. She was in Vacaville, I was in Seattle, WA. I could only contact her through my mother-in-law, who, at the time, hated my guts. I was turning 30, the age, according to my generation, at which one was no longer trustworthy. I had never figured to live that long. I thought, for sure, I'd piss-off the wrong person, and be killed by that time.
I was in a "bad way". En route to divorce, I arrived in Seattle, and was immediately handed a check for $5,000, and told to find a hotel. I chose the Cosmopolitan, on 5th, right under the monorail tracks. I got a deal for $350 per week, and paid for six weeks, in advance. I was trying to wrap my mind around the idea of being divorced. I drank a lot, among other things.
On weekends, I'd walk a lot. I walked to the Kingdome, and all the way out to the shipyards in West Seattle. I walked all over downtown Seattle, saw the Pike's Place Market, the old World's Fair grounds, even out to Lake Washington. Walking gave me a chance to think. Once, while walking quite late, I happened on the grounds of the Seattle LDS Temple. It was closed, and I trespassed, but I had finally gotten humble enough to ask God "Where am I going? What will my life be like?" I was answered with darkness, although I failed to realize it at the time.
I thought, "Great, big waste of time... Nothing."
On the walk back to my hotel, I passed a house in which a party was still going at three a.m., the stereo blaring the Stone's You Can't Always Get What You Want. I remember thinking, "Yeah, even when you ask." As I passed by, the lyric, "But if you try sometime/you just might find/you get what you need," made a connection happen, and I was jolted to a stop, staring at the light-up house. I had gotten the answer I needed. I had asked what my life would be like without Mary and the kids. Nothing. DING! Hello? I got it. Now, what could I do?
Music has always been an important thing in my life. At times, certain songs seem to fit perfectly with our experiences, their lyrics becoming the poetry of our lives. At that time, Styx had released Kilroy Was Here, and the song "Don't Let It End" wouldn't get out of my head.
I called Mary's mom, received a gruff acknowledgement, and asked her to have Mary call me at a certain number, after I got off watch. Her mom grumbled something about Mary not wanting to talk to me, and how she couldn't blame her, blah, blah, blah...
"OK, since it's the only way I'm sure she will get the message, you tell her to call, or she won't get a dime from me until she does." The ploy was ruthless, but infinitely effective.
At the appointed time, the phone rang, and Mary started in on my threat to cut off her money, and I stopped her. I appologized for the threat, but I needed to talk to her, and it seemed to be the only way. "So, what do you want?" she asked.
"I want to say I'm sorry. About everything. I can't go on like this."
We reconciled in October.
It's true, you can't always get what you want. You can, however, learn to appreciate what you have.
I was sitting at a red light, at the intersection of Elmira and Leisure Town Roads, planning to take a left-turn onto Leisure Town when the light changed. When it did change, I was just about to accelerate, and a loud "DON'T MOVE!" sounded in my head. I'm telling you, I HEARD these words. Sure enough, a woman in a big, green SUV, traveling about 50 in a 40 zone, talking on a cell phone, blows right through the light, almost taking out a car turning right onto Leisure Town Road. Had I moved, I'd have been road-kill.
There have been many more occasions, sometimes little more than deep impressions, but I know that the Spirit has been a companion, when I get humble enough, upon whom I can rely. I know that, through earnest prayer, I was once given a glimpse into a future that frightened me badly.
It was 1981, I was on the pre-commissioning crew of USS McKEE (AS-41), Tyffany was 5, Cory 6 mos. Eighteen months earlier, we had lost Amy, Mary and I were no longer communicating, and we were legally-separated. She was in Vacaville, I was in Seattle, WA. I could only contact her through my mother-in-law, who, at the time, hated my guts. I was turning 30, the age, according to my generation, at which one was no longer trustworthy. I had never figured to live that long. I thought, for sure, I'd piss-off the wrong person, and be killed by that time.
I was in a "bad way". En route to divorce, I arrived in Seattle, and was immediately handed a check for $5,000, and told to find a hotel. I chose the Cosmopolitan, on 5th, right under the monorail tracks. I got a deal for $350 per week, and paid for six weeks, in advance. I was trying to wrap my mind around the idea of being divorced. I drank a lot, among other things.
On weekends, I'd walk a lot. I walked to the Kingdome, and all the way out to the shipyards in West Seattle. I walked all over downtown Seattle, saw the Pike's Place Market, the old World's Fair grounds, even out to Lake Washington. Walking gave me a chance to think. Once, while walking quite late, I happened on the grounds of the Seattle LDS Temple. It was closed, and I trespassed, but I had finally gotten humble enough to ask God "Where am I going? What will my life be like?" I was answered with darkness, although I failed to realize it at the time.
I thought, "Great, big waste of time... Nothing."
On the walk back to my hotel, I passed a house in which a party was still going at three a.m., the stereo blaring the Stone's You Can't Always Get What You Want. I remember thinking, "Yeah, even when you ask." As I passed by, the lyric, "But if you try sometime/you just might find/you get what you need," made a connection happen, and I was jolted to a stop, staring at the light-up house. I had gotten the answer I needed. I had asked what my life would be like without Mary and the kids. Nothing. DING! Hello? I got it. Now, what could I do?
Music has always been an important thing in my life. At times, certain songs seem to fit perfectly with our experiences, their lyrics becoming the poetry of our lives. At that time, Styx had released Kilroy Was Here, and the song "Don't Let It End" wouldn't get out of my head.
I called Mary's mom, received a gruff acknowledgement, and asked her to have Mary call me at a certain number, after I got off watch. Her mom grumbled something about Mary not wanting to talk to me, and how she couldn't blame her, blah, blah, blah...
"OK, since it's the only way I'm sure she will get the message, you tell her to call, or she won't get a dime from me until she does." The ploy was ruthless, but infinitely effective.
At the appointed time, the phone rang, and Mary started in on my threat to cut off her money, and I stopped her. I appologized for the threat, but I needed to talk to her, and it seemed to be the only way. "So, what do you want?" she asked.
"I want to say I'm sorry. About everything. I can't go on like this."
We reconciled in October.
It's true, you can't always get what you want. You can, however, learn to appreciate what you have.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
To My Loving Wife (1)
I have mentioned my wife, Mary, many times in my blog. She is "the love of my life," and all those other cliches, but much, much more. We've been through a whole lot, over the years, not all of it good, but we've made it to 36 years, and that is a testimony to Mary's love and loyalty. I don't quite understand how I deserve to have such a wonderful companion, best friend, and loving wife, but I thank God for her every day.
The first time I saw Mary Christine Gardner was in Home Room, my sophomore year, in 1966. Don't get me wrong, but she really wasn't much to look at back then. She had a Page Boy haircut, and these rectangular-shaped, black plastic-framed glasses. She was, actually, fairly plain-looking, but I remember thinking "Who's that?" when she walked in. I wasn't much to look at back then, either. I had gone out with a few girls, by then, but not many. I couldn't understand the "steady" thing, at the time, I thought "Who'd want to be tied to one girl?"
At the time, I was involved in sports -- football in the Fall, wrestling in Winter, and I was planning on trying out for American Legion baseball in the Spring. I managed to keep my grades up to a "C" average, which pissed my parents off, but, under the circumstances, it was the best I could do. Wrestling, in particular, was my best sport, but this is about Mary. ADD, ADD.
I really didn't get to know Mary until the Spring of 1968, when I was asked to join a "folk group," as a guitar-player/singer. Mary was part of the original group called A Small Cyrcle of Friends, and we got to know one another fairly well. Since our dad's had both worked as correctional officers, knew each other well, and bowled in the CMF league, I'd seen her around some, but singing together gave me an opportunity to talk to her. I liked talking to her a lot.
I found out she was "Mormon," but only knew it was some strange religion like Seventh-Day Adventist, or Jehovah's Witness, or something like that. I wasn't involved in any religion, at the time, but never begrudged anyone else their beliefs. I didn't care about any of that, Mary turned out to be a "genuine nice person," who, whether it was her beliefs or just her, seemed to have her life "together". There was a certain amount of innocence, due to a fairly sheltered childhood, but she was honest, and very empathetic, too. I found myself trusting her more and more, telling her some of my deepest feelings, and my fears. I didn't realize it, but I was falling in love with Mary, and falling hard.
The Cyrcle got caught up in the usual problems; with 11 people, scheduling rehearsals became unmanageable, and things got ugly... Mary and Nina Edmonson, who had both been a part of the Cyrcle, and possessed very pleasant Alto and Soprano voices (respectively), asked me to find another guitar player, as they wanted to compete in a Stake Quartet Festival, whatever that was. A friend of mine, George Lehman, filled the bill nicely. The girls were both Mormon, George was a Catholic, and I was a recovering-Lutheran, so we called the group The Ecumenical Council in deference to the one being conducted in Rome.
We traveled to Napa, as Vacaville was a part of the Napa Stake at the time, ready to give it our best shot. We'd worked on two songs, Stick of Bamboo, and another folk-standard I'm failing to remember right now. I remember watching a number of groups, variations of boys and girls, guitars, accordions, pianos, before a group, identical in make-up to our own, two guys, two girls, two guitars, got up and performed the same two songs we had prepared. The guitar playing was much better than the rhythmic strumming George and I could manage, and any thought of winning the award pretty much went out the window. That is, until I realized that the vocals were all in unison. We had practiced these numbers in four-part harmony, and I thought we sounded pretty good. I came up with a plan.
When we were introduced, we were last, we got a smattering of applause, and we started into our first song, the one I can't remember just now, singing in unison for the first verse. I was watching the judges, and they got this "nothing new here" look on their faces, and were starting to get bored. We hit the four-part harmony hard in the second verse, and the judges attitudes changed to great interest. We finished to "thunderous" applause, the other group coming over to congratulate us even before the award was announced. We won. On the tail-end of this was my "First Date" with Mary. We went to see Moby Grape at the fairgrounds.
