Who'd Have Thought...

I've never made any bones about it, I love books. I love the feel of them, the smell of them, ruffling the pages with my thumb, all of it. I started reading at a young age, encouraged by my mother, and unappreciated by a number of my teachers. The first book I ever read was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain, when I was five. I didn't get much of the humor, back then, but I was able to figure out the 'slavespeak' that Twain used to describe the speach of black characters. Having been a high school English teacher who taught the book, I can tell you that it's more than high school juniors can do today.
To me, books always seemed like a doorway. All one had to do is open a book, and an entirely different world was available. It was a way to escape one's problems; to get away for a while. Sometimes, while reading, I've discovered new ways of looking at my problems, and actually solve some things.
Reading requires an imagination, otherwise it's just words on a page. I wish I had a dollar for every time I've told a student that authors go to great length to describe things, but it's just words on a page if the reader cannot "see" it in the mind. Students used to laugh at me, when they ask, "Where's the furthest place you've been from here?". I always answer, "Istanbul, on Earth, but I've been to Mars."
Okay, it's a hokie joke, but at age 12, I found my dad's stash of Edgar Rice Burroughs books, and through his Martian Series, I've seen what life might be like on the Red Planet, at least in my mind. It's sad, but kids are losing the ability to imagine. Sure, for a few years we let them play with their toys, using their imaginations to decide how to use the toy. Then, almost as soon as they can sit up and feed themselves, we stick a joystick in their hands, and start providing all of the images for them. Maybe it's not so much as kids are losing the ability as it is atropy; not having to use it, it becomes unusable.
When the Kindle first came out, I thought it was pretty cool, but I still wanted to have the actual book in-hand. I saw one while waiting at the hospital, and the woman who had it was really "hip" to the Kindle-thing. In retrospect, she had probably just gotten it... Not me, however, I wanted "the book," paper, binding, pages. As time wore on, though, and bookstores started closing; books got harder and harder to get, and I started thinking about getting a Kindle, or something like it.
Christmas, my wife, who received one herself, gave me a Kindle for a present. I had bought her Bill O'Reilly's Killing Lincoln for hers, which I knew she was getting. I didn't expect mine, so it was a genuine surprize, and since it was registered on the same account, Killing Lincoln went over to my Kindle, too (score). I spent a short period of time getting a couple of favorites from the Free List, Les Miserable, and Twain's Roughing It, later that evening. Monday, I had to force myself to get out of Amazon, because I had downloaded about 2GB worth of classics, including some of the Martian Series.
I'm a fan. I think it's pretty cool to be able to sit down and have a choice of a good number of books to chose from. For the past two days, however, I've been spending time on Mars.