We did the "steady" thing, whenever we were together, which was often, we talked, she was, with the exception of our first date, always home five minutes before her curfew. The deal with Jack and Christine (Mary's folks) was that Mary would "check-in," turn the porch-light off, and we would sit in my car, in the driveway, and talk. When they figured we had been out long enough, they'd turn the light on, and Mary would be inside shortly after. It was great, because we talked. Sure, we made-out some, but mostly we talked, and I learned all about this wonderful person, Mary Gardner. It was mostly a Summer thing, because I made a stupid move in my senior year. All I did was to confide to an aleged-friend that I thought a certain "other girl" was cute.
The next thing I knew, it was all over school, I was dumping Mary for another girl. She was, rightfully so, angry with me, and refused to speak to me. The Council was still, sort of, going on, but it got too hard for me, and I quit going. I wouldn't see Mary from June of 1969 until December of 1972. An aforementioned phone call took place, during one of my darkest hours, that I now believe to be my Heavenly Father's guidance. I'll never forget the call:
"Hello."
"Uh, is Mary there?"
"Who may I say is calling?"
"Um, well, don't tell her, but this is Steve Martin."
Some fumbling with the phone, I can hear "Mary, it's for you." and some background noise.
"Hello?"
"Hi Mary, this is Steve Martin."
"Steve? You're in town? Where are you?"
"At my parents."
"When can you come over?"
"Well, I've been sick, and I need to shower, but maybe in an hour, or so."
"Can you make it in half-an-hour?"
"I guess..."
"Great, see you in fifteen minutes."
I stared at the now buzzing receiver for a moment, and decided I'd better get moving.
The first time I saw Mary Christine Gardner was in Home Room, my sophomore year, in 1966. Don't get me wrong, but she really wasn't much to look at back then. She had a Page Boy haircut, and these rectangular-shaped, black plastic-framed glasses. She was, actually, fairly plain-looking, but I remember thinking "Who's that?" when she walked in. I wasn't much to look at back then, either. I had gone out with a few girls, by then, but not many. I couldn't understand the "steady" thing, at the time, I thought "Who'd want to be tied to one girl?"
At the time, I was involved in sports -- football in the Fall, wrestling in Winter, and I was planning on trying out for American Legion baseball in the Spring. I managed to keep my grades up to a "C" average, which pissed my parents off, but, under the circumstances, it was the best I could do. Wrestling, in particular, was my best sport, but this is about Mary. ADD, ADD.
I really didn't get to know Mary until the Spring of 1968, when I was asked to join a "folk group," as a guitar-player/singer. Mary was part of the original group called A Small Cyrcle of Friends, and we got to know one another fairly well. Since our dad's had both worked as correctional officers, knew each other well, and bowled in the CMF league, I'd seen her around some, but singing together gave me an opportunity to talk to her. I liked talking to her a lot.
I found out she was "Mormon," but only knew it was some strange religion like Seventh-Day Adventist, or Jehovah's Witness, or something like that. I wasn't involved in any religion, at the time, but never begrudged anyone else their beliefs. I didn't care about any of that, Mary turned out to be a "genuine nice person," who, whether it was her beliefs or just her, seemed to have her life "together". There was a certain amount of innocence, due to a fairly sheltered childhood, but she was honest, and very empathetic, too. I found myself trusting her more and more, telling her some of my deepest feelings, and my fears. I didn't realize it, but I was falling in love with Mary, and falling hard.
The Cyrcle got caught up in the usual problems; with 11 people, scheduling rehearsals became unmanageable, and things got ugly... Mary and Nina Edmonson, who had both been a part of the Cyrcle, and possessed very pleasant Alto and Soprano voices (respectively), asked me to find another guitar player, as they wanted to compete in a Stake Quartet Festival, whatever that was. A friend of mine, George Lehman, filled the bill nicely. The girls were both Mormon, George was a Catholic, and I was a recovering-Lutheran, so we called the group The Ecumenical Council in deference to the one being conducted in Rome.
We traveled to Napa, as Vacaville was a part of the Napa Stake at the time, ready to give it our best shot. We'd worked on two songs, Stick of Bamboo, and another folk-standard I'm failing to remember right now. I remember watching a number of groups, variations of boys and girls, guitars, accordions, pianos, before a group, identical in make-up to our own, two guys, two girls, two guitars, got up and performed the same two songs we had prepared. The guitar playing was much better than the rhythmic strumming George and I could manage, and any thought of winning the award pretty much went out the window. That is, until I realized that the vocals were all in unison. We had practiced these numbers in four-part harmony, and I thought we sounded pretty good. I came up with a plan.
When we were introduced, we were last, we got a smattering of applause, and we started into our first song, the one I can't remember just now, singing in unison for the first verse. I was watching the judges, and they got this "nothing new here" look on their faces, and were starting to get bored. We hit the four-part harmony hard in the second verse, and the judges attitudes changed to great interest. We finished to "thunderous" applause, the other group coming over to congratulate us even before the award was announced. We won. On the tail-end of this was my "First Date" with Mary. We went to see Moby Grape at the fairgrounds.
We did the "steady" thing, whenever we were together, which was often, we talked, she was, with the exception of our first date, always home five minutes before her curfew. The deal with Jack and Christine (Mary's folks) was that Mary would "check-in," turn the porch-light off, and we would sit in my car, in the driveway, and talk. When they figured we had been out long enough, they'd turn the light on, and Mary would be inside shortly after. It was great, because we talked. Sure, we made-out some, but mostly we talked, and I learned all about this wonderful person, Mary Gardner. It was mostly a Summer thing, because I made a stupid move in my senior year. All I did was to confide to an aleged-friend that I thought a certain "other girl" was cute.
The next thing I knew, it was all over school, I was dumping Mary for another girl. She was, rightfully so, angry with me, and refused to speak to me. The Council was still, sort of, going on, but it got too hard for me, and I quit going. I wouldn't see Mary from June of 1969 until December of 1972. An aforementioned phone call took place, during one of my darkest hours, that I now believe to be my Heavenly Father's guidance. I'll never forget the call:
"Hello."
"Uh, is Mary there?"
"Who may I say is calling?"
"Um, well, don't tell her, but this is Steve Martin."
Some fumbling with the phone, I can hear "Mary, it's for you." and some background noise.
"Hello?"
"Hi Mary, this is Steve Martin."
"Steve? You're in town? Where are you?"
"At my parents."
"When can you come over?"
"Well, I've been sick, and I need to shower, but maybe in an hour, or so."
"Can you make it in half-an-hour?"
"I guess..."
"Great, see you in fifteen minutes."
I stared at the now buzzing receiver for a moment, and decided I'd better get moving.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
An "Ode" to Pain, or Paying for All My Fun
I have pain management issues. Lots of issues. I tell my doctor that on a scale of one-to-ten, I live at five. So far, it is not unmanageable -- Praise God -- there are still things I can do to make myself "comfortable". Comfort is a relative thing, a matter of getting into a position where pain doesn't scream at you. and fortunately I still have a few of those left, also. We have a reclining sofa, not a sofa with recliners on the ends, the whole sofa reclines in two parts. With pillows, heating pads, and some adjustment, I can get pretty comfortable.
I have a Jacuzzi-tub in the Master Bath, one of the reasons I wanted to buy this house. I take a fifteen-to-twenty minute cycle (jets on, soak,jets,soak) in very warm water. I don't know what condition I would be in without it this past year, but I don't think I'd be as well-off as I am. My biggest concern, at this time of year, is the arthritis. Cold makes my bones ache, and the arthritis makes it a whole lot worse. I've tried every "arthritis strength/formula" patent remedy currently available. I might as well have bought M&M's, for all the relief I got for my money. Ibuprophen scares me, due to the years I spent trying to turn my liver into a stone with alcohol. We only get one of those, don't need to take stuff that has a history of negatively impacting the liver.
I take "epidural steroid injection" therapy, approximately every 90 days. My next is nine days from now, and my pain level is probably at seven, or so. I hurt. There, I've said it. I have good days; I have bad days. Right now, it's not a good day. So I do a little around the house, and try to occupy myself with thoughts other than how much I'm hurting. So I write.
My blog has become a part of my pain management program. I try to focus on something other than pain, and thinking about what I'm writing helps me to do that. Okay, that and Vicodin, which is probably another reason I ramble. I've had some pretty great times, been a lot of places, met a ton of people, and lived through some historic times. At least I've found a therapy that can always help, to some extent.
I once had a young student say "I wish I'd have been around when you were my age."
I laughed, and told him "No, because you'd be in as much pain as I am now. Besides, the 60's would have killed you."
I have a Jacuzzi-tub in the Master Bath, one of the reasons I wanted to buy this house. I take a fifteen-to-twenty minute cycle (jets on, soak,jets,soak) in very warm water. I don't know what condition I would be in without it this past year, but I don't think I'd be as well-off as I am. My biggest concern, at this time of year, is the arthritis. Cold makes my bones ache, and the arthritis makes it a whole lot worse. I've tried every "arthritis strength/formula" patent remedy currently available. I might as well have bought M&M's, for all the relief I got for my money. Ibuprophen scares me, due to the years I spent trying to turn my liver into a stone with alcohol. We only get one of those, don't need to take stuff that has a history of negatively impacting the liver.
I take "epidural steroid injection" therapy, approximately every 90 days. My next is nine days from now, and my pain level is probably at seven, or so. I hurt. There, I've said it. I have good days; I have bad days. Right now, it's not a good day. So I do a little around the house, and try to occupy myself with thoughts other than how much I'm hurting. So I write.
My blog has become a part of my pain management program. I try to focus on something other than pain, and thinking about what I'm writing helps me to do that. Okay, that and Vicodin, which is probably another reason I ramble. I've had some pretty great times, been a lot of places, met a ton of people, and lived through some historic times. At least I've found a therapy that can always help, to some extent.
I once had a young student say "I wish I'd have been around when you were my age."
I laughed, and told him "No, because you'd be in as much pain as I am now. Besides, the 60's would have killed you."
Saturday, March 6, 2010
My Favorite People (2)
I don't have pictures of these two gentlemen. I may have one later this evening, as I will be attending a birthday party/poker game at one's house this evening. Our poker games are really minor league, $5 gets you 100 chips (nickles). Nickle-ante, fifteen cents-max on bets and any of the three allowable raises. The "big winner" makes a few bucks, nobody loses more than $5, and a group of long-time friends get a chance to swap ailments, and other lies. We have a great time, the game breaks-up by 10 pm, and we tell the stories we've all heard a thousand times, but we laugh at the old jokes anyway. As a Navy-brat, I never believed I'd have a group of friends for over 40 years, but these are some of the friends of my youth. To Ed and Dee, Mike and Anata, "little" Steve Amphlet, you have remained my friends for a long time.
Bill (the Kid) Case is the Birthday boy, he actually turns 60 on Monday, but none of us can be up until 10 pm, and get up "bright and early" the next day. I can, mostly because I don't drink... OK, totally because I don't drink, but some Sunday mornings I have early morning meetings, and it's not easy anymore.
I've written about Billy before, how we met, all of that, but I haven't spoken of him being my brother. No, we are in no way related, not even remotely. I sort of inherited the position after Bill's real brother, Gene, was killed in Vietnam. Bill took it hard, and to this day will not watch a movie about 'Nam. Bill has always had an inferiority complex, knowing he could never be his brother, and particularly after he gave up on ever finding a woman, or raising a family. Bill and his older brother were exact opposites. Gene was outgoing, fairly athletic, and good-looking. Bill has always seemed to appear "chubby," not very athleticly inclined, extremely shy, and introverted. I guess, in their grief, his parents would ask him why he couldn't be more like Gene, and when Bill couldn't answer, he took it as failure. He still thinks, if it were possible, his parents would trade his life for Gene. It's a vicious cycle that he perpetuates in his own mind.
There's a part of Bill that stopped growing when Gene was killed, drugs and alcohol abuse had a great influence in stunting his emotional growth. Bill still sees himself as a kid, or "the Kid," telling people that it's a Billy-the-Kid kind of thing, but I'm convinced that, while Billy accepts his turning 60, his own self=image is based in being a child, or young man. He's made pretty good progress since he quit Meth. He is funtional, in the community, but somewhat of a techno-phobe when it comes to electronic gagets. He has a "flat screen" (but it's a tube), two single-disk DVD players, one with a VCR, and what could best be described as "antique audio" with a 1960's vintage receiver/amp, complete with speakers. Computer? Operated one for a while, doesn't own one (yet, he-he-he).
Bill is amazed that we've been friends for all these years, and thinks I don't recognize how "opposite" we are. "How can two people, so opposite, be best friends for forty years?" he asks all of the time. Duh? Looked at my marriage lately? Opposites attract. If both parties, in a relationship, are willing to acknowledge and talk about their differences, listening to what the other is saying, there is a good chance the relationship will last an entire lifetime. Mary and I often joke about our differences, but I am grateful we have them. I understand the dynamics of having two people with many similarities (Bill's dad and my dad for an example) getting together. My dad and my mother-in-law were alike in many ways, and couldn't stand the sight of each other. My secret for a lasting marriage: marry someone your exact opposite. You must be willing to talk, and listen, and above all make the necessary compromises, but you'll never run out of things to talk about, and communication is the key.
The other guy I'll call "Theodore E. Baer," or "Theo" (to protect the reputation of the "innocent"). Theo and I met when I was "put in-charge" of a classified material storage vault, in the Training Department office building at Fleet Combat Training Center, Pacific (FCTCP). He worked as an Electronics Warfare (Heavy) Instructor, in an office next door, and we became friends over time. Theo and I were opposites, too. Needless to say, for a period of time, we became very close.
We did a lot of things, golfing, bowling, softball, raquetball, and camping. I mention camping last, but it's a lot of great memories, and a wealth of information and wonderous vistas. We once took a trip to McCain Valley, between the Laguna Mountains, and the drop-off down to the Imperial Valley. One morning, after breakfast, we climbed a mountain, and had lunch at the top. The next day, we crossed a dessert, and lunched on the rim of the Imperial Valley. It was so cool!
I was never a Boy Scout, per se, I was a Cub Scout, but never warmed up to Boy Scouts. Consequently, I never learned much about camping. My folks' idea of "roughing it" was a camping trailer with beds and a kitchen. Theo taught me a lot. The first time we went camping was an outing to the Lagunas, where we made our own campsite. Theo had a VW bus, which carried a lot of gear, but we slept on the ground, built a fire-pit, and lugged bits and pieces of mesquite back to the campsite for fuel. We took my then-one-year-old daughter (Tyffany) with us, along with Theo's cat "Mor". Although both would accompany us on several outings, Mor would sense that we were loading the van, and crawl up on the dashboard to wait for us to get going, every time. Before Taz, Mor was one of the neatest cats I ever met.
We'd go to places like Palo Verde -- on the Colorado River -- or Indian Wells, or Joshua Tree, among others. Once, I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I asked Theo "Where are we?"
"Utah," Theo responded, "I think."
We had followed (roughly) I-15 from San Diego, went through Salt Lake City and caught I-80 West, drove through Sacramento and caught I-5 South, and made the circle complete over a three-day weekend! That wasn't the weirdest, though. That distinction has to go to a trip we made to Sequioia National Forrest. We'd set up camp on Friday night, tents this time (thankfully) because it was quite cold. While we were asleep, six to eight inches of snow had fallen, and it was still snowing. We had no chains, so we decided to head for warmer places, broke camp, and drove out of the mountains into the Mojave Desert, WHERE IT WAS STILL SNOWING!! Snow in the Mojave... thought I'd seen it all... We ended up on the beach in San Diego, body surfing. From snow to beach in one day... now I thought I'd seen everything... ah, youth...
Alas, for a long time, I lost touch with Theodore E. Baer, though he was never out of my memory, and I'd often ask myself, "I wonder whatever happened to my buddy Theo?" I'd call Information, prior to the internet, and there were either no listings, or too many variations to call one-by-one. I hooked back up with him, sort of, recently. I've sent an e-mail, got a cryptic response, and sent a second, but haven't heard from him in a while. I think he's afraid that I'm still the alcohol-fueled maniac I used to be, or some kind of Bible-thumping Mormon trying to convert him, but he's got it all wrong. I've been a "Friend of Bill W." for many years, and yes, I once served a Mission for the Mormon Church, but it was a Church Service Mission, and Mary and I were the Group Leaders for the Addiction Recovery Program, an AA-approved adaptation of AA's 12 Step Program based upon LDS Doctrine. But no, I'm not trying to reach him to save his sould, either. He's had some "issues" of late, personal and health-wise, and I'd like to actually hear from him to see if he's OK. I'd like to see my old friend again, and shake his hand, or give him a hug. He's probably not the Theodore E. Baer that I remember, and that's OK, because I'm not the Grover he knew, either. I gave you the phone number, call me. If it's a matter of long-distance charges, I can call you back, I have nationwide calling. Please?
Bill (the Kid) Case is the Birthday boy, he actually turns 60 on Monday, but none of us can be up until 10 pm, and get up "bright and early" the next day. I can, mostly because I don't drink... OK, totally because I don't drink, but some Sunday mornings I have early morning meetings, and it's not easy anymore.
I've written about Billy before, how we met, all of that, but I haven't spoken of him being my brother. No, we are in no way related, not even remotely. I sort of inherited the position after Bill's real brother, Gene, was killed in Vietnam. Bill took it hard, and to this day will not watch a movie about 'Nam. Bill has always had an inferiority complex, knowing he could never be his brother, and particularly after he gave up on ever finding a woman, or raising a family. Bill and his older brother were exact opposites. Gene was outgoing, fairly athletic, and good-looking. Bill has always seemed to appear "chubby," not very athleticly inclined, extremely shy, and introverted. I guess, in their grief, his parents would ask him why he couldn't be more like Gene, and when Bill couldn't answer, he took it as failure. He still thinks, if it were possible, his parents would trade his life for Gene. It's a vicious cycle that he perpetuates in his own mind.
There's a part of Bill that stopped growing when Gene was killed, drugs and alcohol abuse had a great influence in stunting his emotional growth. Bill still sees himself as a kid, or "the Kid," telling people that it's a Billy-the-Kid kind of thing, but I'm convinced that, while Billy accepts his turning 60, his own self=image is based in being a child, or young man. He's made pretty good progress since he quit Meth. He is funtional, in the community, but somewhat of a techno-phobe when it comes to electronic gagets. He has a "flat screen" (but it's a tube), two single-disk DVD players, one with a VCR, and what could best be described as "antique audio" with a 1960's vintage receiver/amp, complete with speakers. Computer? Operated one for a while, doesn't own one (yet, he-he-he).
Bill is amazed that we've been friends for all these years, and thinks I don't recognize how "opposite" we are. "How can two people, so opposite, be best friends for forty years?" he asks all of the time. Duh? Looked at my marriage lately? Opposites attract. If both parties, in a relationship, are willing to acknowledge and talk about their differences, listening to what the other is saying, there is a good chance the relationship will last an entire lifetime. Mary and I often joke about our differences, but I am grateful we have them. I understand the dynamics of having two people with many similarities (Bill's dad and my dad for an example) getting together. My dad and my mother-in-law were alike in many ways, and couldn't stand the sight of each other. My secret for a lasting marriage: marry someone your exact opposite. You must be willing to talk, and listen, and above all make the necessary compromises, but you'll never run out of things to talk about, and communication is the key.