Some Vacaville Memories

I've been around the City of Vacaville, CA, for a number of years. We moved to Vacaville from Vallejo, CA, in the Summer of 1965. My sister (the younger of the two) had just graduated from Hogan High School, and I would have been a 9th grader at Springstowne Junior High. Instead, I became a freshman at Vacaville Union High School, trying out for football, and starting to meet people prior to the start of the school year. It was a good idea, but I was lousy at football, and made a pretty lousy impression on the only people I knew on the day after Labor Day, so I got off to a pretty crummy start.
I started making friends among the other "new people" that year, finding myself pretty much ostricized by high school society as it were. It was tough, in the mid-1960's, to be a "new kid" in Vacaville, particularly if you appeared to stink at sports. All I had was a bad performance at football, I mean, in retrospect, I just wasn't made to play football. That Fall, I probably stood 5 ft. 4 in., and may have weighed as much as 120 pounds (dripping wet). I took the pounding, though, and got through the football season without injury, or playing time. I was pretty disillusioned about my athleticism, and baseball was three months away. I figured to be a "lock" in baseball, so I turned my attentions to playing catch, and getting warmed up for the try-out's.
It was November 1965, I was in Tom Zunino's Frosh/Soph PE class, 1st period (back when PE was required all four years). We had been "shoe wrestling" for a couple of weeks, and I noticed that Mr. Z had been commenting on my performances, because I was winning them all. I knew how to shoe-wrestle, a guy who lived down two houses in Vallejo, a guy who was and athlete, taught me how, and we'd do it all the time on the floor in the dining area. He was four years older, ran about 6 ft. 3 in., and about 190 pounds. Eventually, I beat him, and again, to the point where if he beat me, he'd worked his butt off, and would be sweating heavily. When Z put me up against guys my own size, it wasn't even close.
After a week, I found myself facing guys a lot bigger than me. From the start of school, I grew two inches, and gained about five pounds. By Friday, I had worked my way up to the heavy weights, 212 pounds and up. We had one guy, whom I won't name, that was wrestling JV's that year, behind Marion Boykin. He was maybe 6 ft, 220, but Marion was much bigger, and he was my opponent that Friday. I had on a pair of Converse, canvas, low-tops; he had on high-topped wrestling boots. I remember being told of the pairing, prior to class, and I watched this huge guy go through the jumping jacks, and "burpies," and the whole routine. I did not see a man who entered the gym through the SW doors, and sat in the bleachers; all I could see was my terror. This guy, my opponent, was going to get my shoes by pulling off my legs. I was absolutely convinced of the fact.
When it came time for our match, no one in that gym -- students, teachers, my opponent, or me -- gave me any chance of winning. I used to give up a bigger weight difference with my neighbor, so I thought that my only chance of keeping my legs would be to use my speed. It actually worked. I'd attack his shoe, and just try to keep out of his grasp, taking shots at the shoe as I went. Eventually, I got his shoe off, but he could have easily pulled mine off if he'd ever gotten a chance at it. I stood up, my classmates and coaches "Oooh"-ing at the sight of his shoe in my hand. I dropped it on the mat, and collapsed next to it. The next thing I knew, Z was taking me into his office, and we were talking about Wrestling. I heard, "Blah blah blah, PRACTICE, blah blah blah SEASON, blah blah blah, MR NELSON." I said "No thanks, Coach, I just got done with football."
I couldn't get over how quickly he turned on me. "OK, Mr. 'Cool Guy,' but you ain't passing PE if you don't go out for Wrestling."
I said, "You can't do that." Said it indignantly; with a great deal of emotion; just like I meant it.
He laughed. "We'll see."
On the following Friday, right before Thanksgiving, the TA, Curtis Rice, whose parents were managing the apartments we were living in, stops me, and shows me the gradebook. It has "F" written in for each day since the previous Friday. "I think he means it." Curtis confides. "You better do what he wants." I distinctly remember thinking "Duh." The funny thing is, that wouldn't come around until years after that, "Duh." I went out for Wrestling. Duh.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I got to meet Larry Nelson, and get to know both him and Tom Zunino better than anyone else at the school. I learned a lot about myself; what kind of person I wanted to be. Without a doubt, my Wrestling experience that year helped to cushion the crushing blow of not making one of the baseball teams. When the JV coach learned that I was playing in another league, he asked me to come back. I won't tell you what my answer was. I had a shot at a winter league in San Diego once, but was involved with a Navy career, and never persued it. One more boy's "professional career" dream evaporating. Another "If only..." As good as I was at Wrestling, I was better as a baseball player. much better.

Do Something

So there I was, feeling sorry for myself, hating life because I'm now 50 days overdue for an ESI, and have 40 more days until I get to consult with an MD, to get the proceedure ordered and scheduled. Believe me, I have a pretty high pain tolerance level, but after such a long time, I'm begining to wear down. On days, like today, when I have very little to do, it's easy for me to get into a funk, climb on the pity-pot, moan "poor me's," and wallow in my depression. My tendency to do that is well know, and equally well documented. I used to take medication, but I don't anymore.
I was in my car, sitting in a park, listening to the Eagles Long Road Out of Eden CD, and reading the morning paper. It's all a part of a morning routine, except I'm usually listening to The Bob and Tom Show. The CD gets down to the tenth track, and I'm listening to a song, and all of a sudden, I'm listening to exactly what is going through my head. Although it's a song about a guy who has just lost a woman, the lyrics hit me.