The other guy I'll call "Theodore E. Baer," or "Theo" (to protect the reputation of the "innocent"). Theo and I met when I was "put in-charge" of a classified material storage vault, in the Training Department office building at Fleet Combat Training Center, Pacific (FCTCP). He worked as an Electronics Warfare (Heavy) Instructor, in an office next door, and we became friends over time. Theo and I were opposites, too. Needless to say, for a period of time, we became very close.
We did a lot of things, golfing, bowling, softball, raquetball, and camping. I mention camping last, but it's a lot of great memories, and a wealth of information and wonderous vistas. We once took a trip to McCain Valley, between the Laguna Mountains, and the drop-off down to the Imperial Valley. One morning, after breakfast, we climbed a mountain, and had lunch at the top. The next day, we crossed a dessert, and lunched on the rim of the Imperial Valley. It was so cool!
I was never a Boy Scout, per se, I was a Cub Scout, but never warmed up to Boy Scouts. Consequently, I never learned much about camping. My folks' idea of "roughing it" was a camping trailer with beds and a kitchen. Theo taught me a lot. The first time we went camping was an outing to the Lagunas, where we made our own campsite. Theo had a VW bus, which carried a lot of gear, but we slept on the ground, built a fire-pit, and lugged bits and pieces of mesquite back to the campsite for fuel. We took my then-one-year-old daughter (Tyffany) with us, along with Theo's cat "Mor". Although both would accompany us on several outings, Mor would sense that we were loading the van, and crawl up on the dashboard to wait for us to get going, every time. Before Taz, Mor was one of the neatest cats I ever met.
We'd go to places like Palo Verde -- on the Colorado River -- or Indian Wells, or Joshua Tree, among others. Once, I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I asked Theo "Where are we?"
"Utah," Theo responded, "I think."
We had followed (roughly) I-15 from San Diego, went through Salt Lake City and caught I-80 West, drove through Sacramento and caught I-5 South, and made the circle complete over a three-day weekend! That wasn't the weirdest, though. That distinction has to go to a trip we made to Sequioia National Forrest. We'd set up camp on Friday night, tents this time (thankfully) because it was quite cold. While we were asleep, six to eight inches of snow had fallen, and it was still snowing. We had no chains, so we decided to head for warmer places, broke camp, and drove out of the mountains into the Mojave Desert, WHERE IT WAS STILL SNOWING!! Snow in the Mojave... thought I'd seen it all... We ended up on the beach in San Diego, body surfing. From snow to beach in one day... now I thought I'd seen everything... ah, youth...
Alas, for a long time, I lost touch with Theodore E. Baer, though he was never out of my memory, and I'd often ask myself, "I wonder whatever happened to my buddy Theo?" I'd call Information, prior to the internet, and there were either no listings, or too many variations to call one-by-one. I hooked back up with him, sort of, recently. I've sent an e-mail, got a cryptic response, and sent a second, but haven't heard from him in a while. I think he's afraid that I'm still the alcohol-fueled maniac I used to be, or some kind of Bible-thumping Mormon trying to convert him, but he's got it all wrong. I've been a "Friend of Bill W." for many years, and yes, I once served a Mission for the Mormon Church, but it was a Church Service Mission, and Mary and I were the Group Leaders for the Addiction Recovery Program, an AA-approved adaptation of AA's 12 Step Program based upon LDS Doctrine. But no, I'm not trying to reach him to save his sould, either. He's had some "issues" of late, personal and health-wise, and I'd like to actually hear from him to see if he's OK. I'd like to see my old friend again, and shake his hand, or give him a hug. He's probably not the Theodore E. Baer that I remember, and that's OK, because I'm not the Grover he knew, either. I gave you the phone number, call me. If it's a matter of long-distance charges, I can call you back, I have nationwide calling. Please?
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Fixing California's Education Woes
It seems that everyday the nightly news informs us of the ongoing financial crisis being suffered by school districts statewide. Teachers and support staffs are being laid off, programs are being cut, and schools are being closed, all in an effort to bridge a multi-billion dollar budget shortfall. Read an article today, describing cuts in our local district, two schools, about 90 teachers, music programs, extracurricular activities, and vocational training are on the block this time around. Additionally, they are reducing funding to athletics, asking teachers to take pay cuts, and proposing to cut five days from the school year. Meanwhile, about a half-hour, or so, up the road, the State Legislature is passing a profanity-free week, finding other ways of spending more money, and creating more debt. Somehow, it seems oxymoronic to me.
The problem with school districts is the idea of preparing all students for college. A few years ago, while I was working through Chapman University to obtain a teaching credential, I came across an interesting statistic: only twelve percent of Americans have a Bachelor's Degree (or higher), and that number has remained constant for over 100 years. My local district, as mentioned in a previous blog, prides itself on having 84% of their students going straight on to college. This percentage is based on the number of students "enrolled" in college, and doesn't track anything beyond the end of the enrollment period (like who actually shows up on the first day of classes). The twelve percent figure was based on a study of actual degrees earned over a 100 year period (1895 - 1995), and I'm sure that number has increased over the intervening fifteen years, but probably not to any signigicant degree. I'm inclined to believe that it may have gone up to as much as 20%, but most of those have been conferred upon adults who return to school to increase their marketablility. For the pupose of my argument, I'm going to go with the 20% figure. If only 20% of Americans ever receive an "advanced degree," then schools are pandering to a minority. What happens to the 80%?
As a Navy-veteran, I have traveled extensively beyond the boudaries of the US. The only continent I haven't actually set foot upon is Antartica, and I really have no desire to visit there, anyway. I've met people around the world, and while I claim no expertise on the subject, it seems to me that Japan has the right attitude about educating it's people. In Japan, at a certain age, students take an exam that directly impacts the way they will be educated. Those who score high enough enter a college-preparatory school, the rest go to vocational schools to learn a trade. As a veteran classroom teacher, I believe this would work in America as well.
We all ready have the testing "in place," it's simply a matter of using the test to identify those who have the potential to succeed in a university, and building a curriculum for vocational training. I propose that California use it's "high-stakes" STAR Testing as a basis for identifying the skills necessary for college-level success, beginning in the Sixth Grade, coinciding with their "graduation" from elementary school. Middle Schools wouldn't change much, and subsequent STAR Tests could be used to track individual improvement, allowing students additional opportunities to get back on the college-prep track. The decision could be made, whether college or Voc-Ed, upon completion of the Eighth Grade, and students would be assigned to a high school depending upon their abilities.
The modern public high school's biggest problem, as far as students go, seems to be motivational. Too many of our young people feel that the world owes them something, as parents continue to indulge their children, and do not make them work for what they receive. A classic example, from my own experiences, was a student in a Summer School class, repeating Ninth Grade English. The student was in class every day, but did no work whatsoever, and consequently, I gave him a failing grade. His mom called me at the school, demanding to know why her son failed, "He was there everyday, doesn't that count for something?" I told her why I gave him his "F," and she got angry... With me!
The modern high school student seems to look at school as something they "just have to get through," and their only motivation, it seems, is to do as little as they can get away with. Few actually study, fewer still actually do homework, and the environment in classrooms is chaotic. Almost every student has an ipod, cell phone, or other apperatus, complete with "ear buds," and spend entire class periods texting friends, listening to music, and ignoring everything else. They seem to believe that no matter how they perform (or fail to perform), that Mommy and Daddy will be able to get them into a university. Indulgent parents are a kid's worst enemy.
A colleague and I were talking about a particular student's "attitude" towards school, and his potential to go on to college (both of which were not good). I had to agree with my colleague, however, in principle, when he summed up this young persons future by saying "Well, we need good janitors, too." I wondered, as he was in the college-prep track, where he would be able to learn and develop those skills. That's when I first started to view the Japanese-model as a solution.
Schools could put Vocational Education students on a work/study program, and involve both the public and private sectors in educating our youth. It would be a limited-classroom program, where the students would still receive training in English, Math, and Social Studies, but would require them to get work-related experience outside of the school (OK, they'd have to get and maintain a job, and the employer would be responsible for giving a Pass/Fail grade). Students unable to find a training program (job) would be given generalized industrial training at the school, with training curriculum developed by the school district in conjumction with local business leaders.
The result would be that the districts would then be fulfilling their "missions," preparing students to become full-contributors to their local communities. That seems to be an idea that has gotten overlooked in the frenzy to put names on college enrollment lists. The 80% of students, who may never go on to earn college degrees, would have the training and experience necessary to succeed in the modern workforce. Hey, Meg Whittman, are you listening?
The problem with school districts is the idea of preparing all students for college. A few years ago, while I was working through Chapman University to obtain a teaching credential, I came across an interesting statistic: only twelve percent of Americans have a Bachelor's Degree (or higher), and that number has remained constant for over 100 years. My local district, as mentioned in a previous blog, prides itself on having 84% of their students going straight on to college. This percentage is based on the number of students "enrolled" in college, and doesn't track anything beyond the end of the enrollment period (like who actually shows up on the first day of classes). The twelve percent figure was based on a study of actual degrees earned over a 100 year period (1895 - 1995), and I'm sure that number has increased over the intervening fifteen years, but probably not to any signigicant degree. I'm inclined to believe that it may have gone up to as much as 20%, but most of those have been conferred upon adults who return to school to increase their marketablility. For the pupose of my argument, I'm going to go with the 20% figure. If only 20% of Americans ever receive an "advanced degree," then schools are pandering to a minority. What happens to the 80%?
As a Navy-veteran, I have traveled extensively beyond the boudaries of the US. The only continent I haven't actually set foot upon is Antartica, and I really have no desire to visit there, anyway. I've met people around the world, and while I claim no expertise on the subject, it seems to me that Japan has the right attitude about educating it's people. In Japan, at a certain age, students take an exam that directly impacts the way they will be educated. Those who score high enough enter a college-preparatory school, the rest go to vocational schools to learn a trade. As a veteran classroom teacher, I believe this would work in America as well.