"And when I feel like giving up,
And I'm ready to walk away,
In the stillness I can hear a voice inside me say,
'Do Something.'
It's too late for saving face,
Don't just stand there taking up space,
Why don't you Do Something.
It's not over,
No it's never too late."

I'm suddenly reminded of an inspirational figure, the great Jimmy Valvano, "Jimmy V." who said, "Never give up. Don't ever give up." shortly before his death from cancer. I think of all of the times that people told me "You can't...," and how much that would piss me off. I've always told people that the fastest way to get something done is to tell me I can't do it, and yet I'm getting myself all down because I'm telling myself I can't do this, or I can't do that, because of my back problems.

"I pick up the morning paper,
And all the news is bad.
How did we get on this road we're traveling?
And when I feel like giving up,
And there's no where left to go,
That's the time I dig down deep,
To the only thing I know,
Do Something."

I have to go back, and listen to the song again, to make sure I'm not making this up in my head, and think, "No [explicative]. This is pretty cool."

"Do something.
Don't leave it up to someone else.
Don't feel sorry for yourself.
Why don't you do something?
Run away?
You can't run away.
On your honor,
For your God,
You'll sleep better knowing you tried,
To do something.
It's too easy not to care,
But you're not ready for the rocking chair.
Get up, and do something.
Don't wait too long,
Even if it's wrong,
You've got to do something.
It's not over.
No, it's never too late."
Bang, zoom, right through the heart. I get it. Quityerbitchen, get off your ass and, well, Do Something. Hmm. Quite a concept. Maybe I should try it, whatchathink?

To Mike Krukow and Duane Kuiper

I’ve been a long-time fan of Giant’s baseball; my first-ever pro baseball game was at Candlestick, I think I was nine. It was a Giants – Pirates game, my dad rooted for Pittsburgh, I rooted for Willie (both of them), Orlando, Jim, and a passel of Alou’s. No matter where I went, and I’ve been to many places courtesy of the Navy, I kept track of the G-men. I remember the cries of "Bye bye baby” on the transistor radio I used to sneak into bed, so I could hear the night games.

I’m turning 60 this year, on July 15, 2011. My son, who is currently on active duty with the Navy (third generation Navy) in San Diego, has custody of his step-son (who I call “grandson”) during the summers. Baseball has played a huge roll in my relationship with my son, and I found out that his step-son has never been to any professional sporting event before. This was a no-brainer for me, I’ve made plans to spend my birthday with my son and grandson, at the game in San Diego. We’ll be sitting in Section 302 (right above you), Row 19, Seats 16, 17, and 18. It’s “Orange Friday,” so I’ll be flying the colors.

Please come up and say “Hi” before the game.

One Sailor’s Pre-Com Experience

     I reported to the Pre-Commissioning Unit, USS McKee (AS-41) in March of 1981, a DP1, with ten years service, and six years in grade.  It was my fourth assignment, third as a DP1.  I had previously worked as a Storage and Retrieval Operator on the USS Independence, an LHA Computer Systems instructor at FCTCPAC, and a scheduler at EPMAC in New Orleans.  I’m going to “blow my own horn” here, to that point in my career, I had done pretty well, and was considered as a subject-matter expert on the different computer systems at each stop.  Twice, supposedly, I had been recommended for Navy Achievement Medals, but somehow they had never materialized.

     I had been married for seven years, and had three kids, the middle one born three months premature, and did not surviving her birthday.  My son Cory, who is currently on active duty as a Master-At-Arms at NAVSTA San Diego, was born exactly 355 days after we lost Amy.  Let me tell you, there’s nothing like losing a child for putting strain on a marriage.  We were in chaos, and ended up separating in June, shortly before I was sent to Seattle.

     When I arrived at the detachment in West Seattle, at Lockheed Shipyard, I was handed a check for $6,000, told to find my own accommodations, as best I could, and given a list of hotels where McKee sailors could get good rates.  I settled, for a while, on a place called the Cosmopolitan Motel, on Fifth Avenue, a fifteen block walk to Seattle Center, or a three block walk to the Monorail Station.  Later, I moved into the New Regency, a block towards the Center.