We all ready have the testing "in place," it's simply a matter of using the test to identify those who have the potential to succeed in a university, and building a curriculum for vocational training. I propose that California use it's "high-stakes" STAR Testing as a basis for identifying the skills necessary for college-level success, beginning in the Sixth Grade, coinciding with their "graduation" from elementary school. Middle Schools wouldn't change much, and subsequent STAR Tests could be used to track individual improvement, allowing students additional opportunities to get back on the college-prep track. The decision could be made, whether college or Voc-Ed, upon completion of the Eighth Grade, and students would be assigned to a high school depending upon their abilities.
The modern public high school's biggest problem, as far as students go, seems to be motivational. Too many of our young people feel that the world owes them something, as parents continue to indulge their children, and do not make them work for what they receive. A classic example, from my own experiences, was a student in a Summer School class, repeating Ninth Grade English. The student was in class every day, but did no work whatsoever, and consequently, I gave him a failing grade. His mom called me at the school, demanding to know why her son failed, "He was there everyday, doesn't that count for something?" I told her why I gave him his "F," and she got angry... With me!
The modern high school student seems to look at school as something they "just have to get through," and their only motivation, it seems, is to do as little as they can get away with. Few actually study, fewer still actually do homework, and the environment in classrooms is chaotic. Almost every student has an ipod, cell phone, or other apperatus, complete with "ear buds," and spend entire class periods texting friends, listening to music, and ignoring everything else. They seem to believe that no matter how they perform (or fail to perform), that Mommy and Daddy will be able to get them into a university. Indulgent parents are a kid's worst enemy.
A colleague and I were talking about a particular student's "attitude" towards school, and his potential to go on to college (both of which were not good). I had to agree with my colleague, however, in principle, when he summed up this young persons future by saying "Well, we need good janitors, too." I wondered, as he was in the college-prep track, where he would be able to learn and develop those skills. That's when I first started to view the Japanese-model as a solution.
Schools could put Vocational Education students on a work/study program, and involve both the public and private sectors in educating our youth. It would be a limited-classroom program, where the students would still receive training in English, Math, and Social Studies, but would require them to get work-related experience outside of the school (OK, they'd have to get and maintain a job, and the employer would be responsible for giving a Pass/Fail grade). Students unable to find a training program (job) would be given generalized industrial training at the school, with training curriculum developed by the school district in conjumction with local business leaders.
The result would be that the districts would then be fulfilling their "missions," preparing students to become full-contributors to their local communities. That seems to be an idea that has gotten overlooked in the frenzy to put names on college enrollment lists. The 80% of students, who may never go on to earn college degrees, would have the training and experience necessary to succeed in the modern workforce. Hey, Meg Whittman, are you listening?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Confessions of a Former High School English Teacher
I taught English, over six years, at three different high schools, in two states. I wanted to teach US History, and Government, but I was advised to study English as a means of making myself more "marketable," as male History teachers were "a-dime-a-dozen," and men were under-represented in the Language Arts. I had considered working towards a degree in English, particularly towards the end of my Navy career, when I was tasked with typing-up the Personal Goals Lists for commissioned officers assigned to the Maintenance Department of Patrol Squadron 46 (VP-46, for those who know what that means). These were college graduates, with Bachelor's Degrees (and a few Master's), and their writing was terrible. I was "just" a high school grad, but I had seen better writing from junior high school students.
I admit, I've had a love for the language for a long time, decades before getting my degree in English. I have a high school English teacher to thank for helping me find it, a Mrs. Karen Newchock, who passed before I could tell her. It's a long story, maybe another post, but Mrs. Newchock once gave me an assignment to write weekly essays, any subject of my choice, for most of the first semester in my Junior year. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote; by Christmas, I was looking forward to writing during school vacation. I don't remember what I wrote about, precisely, the Vietnam War, sports, stuff at school, but I was allowed to editorialize, and express my opinions freely. Not once, during the entire time, did Karen Newchock criticize my opinion on any topic. She would, however, critique the qualities of argument, persuasion, descriptiveness, and overall presentation. In short, I learned to write. I had been a reader as long as I can remember, I admired those who were able to spin a yarn (Twain), and those who love to "play" with the language (Shakespeare).
I used to love George Carlin. His best performances came when he played with the words we used every day. His Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television, albeit slimmed down to perhaps three, still makes me laugh. Two-way Words, and Words You'll Never Hear Together are equally funny to me, because the "bits" make me think. Words...wonderful words...great words like callipygian (I dare you to work that one into conversation), and freedom. I used to tell my students that, when used properly, the English Language took on a music of it's own; that people who used words well held power. The power to persuade, humor, inform, testify, describe, and entertain others.
While on active duty, early in my career, I worked as an Instructor, in an office with a bunch of other Instructors of various subjects. There were cubicals, arranged by vessel/platforms, with an area cleared so we could all line-up for Quarters (muster, plan of the day, etc, for you civilians). In the center of this cleared area, a small table was set up, after Quarters, with a single item on it, a Word-a-Day calendar. Everyone in the office stopped each morning to "get the word," as well as people from other offices (our Department Head, for one) would stop by, read the word, and an unspoken competition began to thrive, "Who can properly use the word-of-the-day in conversation, a lesson, whatever. We had to have a wittness, who was in on the game, and whoever used the word first got to put his name on a small chalkboard outside the office. It remains one of my favorite memories of Fleet Combat Training Center, because I learned some great words.
It's shameful, but as a high school English teacher, I saw far too many students whose imaginations have become stunted. Unfortunately, due to a large degree of "image inundation," and an equally large degree of uninteresting books on district reading lists, young people struggle to "see" the images being described in literature. Everytime I assigned a book for reading, some student would ask "Is there a movie?" I hated that question, mostly because of the "artistic license" taken by screenwriters. An example: Lord of the Rings, in which characters were added and deleted in Peter Jackson's epic. What about "Tom Bombidill"? Where did "Arwen" come from? I used to put "Ace Busters" in quizzes, using answers from movie versions as incorrect answers. Most of them never caught on.
I really enjoy listening to people who speak the language well. James Earl Jones is my favorite all-time speaker. That man could read the phone book, and hold an audience spell-bound. Bill O'reilly is good, and even has a word-a-day thing at the end of The Factor. Orson Wells is one of my favorites, as is Gregory Peck. Melodious voices that lull you into the subject. You can understand why I don't watch ESPN, or Sportcenter, very much, very few athletes are what I would call "well spoken," Kareem Abdul Jabar, Boomer Esiason, Tim Duncan, and Larry Fitzgerald are very good, but the rest make Mark Twain a linguist in Huch Finn.
I had students tell me that previous teachers had told them to write-as-they-talk. I'd tell them, "For God's sake, don't do that." Listened to conversations between teenagers lately? I know, it's tough anymore, because you only hear half of the conversation (get it? Cell phones?), but you hear words you know used in the strangest ways. When did the word "fun" start being congegated as "fun, funner, funest"? I'm sorry, but I missed that memo. Some seemed to think that the letter "U" was a suitable substitute for the word "you," and failed to understand the difference. I always felt my primary duty, as a teacher, was to prepare my students to step into the workforce. Unfortunately, high schools only look at the number of graduates who go on to college. "Eighty-four percent of our students go on to college..." Yeah, how many of them stay past the first day, anyway? Having been an adult (40 to be exact, when I started) going to college, the attrition rate never failed to amaze me. On Day 1, the classrooms would be packed to the rafters, with students on waiting lists, trying to get a seat in the class. By the time one could no longer withdraw from a class without a grade, every single classroom had about 20 people who showed up regularly. Young people, on Mommy and Daddy's dime, don't care. I had a number of classes with a particular guy, at Chico State, and we used to try and figure out which of our classmates would stop coming. We usually got it right, too.
Now days, it's all about performance on high-stakes statewide testing. The STAR Test in California, it was ISAT in Idaho, but Idaho does it right. In Idaho, students take the ISAT twice yearly, in grades six through eleven. Twice a year, students gather in the Library, and other rooms, to sit down at a laptop, and take the ISAT. As students complete their testing, the answers are fed to a server, and downloaded in Boise. Within a week, teachers have the test results, the data broken down into the elements of the test, right in their hands. After the Fall testing period, classroom teachers are given individualized mini-lesson topics, possible whole-lesson activities, and some sage advice from a group of long-time teachers called TOSA's (Teachers On Special Assignment). TOSA's were still actively teaching classes, but were given two additional "Prep Periods" each day, to collaborate with teachers who needed, or asked for help. After the second, or Spring testing, cycle, I not only had test results, I had comparisons with the Fall cycle, indicating levels of student and overall class growth. I don't want to brag... OK, yes I do... My five freshman classes in Coeur d' Alene showed an overall growth of 2.8 percent, none of the other teachers had more than 1.75, and that was the Department Chair. I found out, in the end, I was just a "filler". The school wanted me back, but I wanted more than a one-year contract. The school was looking to have a place for an English teacher in Spokane, who lived in Coeur d' Alene, and happend to be the coach of the Washington State High School Girls Basketball Champions for the last five years. Hey, no decision. Hire some schmuck for a year, the coach retires in Washington, draws his pension, starts working on a second, and draws a head coach stipend. No problem. Hope he was everything you hoped for. But I'm not bitter...
I still love the language, though, and have returned to the Classics, Les Miserables, Dickens, Twain, among the many. I love the way that words are assembled to provoke thought. Just yesterday, while involved in the aforementioned Victor Hugo classic, ran across this little tidbit:
"The sage live content with little. Behold me, my son, I do not love pomp. Never am I seen with coats bedizend with gold and gems; I leave that false splendor to badly organised minds." Run that one around for a few.