     There wasn’t a lot for us to do, at that point.  The det was in trailers, Lockheed not allowing anyone to occupy spaces on-board until after the Fourth of July weekend. We’d muster, take turns making ServMart runs, and otherwise look for reasons to be somewhere else.  The SO was pretty cool about it, as long as what work they did have got accomplished, he’d see us in the mornings, and the less he knew, the better.  My first three weeks in Seattle were pretty sweet.

     After a spectacular Fourth, both weather-wise, and activity-wise, we were finally allowed to start inhabiting spaces, and ADP Division (S-8) were among the first.  We started with a refurbished AN/UYK-5 computer system, courtesy UNIVAC, a card reader, a teletype, four 1/2 inch tape drives, and a printer that could keep working through an RPG attack.  We had four 1710 keypunch machines, and a card sorter, to generate input.  The UYK-5 was reportedly 20 years obsolete when I was in A School ten years earlier.  The computer had a memory of 16K – and no, that’s not a misprint – and relied on cards and mag tape for input, boxes of 181/2 X 141/2 inch paper, more mag tapes and cards were the only outputs.  A typical update for SuDAPS, IMMS, or Payroll could take an shift of four keypunchers an entire shift to prepare, and hours to actually update the data, and getting the required output materials.  It was stone-age data processing on it’s best days.  Our computer, however, did not work.

     We had, I think, five or six DS’s, who spent long days, and longer nights, trying to get “the box” to work.  I can’t remember how many times we ran across Elliot Bay to Bremerton, getting parts and technical advice, and begging for computer time to try and get our stuff done.  We had a constant flow of people coming and going, all hours of the day and night, from an LPO’s standpoint, it was a nightmare.  The original computer didn’t start working until three days before Commissioning, and even then, it’d still screw up.  I wasn’t ever sure it was right.

     Because of all the traveling we did, it was sometimes 0300, or so, before we’d return to the yard, and on two occasions, DP’s found the Executive Officer passed out in the parking lot.  My folks practically carried him, both times, back to the Quarterdeck.  Rather than being grateful, the XO hated DP’s, and S-8 Division as a whole. 

     I was given the assignment of presenting ADP spaces to the Secretary of the Navy, John Lehman, on Commissioning Day, an honor, but a real pain.  We had rehearsals, probably a dozen of them, all conducted by the XO.  At first, it was working uniform, but a bunch of them were in Service Dress Whites.  Needless to say, the XO was critical of everything about me, and my presentation.  It was all BS, all SECNAV wanted to see was a shiny new addition to the fleet.  Our computer might not work right, but it looked new, so I knew he’d be OK with things.  The XO, however, was not pleased.  I thought to myself, “Okay, Asshole, if you don’t like it when I play it straight, wait until SECNAV gets here.”

     Prior to Commissioning Day, I had purchased a “brand new” set of whites, belt, buckle, medals, even new Corofam shoes.  My uniform, for the occasion was spotless, much to the dismay of the XO, as he previewed SECNAV’s route that morning.  I knew he wanted to find something, and I didn’t give him a chance.

     When Secretary Lehman showed up, he was very pleasant.  I gave him the traditional reception and salute, he returned the salute, and shook my hand.

     “This looks like new equipment.  Is it all new, Petty Officer Martin?”  SECNAV inquired.

     “Sir, you are standing in one of the finest examples of a Data Processing Museum that the Navy owns.”  I replied.

     “How’s that?”

     “Well Sir, the computer system is 30 years out of date, and has limited abilities.”  I told him.  “Do you have a pocket calculator?”

    Secretary Lehman confirmed that he did indeed have one, and he pulled it out to show me.

     “Sir, you have more physical memory in that calculator than this computer.”

     By this time, I could see the red creeping up from the XO’s collar, and he was giving me the “stink-eye.”  I was enjoying myself.

    “How many people work in ADP?” the Secretary asked.

    “Actually, about half of ‘em, Sir.”  was my flippant reply.

     Secretary Lehman laughed; the XO turned completely red, his demeanor telling me that I was “really going to get it” later.  Even I had to chuckle a little.

     From that point on, I explained how the system worked, how many people it took, man hours, all that.  At the end, he thanked me, shook my hand again, and left.  The XO lingered long enough to say, “We’re going to talk about this later." then he too was gone.

     Apparently, I did something to impress the Secretary.  Before he left, he dictated a Letter of Commendation, had it put on the ship’s Commissioning stationary, and signed it.  When I got the call to go see the XO, he handed me the letter, and told me to get out.  I was the only presenter to receive such recognition.

Back After a Brief Hiatus

     It’s been a while since I’ve written in my blog.  Lots of stuff happening here in “Wacky-ville”.  Never a dull moment.

     Victor, my little “Bug,” has been legally made my grandson, and I get to spend time with him often.  He’s a remarkable kid, his past physical challenges aside, he is very smart, albeit not very vocal.  He knows some sign language, “eat,” “more,” “please,” and “thank you.”  He’s come up with his own sign for “drink,” he puts a finger in his mouth and blows on it like a straw.  Hey, it works.

     He’s starting to use words more, and I’ve been encouraging him to talk more when he’s with me.  I’ve been watching him on Wednesdays, since January, and it’s become my favorite day of the week.  We watch Cars while he has breakfast, pausing only to dance a little during “Life is a Highway.”  I’m afraid I taught him that.  We “danced” around the living room, once, all big dips, and rocking around to that song, and he laughed.  Now, when that song comes on, he rolls his shoulders, and smiles at me.

     Okay, I went there, to proud Grandpa-ville, but it’s so hard to resist.  He’s just so darned cute.  He’s a flirt, with a preference for blondes.  We took him to a Giants game on Opening Weekend, and had two blonde women in the seats in front of ours.  I spent most of the game watching Victor get the attention of one, then both, and it wasn’t long before they were fussing over him.  He was on his “A-game” that night.

     Usama Bin Laden is dead.  In one regard, I’m glad he’s been dealt with, and proud of the efforts that lead to his demise.  On the other hand, I don’t know if justice has really been served..  He hasn’t been held to account for his crimes, hasn’t faced the families of his many victims.  He was given the opportunity, and chose to die a violent death, rather than a jury.

     Taxpayers have been spared a huge cost to prosecute the Al Qaida leader, as well as the enormous amount of money it would have cost to house him securely.  In the current economy, that might have been bad.  So, we close a file, dump a body at sea, and everybody’s happy, right?

     Conspiracy theorists are all over the internet, saying the US did not kill Bin Laden, they just dumped a body at sea.  Military bases have heightened security measures, and warnings are out to US citizens abroad.  Militant extremists are probably not pleased a bit, and that usually spells trouble somewhere.

     All of this effects us here in Vacaville.  For those of us who use the hospital, or the exchange/commissary facilities at Travis, it will add time to the process of getting “on-base.”  It’s a hassle, a necessary one, perhaps, but a hassle.  Particularly if you are in one of the cars they choose to search, even if you have nothing to hide.

     But life goes on… Mary is back at work, after a two-week homestay.  I hate to say it, but I’m kinda glad she’s out of the house.  I love this woman with all my heart, but if that’s what retirement is going to be like, I’m going to have to find a job, or something.

     How soon will Hollywood turn the Bin Laden take-down into a movie?  Who’d play Bin Laden?  That could be a career-ender for some actor.

     Looking ahead, in July, the 15th, to be exact, my 60th birthday, I will be attending the Giants-Padres game at Petco Park in San Diego.  I will be going with my son, Cory, and his step-son, Gino.  Gino is 13, and has never gone to a professional game of any form.  I think it’s pretty darned cool.  I’ve met Gino, and he seems to be a nice enough kid.  This is my first “Grandpa Outing” with him, so spending my birthday at a Giants game, with my son and grandson, and one of my old Navy buddies, is the best way I could celebrate.  If you’re into baseball, as my immediate family seems to be, and into families, like me, there can be nothing better.