I admit, I've had a love for the language for a long time, decades before getting my degree in English. I have a high school English teacher to thank for helping me find it, a Mrs. Karen Newchock, who passed before I could tell her. It's a long story, maybe another post, but Mrs. Newchock once gave me an assignment to write weekly essays, any subject of my choice, for most of the first semester in my Junior year. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote; by Christmas, I was looking forward to writing during school vacation. I don't remember what I wrote about, precisely, the Vietnam War, sports, stuff at school, but I was allowed to editorialize, and express my opinions freely. Not once, during the entire time, did Karen Newchock criticize my opinion on any topic. She would, however, critique the qualities of argument, persuasion, descriptiveness, and overall presentation. In short, I learned to write. I had been a reader as long as I can remember, I admired those who were able to spin a yarn (Twain), and those who love to "play" with the language (Shakespeare).
I used to love George Carlin. His best performances came when he played with the words we used every day. His Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television, albeit slimmed down to perhaps three, still makes me laugh. Two-way Words, and Words You'll Never Hear Together are equally funny to me, because the "bits" make me think. Words...wonderful words...great words like callipygian (I dare you to work that one into conversation), and freedom. I used to tell my students that, when used properly, the English Language took on a music of it's own; that people who used words well held power. The power to persuade, humor, inform, testify, describe, and entertain others.
While on active duty, early in my career, I worked as an Instructor, in an office with a bunch of other Instructors of various subjects. There were cubicals, arranged by vessel/platforms, with an area cleared so we could all line-up for Quarters (muster, plan of the day, etc, for you civilians). In the center of this cleared area, a small table was set up, after Quarters, with a single item on it, a Word-a-Day calendar. Everyone in the office stopped each morning to "get the word," as well as people from other offices (our Department Head, for one) would stop by, read the word, and an unspoken competition began to thrive, "Who can properly use the word-of-the-day in conversation, a lesson, whatever. We had to have a wittness, who was in on the game, and whoever used the word first got to put his name on a small chalkboard outside the office. It remains one of my favorite memories of Fleet Combat Training Center, because I learned some great words.
It's shameful, but as a high school English teacher, I saw far too many students whose imaginations have become stunted. Unfortunately, due to a large degree of "image inundation," and an equally large degree of uninteresting books on district reading lists, young people struggle to "see" the images being described in literature. Everytime I assigned a book for reading, some student would ask "Is there a movie?" I hated that question, mostly because of the "artistic license" taken by screenwriters. An example: Lord of the Rings, in which characters were added and deleted in Peter Jackson's epic. What about "Tom Bombidill"? Where did "Arwen" come from? I used to put "Ace Busters" in quizzes, using answers from movie versions as incorrect answers. Most of them never caught on.
I really enjoy listening to people who speak the language well. James Earl Jones is my favorite all-time speaker. That man could read the phone book, and hold an audience spell-bound. Bill O'reilly is good, and even has a word-a-day thing at the end of The Factor. Orson Wells is one of my favorites, as is Gregory Peck. Melodious voices that lull you into the subject. You can understand why I don't watch ESPN, or Sportcenter, very much, very few athletes are what I would call "well spoken," Kareem Abdul Jabar, Boomer Esiason, Tim Duncan, and Larry Fitzgerald are very good, but the rest make Mark Twain a linguist in Huch Finn.
I had students tell me that previous teachers had told them to write-as-they-talk. I'd tell them, "For God's sake, don't do that." Listened to conversations between teenagers lately? I know, it's tough anymore, because you only hear half of the conversation (get it? Cell phones?), but you hear words you know used in the strangest ways. When did the word "fun" start being congegated as "fun, funner, funest"? I'm sorry, but I missed that memo. Some seemed to think that the letter "U" was a suitable substitute for the word "you," and failed to understand the difference. I always felt my primary duty, as a teacher, was to prepare my students to step into the workforce. Unfortunately, high schools only look at the number of graduates who go on to college. "Eighty-four percent of our students go on to college..." Yeah, how many of them stay past the first day, anyway? Having been an adult (40 to be exact, when I started) going to college, the attrition rate never failed to amaze me. On Day 1, the classrooms would be packed to the rafters, with students on waiting lists, trying to get a seat in the class. By the time one could no longer withdraw from a class without a grade, every single classroom had about 20 people who showed up regularly. Young people, on Mommy and Daddy's dime, don't care. I had a number of classes with a particular guy, at Chico State, and we used to try and figure out which of our classmates would stop coming. We usually got it right, too.
Now days, it's all about performance on high-stakes statewide testing. The STAR Test in California, it was ISAT in Idaho, but Idaho does it right. In Idaho, students take the ISAT twice yearly, in grades six through eleven. Twice a year, students gather in the Library, and other rooms, to sit down at a laptop, and take the ISAT. As students complete their testing, the answers are fed to a server, and downloaded in Boise. Within a week, teachers have the test results, the data broken down into the elements of the test, right in their hands. After the Fall testing period, classroom teachers are given individualized mini-lesson topics, possible whole-lesson activities, and some sage advice from a group of long-time teachers called TOSA's (Teachers On Special Assignment). TOSA's were still actively teaching classes, but were given two additional "Prep Periods" each day, to collaborate with teachers who needed, or asked for help. After the second, or Spring testing, cycle, I not only had test results, I had comparisons with the Fall cycle, indicating levels of student and overall class growth. I don't want to brag... OK, yes I do... My five freshman classes in Coeur d' Alene showed an overall growth of 2.8 percent, none of the other teachers had more than 1.75, and that was the Department Chair. I found out, in the end, I was just a "filler". The school wanted me back, but I wanted more than a one-year contract. The school was looking to have a place for an English teacher in Spokane, who lived in Coeur d' Alene, and happend to be the coach of the Washington State High School Girls Basketball Champions for the last five years. Hey, no decision. Hire some schmuck for a year, the coach retires in Washington, draws his pension, starts working on a second, and draws a head coach stipend. No problem. Hope he was everything you hoped for. But I'm not bitter...
I still love the language, though, and have returned to the Classics, Les Miserables, Dickens, Twain, among the many. I love the way that words are assembled to provoke thought. Just yesterday, while involved in the aforementioned Victor Hugo classic, ran across this little tidbit:
"The sage live content with little. Behold me, my son, I do not love pomp. Never am I seen with coats bedizend with gold and gems; I leave that false splendor to badly organised minds." Run that one around for a few.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
My Favorite People (1)
Meet my favorite people in the world. The young lady on the top is my grandaughter, Isabella, who is six months old; the young man above, is Victor, at his 1st Birthday party. What can I say, the kids have good-taste in people, both seem to "light up" whenever they see me. "Isa" (Grandpa's name for her) thinks I'm pretty neat, because I meow for her, and she giggles. She likes to snuggle on my neck, and I'm all about that.
I haven't decided on a Grandpa Name for Victor. After I first met him, and learned of Tyffany and Peter's intentions of adopting Victor, I joked that they needed to re-name him. It would make him "Victor Wanberg," with the initials "VW". I suggested that they re-name him "Bob Marley Wanberg" (intials "BMW"), and we could call him "Beamer". I've pretty much decided to call him "Bug," and I can see myself going into the house saying "There's a Bug in the house."
I can see a variety of Bug-play, "Hug-Bug," "Tickle-Bug," etc. I try not to do that, because of the variables.
Part of my hesitation is that this wonderful little boy is a Ward of the State. If I know my daughter, and she's a lot like me in many ways, she has set her heart on adopting Victor, and sees no other outcome. As a former social worker, she understands some of the legal process, and has done everything required by the State of California to become Victor's foster-parent, and adopt from there. It is my understanding that the State will be severing parental-rights at an upcoming hearing, and that will be a big step in the right direction, but it won't be a "done deal," even after the Court's decision. Will a family member sue for Custody? Will the parents Appeal? These are just two of the many questions that remain, for me.
I loved this little boy from the first time I held him. After losing one child within hours of her birth, this little guy has fought some tough odds, and is surviving. Look at him. I have a picture of him from one of our earliest meetings, and the changes in him are huge. Tyffany and "Beaker" will be great parents (sorry, Peter, but you do resemble the Muppet), and they simply adore Victor. I just hope everything works out, I can always find a use for a "Hug Bug".
Monday, March 1, 2010
My Experience with a Former President
I've been fortunate, in my lifetime, to have met many, many people. Mostly good, hard-working people (like myself), who are trying to make their way through life, but a few "celebrities," some politicians, and a few actors, news people and that like. I saw Danny Glover, on crutches, some years back, at SFO. A woman and her daughter asked for an autograph, and, crutches and all, Danny Glover graciously complied.
I had watched this transaction; an admirer's request, albeit inconvenient for the actor, had been granted with pleasure. I was standing several feet away, watching, and he was watching me, to see if I would make a similar request, as we passed. "'Sup, Danny?" "Hey." was the entire conversation, but I sensed his relief at not having to fumble with everything, and sign another autograph. It was cool.
In 1978, I got a chance to meet former President Richard M. Nixon, at his "Casa de Pacifica" in San Clemete. All I asked for was an autographed picture, for my parents, from "a guy-who-knew-a-guy," and I found myself at the San Clemente Inn one afternoon, to meet "the guy" who could get that done. His name was Carl, and the story I heard was that he had been the President's Personal Secretary in both the Kennedy and Johnson administrations, and left the job because of his loyalty to Nixon. At the time, he was Nixon's Personal Secretary, four years after Watergate, I remember that he was still fiercly loyal, and questioned me about my intentions for an autographed picture, as two fairly-large, highly capable-looking men, with bulges under their jackets, and a curly wired earpiece, exited the limosine that had brought Carl to the Inn.