The Start of a New Year - 2011

January 5, 2011

No, I have not been recovering from any New Year's Eve celebrations, those days ended long ago. I knew I had completed my youth, and had entered middle-age, when it finally dawned on me that my body couldn't take the abuse anymore. Even then, it never occurred to me that there would be consequences, that came at 50. I "live simply," and try not to get complicated. The "Live Simply" slogan was something I noticed at Grandma's Pantry, up around Yreka, off I-5.

We were returning to Vacaville after a week-long trip through Spokane, Seattle, Vancouver, Canada, among other Northwest cities. It was Mary, Cory, and me, we had gone to Spokane, rented an apartment, and did a little sight-seeing. I had noticed the place on the way up, and had remarked that I wanted to have breakfast there on the way back. We drove from Springfield/Eugene, all the way to Yreka before breakfast. We were pretty hungry.

Sitting in a booth, along the front windows, I noticed some stained glass pieces, and was really quite interested in them. On the window, by our booth, was an oval piece, depicting a small house, on the edge of a forest, with a path leading up to it. It's very pretty, but that's not why we bought it. On a scroll across the bottom are the words, "Live Simply".

Seriously, those two words hit me harder than any other, and believe me, I've heard about every two-word combination there is. Some, more than others, and a lot of certain combinations that I know aren't physically possible, but "Live Simply"? I had to have it. Two words that have molded my life since that day in 2003.

We've tried to live simply, and it isn't easy to do. We'd get involved in something, and pretty soon, we're checking each other's schedules, figuring out when to spend a little time together, and Bingo, things started getting complicated again. We've gone through a couple of those, and managed to untangle our committments, and get back to living simply. Whenever we do, things are really great.

Today, I start my day reading a Facebook post stating that new editions of Mark Twain's classics The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn would substitue the word slave for the "N-word." I have no idea why, whether publishers were pressured to make a change, or whether the publisher decided to re-write an acknowledged author's manuscript, but it is wrong on so many levels.

My problem is, how do we know where we are going, if we change Literature to satisfy the Politically Correct? The fact of the matter remains although the word is, hopefully, becoming archaic, but it's still a part of our History. In the 1840's, the era that forms the setting of both novels, men used the n-word frequently, to reference a black slave. It was, originally, a slurred version of negro, becomming nigra, and eventually evolved into the objectionable form that Twain uses to authenticate his dialogue. What's next? Do we have to change all of the dialogue to conform with PC standards.

It's there, already, in case you missed it. Huck Finn, a Disney-backed telling, with Elijah Wood as Huck, and Courtney Vance as Jim. It's so PC, it sucks. The character Jim, in this version, sounds like a Julliard drop-out, or something, but he sure doesn't sound like the loveable-but-woefully-ignorant Jim that Twain describes. Realistically, since it was against the law, at the time, to educate slaves beyond language. It's ugly, but it's still part of our History, and things have improved a great deal since. Rather than touching-up Literature, we should appreciate how far we have come as a species, and celebrate.

I'm glad the n-word is becoming archaic, bon-voyage, hasta la later, and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. I lived with a father who became a racist as a matter of survival. Few jobs were available in the late-1930's, and competition for work was stiff. I can see how it happened, and why, but he took a long time to see "blacks" as merely people. It peppered my youth, and I admit to being racially biased when I joined the Navy. Once I understood the magnitue of my father's ignorance, a lot of things happened.

I sit here, blathering on, as we approach two years since my father passed, and yet he's still alive in my heart, and in my mind. I hear his voice, when I'm trying to figure something out. Sometimes it's good advice, sometimes it's something else, something not malevolent, but impish, perhaps. I have learned a great deal from my father's example, most of it OK, but I've rejected a good deal. I learned to be patriotic, and to be honest, basic things I still claim to be, but I also learned how not to be a parent. I guess even a bad example is still an example.