"He's no problem," Carl said to the leader of the Detail. "He's a Sailor, and the Boss likes to do favors for active duty guys."
The Detail Leader gave me a stern eye, and gruffly asked "Any weapons?"
"NO," I assured him. "I just asked for an autographed picture."
The Detail Leader motioned, and a manila envelope, containing a picture of both the former-President and First Lady, standing on their patio. It was unsigned.
My immediate thought was that I would be sent-off with the picture, no autograph, but Carl directed me to the back seat of the limo, and we started down the road to the once Western White House. I don't remember the drive, or anything, but I seem to recall Carl asking about my parents, and telling him that they had voted Nixon in four elections. I could see his "business face" fade, a little, he seemed pleased. Even the Secret Service-guy relaxed a little.
The next thing I know, I'm standing in front of the desk of a former-President of the United States, in uniform, wondering what I should say to him. He was on the phone, and quickly wrapped-up his conversation, and directed his attention to me.
"How are you, Son?" the President asked. "I understand you wanted a picture for your parents."
I told him about my folks' support of his Presidential and Gubernatorial campaigns, bringing a smile to his face. He took the envelope, removed the picture, and penned: "To Charlie and Jackie Martin. Best Wishes," and I watched a hand that had penned so many historical documents sign it: "Richard M. Nixon". Somehow, "blown away by the moment" can't fully describe the scene, particularly since it got better. After he signed, Mr. Nixon buzzed his wife on the intercom, asking her to come to the office. When Patricia Nixon walked through the door, both the former-President and Carl smiled. Mr. Nixon handed a pen to his wife, said a few quiet words in her ear, and stepped aside, allowing her to sign "Pat Nixon" below her husband's name.
He thanked me for my service to the Navy, gave a personal "thanks" to my parents, shook my hand, and I was getting back into the limo.
"You are one lucky Sailor," Carl told me on the way back to the Inn, "Pat never signs anything."
The Secret Service-guy nodded, and mumbled "Never."
I framed the picture, and gave it to my folks for Christmas. Mom kept asking about it's authenticity, and I kept assuring her that I watched him sign it, myself.
I had watched this transaction; an admirer's request, albeit inconvenient for the actor, had been granted with pleasure. I was standing several feet away, watching, and he was watching me, to see if I would make a similar request, as we passed. "'Sup, Danny?" "Hey." was the entire conversation, but I sensed his relief at not having to fumble with everything, and sign another autograph. It was cool.
In 1978, I got a chance to meet former President Richard M. Nixon, at his "Casa de Pacifica" in San Clemete. All I asked for was an autographed picture, for my parents, from "a guy-who-knew-a-guy," and I found myself at the San Clemente Inn one afternoon, to meet "the guy" who could get that done. His name was Carl, and the story I heard was that he had been the President's Personal Secretary in both the Kennedy and Johnson administrations, and left the job because of his loyalty to Nixon. At the time, he was Nixon's Personal Secretary, four years after Watergate, I remember that he was still fiercly loyal, and questioned me about my intentions for an autographed picture, as two fairly-large, highly capable-looking men, with bulges under their jackets, and a curly wired earpiece, exited the limosine that had brought Carl to the Inn.
"He's no problem," Carl said to the leader of the Detail. "He's a Sailor, and the Boss likes to do favors for active duty guys."
The Detail Leader gave me a stern eye, and gruffly asked "Any weapons?"
"NO," I assured him. "I just asked for an autographed picture."
The Detail Leader motioned, and a manila envelope, containing a picture of both the former-President and First Lady, standing on their patio. It was unsigned.
My immediate thought was that I would be sent-off with the picture, no autograph, but Carl directed me to the back seat of the limo, and we started down the road to the once Western White House. I don't remember the drive, or anything, but I seem to recall Carl asking about my parents, and telling him that they had voted Nixon in four elections. I could see his "business face" fade, a little, he seemed pleased. Even the Secret Service-guy relaxed a little.
The next thing I know, I'm standing in front of the desk of a former-President of the United States, in uniform, wondering what I should say to him. He was on the phone, and quickly wrapped-up his conversation, and directed his attention to me.
"How are you, Son?" the President asked. "I understand you wanted a picture for your parents."
I told him about my folks' support of his Presidential and Gubernatorial campaigns, bringing a smile to his face. He took the envelope, removed the picture, and penned: "To Charlie and Jackie Martin. Best Wishes," and I watched a hand that had penned so many historical documents sign it: "Richard M. Nixon". Somehow, "blown away by the moment" can't fully describe the scene, particularly since it got better. After he signed, Mr. Nixon buzzed his wife on the intercom, asking her to come to the office. When Patricia Nixon walked through the door, both the former-President and Carl smiled. Mr. Nixon handed a pen to his wife, said a few quiet words in her ear, and stepped aside, allowing her to sign "Pat Nixon" below her husband's name.
He thanked me for my service to the Navy, gave a personal "thanks" to my parents, shook my hand, and I was getting back into the limo.
"You are one lucky Sailor," Carl told me on the way back to the Inn, "Pat never signs anything."
The Secret Service-guy nodded, and mumbled "Never."
I framed the picture, and gave it to my folks for Christmas. Mom kept asking about it's authenticity, and I kept assuring her that I watched him sign it, myself.
The "Induction Center" Story
I took my military induction ("Draft") physical on my parents 27th Wedding Anniversary, January 28, 1971. They were spending a long weekend in Tahoe, they left Wednsday afternoon, so I had to get myself up, drive 50-odd miles to Oakland, find a place to park, and arrive at the Federal Building by 8 am. I got there at 8:15, but no one seemed to be upset about it, I was simply handed a paper, and told to sit on the bench for the next group.
They took my group into a classroom, and administered a test. It was a simple test that seemed to focus on the relationship of items, simple math, some grammar, and analytical problems. I was one of the first ones done (not that I'm "superintelligent," or anything), and waited paiteintly for the test papers to be scanned, and to get my "grade," so I could move on. I continued to sit, albeit a little less patiently, as names were called, guys got their piece of paper and left the room. I was last.
"There's been a problem with your exam," a Marine Corporal told me, "you'll have to take the test again."
"Again?" I protested. "Why?"
"Your score was too high."
"HUH?"
"Basically, you aced the exam. 150 out of 150. Nobody does that."
"HUH?"
"We have to make sure you didn't cheat, or anything?"
"HUH?"
"We're not accusing you of anything, it's just that no one, and I mean no one has ever got everything right. We just have to make sure." The Corporal directed me to a front-row student desk, and left me alone in the room.
Several minutes later, the Corporal returned with a new testing group, and administered the exact same test, watching me intently. I took the test again, was the first to finish, and again waited patiently for the results. Again, I found myself alone in that classroom with the Corporal, who admitted to not having witnessed any evidence that I had cheated on the exam, but once again I had aced the test, 150 out of 150. Please, don't get any idea that I'm bragging, it's a really easy test. I would be required to re-take the exam, a third time for the exact same test, this time, one-on-one with a hard-core Master Gunnery Seargent glaring at me the whole time.
I am, protests to my ignorance aside, "nobody's dummy". I have above-average intelligence, and enjoy "figuring things out". After the second test, I figured out that I wouldn't be able to get beyond the testing area unless I gave some incorrect answers. I also figured out a pattern to use by which I could prove I knew the correct answers. I decided to miss every-fifth answer by adding one to the correct answer. If the correct answer on Question 5 was "1," I would bubble in the "2," and so on, wrapping around on "4's". Five, ten, fifteen... all the way through the 150 question exam I recorded my "coded" answers. I finished the test, gave the paper to the "Top," and smiled about my ploy.
"Hah, we knew you were cheating, we just couldn't figure out how. You missed 30 on this one." The guy was convinced that no one could ace that test.
"Yeah," I replied casually, "I bet I can tell you which ones I missed."
"OK, Smart-guy, which ones?"
"Every-fifth, starting at five, add one to the number of the correct answer."
The crestfallen NCO looked at the "misses" on my test sheet, then at me, back to the paper, and added it all up. "You get '80,' it's the most we give." He handed me a piece of paper, and told me to get my "can" ove to the next station.
As it turned out, I had an hour to wait, so I went downstairs to the Main Entrance, to get a soda. I noticed that recruiters from all branches of the service had desks on the main floor, and wandered over to the Air Force desk. "How may I help you?" the recruiter asked.
I explained a bit about my previous two hours, and showed him my piece of paper. "The guy in Testing says it's the highest score they give, so I figure it might be worth something," I told him.
"Well, yes," the Air Force-Guy (AFG) began. "For one, we could guarantee a training school."
"Yeah, what kind of school?"
"I don't know, but it would be guaranteed."
"So, it could be anything?"
"Yeah, but it'll be guaranteed."
I got up, and left without any further exchange. I walked past the Army desk (Brrrr. No jungle for this kid.), thought, for a brief second, about the Marines, and walked straight to the Navy desk, a Petty Officer Lanny Watkins, of the Vallejo office, manning the desk for one of the "assigned" recruiters. I handed him my paper, gave him the same spiel as I gave the AFG, and asked "Whaddayagot?"
"Eighty, impressive, that's the "cream o' the crop. The Navy is always looking for smart young men, and I think we might have something for you. You have to take a day, go to San Francisco and take your 'basic battery' tests, and depending upon those scores, get a guaranteed 'A' School."
Honestly, the decision was pretty easy.
They took my group into a classroom, and administered a test. It was a simple test that seemed to focus on the relationship of items, simple math, some grammar, and analytical problems. I was one of the first ones done (not that I'm "superintelligent," or anything), and waited paiteintly for the test papers to be scanned, and to get my "grade," so I could move on. I continued to sit, albeit a little less patiently, as names were called, guys got their piece of paper and left the room. I was last.
"There's been a problem with your exam," a Marine Corporal told me, "you'll have to take the test again."
"Again?" I protested. "Why?"
"Your score was too high."
"HUH?"
"Basically, you aced the exam. 150 out of 150. Nobody does that."
"HUH?"
"We have to make sure you didn't cheat, or anything?"
"HUH?"
"We're not accusing you of anything, it's just that no one, and I mean no one has ever got everything right. We just have to make sure." The Corporal directed me to a front-row student desk, and left me alone in the room.
Several minutes later, the Corporal returned with a new testing group, and administered the exact same test, watching me intently. I took the test again, was the first to finish, and again waited patiently for the results. Again, I found myself alone in that classroom with the Corporal, who admitted to not having witnessed any evidence that I had cheated on the exam, but once again I had aced the test, 150 out of 150. Please, don't get any idea that I'm bragging, it's a really easy test. I would be required to re-take the exam, a third time for the exact same test, this time, one-on-one with a hard-core Master Gunnery Seargent glaring at me the whole time.
I am, protests to my ignorance aside, "nobody's dummy". I have above-average intelligence, and enjoy "figuring things out". After the second test, I figured out that I wouldn't be able to get beyond the testing area unless I gave some incorrect answers. I also figured out a pattern to use by which I could prove I knew the correct answers. I decided to miss every-fifth answer by adding one to the correct answer. If the correct answer on Question 5 was "1," I would bubble in the "2," and so on, wrapping around on "4's". Five, ten, fifteen... all the way through the 150 question exam I recorded my "coded" answers. I finished the test, gave the paper to the "Top," and smiled about my ploy.
"Hah, we knew you were cheating, we just couldn't figure out how. You missed 30 on this one." The guy was convinced that no one could ace that test.
"Yeah," I replied casually, "I bet I can tell you which ones I missed."
"OK, Smart-guy, which ones?"
"Every-fifth, starting at five, add one to the number of the correct answer."
The crestfallen NCO looked at the "misses" on my test sheet, then at me, back to the paper, and added it all up. "You get '80,' it's the most we give." He handed me a piece of paper, and told me to get my "can" ove to the next station.
As it turned out, I had an hour to wait, so I went downstairs to the Main Entrance, to get a soda. I noticed that recruiters from all branches of the service had desks on the main floor, and wandered over to the Air Force desk. "How may I help you?" the recruiter asked.
I explained a bit about my previous two hours, and showed him my piece of paper. "The guy in Testing says it's the highest score they give, so I figure it might be worth something," I told him.
"Well, yes," the Air Force-Guy (AFG) began. "For one, we could guarantee a training school."
"Yeah, what kind of school?"
"I don't know, but it would be guaranteed."
"So, it could be anything?"
"Yeah, but it'll be guaranteed."
I got up, and left without any further exchange. I walked past the Army desk (Brrrr. No jungle for this kid.), thought, for a brief second, about the Marines, and walked straight to the Navy desk, a Petty Officer Lanny Watkins, of the Vallejo office, manning the desk for one of the "assigned" recruiters. I handed him my paper, gave him the same spiel as I gave the AFG, and asked "Whaddayagot?"
"Eighty, impressive, that's the "cream o' the crop. The Navy is always looking for smart young men, and I think we might have something for you. You have to take a day, go to San Francisco and take your 'basic battery' tests, and depending upon those scores, get a guaranteed 'A' School."
Honestly, the decision was pretty easy.
An Anniversary, of Sorts...
It was thirty-nine years ago, March 1, 1971, that I got "the call" ordering me to report to (what was then called) the Armed Forces Entrance and Examination Station (AFEES). I tell that to the young military folks, and the think I had to report to the Base Exchange, it's MEPS, now. I was on my way into the Navy, something, at age 19, I hadn't informed my parents of, yet.
In 1971, the Selective Service Bureau (the Draft), had a lottery system in place. Each July, they would pull dates out of a barrel -- a sort of Birthday Bingo -- that determined the order of that year's draft. July 15, my birthday, was selected 162, and they expected to take 200, or more. The grim result was, I either had to get back in school (nah), get an apprenticeship at Mare Island (I was on the list), get drafted (being a soldier in Vietnam wasn't all that appealing), or join another branch of the service. On January 1, 1971, I made a resolution to either get on with the Shipyard, or join the Air Force, or Navy. In early January, I got "the Notice," to report to AFEES Oakland for a pre-draft physical, on a date late in the month.
I've got a story about my experience at the "Induction Center," but this isn't the place. (Stay on track. Stay on track.) The short-story is, I decided to join the Navy, had a guaranteed professional rating (DP), was sworn into the Navy Reserve on February 12, 1971, and would go on active duty no later than May. "The Call" on March 1st was a total surprise, even to me.
When the phone rang, Mom jumped up to answer, pronouncing "I'll get it." I remember the scene like it was yesterday, and can still recall the conversation. "Hello," my mother said.
A strange look came over her face as she heard the caller identify himself, and ask for me. "Steven," she called me that when she thought there was something I was keeping from her, "it's a Petty Officer Watkins for you. He says he's from the Recruiting Office in Vallejo?"
"Oh, yeah, I'll take it." I told her, getting up and taking the phone from her hand.
"Carl?" Petty Officer Lanny Watkins inquired (Carl is my "given" name).
"Yes."
"We've had an opening at DP School in June. If you want to go now, I can put you in the group going on March 15. Do you want to go, or wait still?"
"I'll go."
That was it, pretty much. Lanny Watkins told me where and when to report, what to take, and advised me against being late. March 15, 1971, AFEES Oakland, 1 pm, I would take the Oath, and begin my Navy career, not knowing it would become a career at the time.
As soon as my mom had said the words "Petty Officer," both my dad and I jumped. I knew my secret would now be exposed, my dad, a retire Navyman, immediately understood the implications of a "Petty Officer" calling for his 19 year-old son. Poised to take a bite of dinner, my dad's head snapped up, and he dropped the fork. Dad also got a weird look on his face, looking first at my mother, and then me. He was riveted to me, the entire time I was on the phone. Mom kept asking him what it was all about, and Dad shushed her, listening intently to the few words I actually said.
As I hung the phone back up, and returned to the table, my dad's face changed to a curious gaze, touched by a bit of hopeful-pride. "What's that all about?" my dad asked in his "correctional officer" voice, "Where are you going?"
I started at the beginning, and told them the whole story. When I was done, I informed them that I had to be in Oakland, on the 15th at 1 pm, I was going into the Navy. I knew I had made my dad proud, it was on his face, but he was never one to ever express his emotions, and wouldn't actually tell me. Mom "freaked," at first, ultimately realizing that I needed to learn some discipline, and finally grow up. When she calmed down, she hugged me, told me she was proud of my decision, and assured me she would learn to sleep with me out of the house.
Looking back, it was one of the best choices I would ever make.
In 1971, the Selective Service Bureau (the Draft), had a lottery system in place. Each July, they would pull dates out of a barrel -- a sort of Birthday Bingo -- that determined the order of that year's draft. July 15, my birthday, was selected 162, and they expected to take 200, or more. The grim result was, I either had to get back in school (nah), get an apprenticeship at Mare Island (I was on the list), get drafted (being a soldier in Vietnam wasn't all that appealing), or join another branch of the service. On January 1, 1971, I made a resolution to either get on with the Shipyard, or join the Air Force, or Navy. In early January, I got "the Notice," to report to AFEES Oakland for a pre-draft physical, on a date late in the month.
I've got a story about my experience at the "Induction Center," but this isn't the place. (Stay on track. Stay on track.) The short-story is, I decided to join the Navy, had a guaranteed professional rating (DP), was sworn into the Navy Reserve on February 12, 1971, and would go on active duty no later than May. "The Call" on March 1st was a total surprise, even to me.
When the phone rang, Mom jumped up to answer, pronouncing "I'll get it." I remember the scene like it was yesterday, and can still recall the conversation. "Hello," my mother said.
A strange look came over her face as she heard the caller identify himself, and ask for me. "Steven," she called me that when she thought there was something I was keeping from her, "it's a Petty Officer Watkins for you. He says he's from the Recruiting Office in Vallejo?"
"Oh, yeah, I'll take it." I told her, getting up and taking the phone from her hand.
"Carl?" Petty Officer Lanny Watkins inquired (Carl is my "given" name).
"Yes."
"We've had an opening at DP School in June. If you want to go now, I can put you in the group going on March 15. Do you want to go, or wait still?"
"I'll go."
That was it, pretty much. Lanny Watkins told me where and when to report, what to take, and advised me against being late. March 15, 1971, AFEES Oakland, 1 pm, I would take the Oath, and begin my Navy career, not knowing it would become a career at the time.
As soon as my mom had said the words "Petty Officer," both my dad and I jumped. I knew my secret would now be exposed, my dad, a retire Navyman, immediately understood the implications of a "Petty Officer" calling for his 19 year-old son. Poised to take a bite of dinner, my dad's head snapped up, and he dropped the fork. Dad also got a weird look on his face, looking first at my mother, and then me. He was riveted to me, the entire time I was on the phone. Mom kept asking him what it was all about, and Dad shushed her, listening intently to the few words I actually said.
As I hung the phone back up, and returned to the table, my dad's face changed to a curious gaze, touched by a bit of hopeful-pride. "What's that all about?" my dad asked in his "correctional officer" voice, "Where are you going?"
I started at the beginning, and told them the whole story. When I was done, I informed them that I had to be in Oakland, on the 15th at 1 pm, I was going into the Navy. I knew I had made my dad proud, it was on his face, but he was never one to ever express his emotions, and wouldn't actually tell me. Mom "freaked," at first, ultimately realizing that I needed to learn some discipline, and finally grow up. When she calmed down, she hugged me, told me she was proud of my decision, and assured me she would learn to sleep with me out of the house.
Looking back, it was one of the best choices I would ever make.
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