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.

Two Physical Altercations'

I've had two physical altercations -- OK, fights -- in my life, and both ended badly. I'm not proud of either, and I don't go around bragging about them, although, technically, I "won" one. Fighting was not my idea, nor my intent in either of them, and any blows I struck were in my defense, only.
In the first "fight," I saw my assailant, very blurried from his blind-sided punch to the back of my head, as I was falling. Phil Zeman, all "blah-blah-blah" about something, in what seemed to be some form of Klingon, right before I blacked-out. I don't know how long I was out, but Phil was gone, and the world had this "tingly" look to it. As it happened on school property, I reported the incident to the Office, who assured me that it "could not have been Phil Zeman..." I left without further discussion.
The second had a lot to do with my association with one Dexter Lee Holmes, out of LA. We were attending a computer operations school in Albany (alBAny), GA, and lived down the hall from each other in the barracks. Dexter had never spent any time out of LA, admitting this was his first time away from a metropolitan city. We'd play pool, get pretty wasted, and end up somewhere where the draconian lighting, on-base, gave us a generous view of the stars on clear nights. "I've never seen this many stars..." That always amazed me.
To say, merely, that Dexter played pool well would insult the man's genius with a cue-stick. He was like a wizard, waving a cue for a wand, making the numbered balls succumb to his will. In my life, I've only seen one better, Ray Tague, but that's a different story, Dexter was really good. We used to play, he'd teach me, and I became a formitable player, as a solo; an even better doubles-partner, which led to all of the trouble later. We used to "own" the tables at the Enlisted Club, and could go there and be the "Champs" of both tables; Dex on one, me on the other, night after night. Every once in a while, someone would bring in a civilian "buddy," or two, and we played some hotly contested matches, winning a little money on the side. I was good, Dex was better, and together... well, as we used to say, "Don't miss."
All of this leads to a night off-base, where both of us learned that racial prejudice was alive and well, and living in southern Georgia. All we wanted to do was shoot some doubles, somewhere, and the club had become boring. In some places, Dex (oh, did I mention Dex is African-American?) wasn't wanted, in others, it was me. We walked a long way, that night, and finally found this roadhouse, where everyone was welcomed. I can't remember the name of the place, nor could I ever find it again, should it ever be necessary, but it had an eclectic selection on the juke box, and pitchers of beer came in a stainless-steel pitcher.
We were goofing around, not betting, not even for drinks. It never got "serious," we each respected the other's game too much for that, and we missed a lot of shots, doing poor impressions of people we'd seen on-base for each other's amusement. I hadn't seen the two "rednecks" come in, I just knew that other people were playing next to us. As we were drinking beer, and playing around, I heard comments coming from the other table about how we were playing. Nothing rude, crude, or socially unacceptable; "Shoulda made that one," and "How'd he miss that?" Stuff like that.
Dex was hearing it too, and intentionally missed a shot he'd normally make nine-out-of-ten times while sleeping. The older guy says to his partner, "Maybe we could teach 'em how to play this game, eh?" Dex calmly laid his cue on the table, and looked at me. I was scratching my chin, and figured, "What the hey..." and gave Dex the "I'm in" look. We had a game. Doubles 8-Ball, no "slop," for a pitcher of beer.
Come to find out, these guys were father-and-son, armed with a lot of luck, but little skill. We played a few games, they bought, we bought, and the older guy says "Let's play for $5 a-head." Both Dexter and I took a jolt on that one. We decided to keep it to $5, and to keep our heads-up to see if we were being hustled. We weren't. If anything, the opposite was true, as we ended up beating them out of $600 each. In the last game, the one for $600, we were down to the 8-Ball, and they still had three or four balls left, it was my turn. We were in the bottom half of the table, the Cue-Ball was near the side pocket, 8-Ball across center, but their ball was blocking the bottom corner pocket, the others limiting my choices in other places.
The shot just appeared to me, drunk as I was, and I called it, "8-Ball, two rails, top-left pocket." I knew it was perfect, the moment I hit it. The 8-Ball hit the two rails, angling across the table directly into the top-left pocket, but it was slowing down quickly, and creeped into the pocket. I had gotten down behind the pocket, to watch the ball roll in, when I stood-up, I was smacked in the face with the business-end of a pool cue, 1/2-inch below my left eye. I went backwards, and over a table, smacking my head on the floor. Again, don't know how long I was out, but when I got up, I had a stainless=steel beer pitcher in my hand, and two jerks were manhandling my friend. I waded in, swinging the pitcher, connecting solidly against the older man's head. I'll never forget the sound, "BONG!" it made, subsequent blows never made the same noise.
When it was over, Dex had the son down, and I was holding a stainless=steel mass that was no longer recognizable as a pitcher. Dad was down, and wouldn't get up until after the cops arrived. I thought to myself, "Well Steve, here you are, in a redneck bar, with a black friend, and the two of us have just beat the crap out of two, probably "regulars," white guys. You are going to jail. You are going to JAIL!" I glanced at Dex, he had entertained similar thoughts, and he smiled weakly. When the Sheriff arrived, Dex says "Here we go, brother." I was thinking of how to explain this to the Navy, and nothing was working.
The Sheriff quickly assessed the situation, and assumed that the two guys still standing started it. The bartender was really great, he saw what the Sheriff was going on, and said "Hold on there, Deputy. I know how this looks, but it ain't them boy's fault. It's all Jake and his son, met a couple of boys they couldn't beat playin' pool."
The reaction of the Deputy to the name gave me a bit of hope. "Hmmph!" the Deputy grunted. "How much this time?" He turned to me, still bleeding from a facial laceration, "How much?"
"Six hundred dollars, Sir."
The Deputy looked at Dexter, who nodded, "Each?"
Dex said, "Yes Sir, each, Sir."
"You husslin' pool, Boy?"
"No Sir, we tried to get them to pay-up at $150, but they doubled, twice."
The Deputy looked at the bartender, "I heard 'em, tried to talk 'em out of it, but Jake wouldn't hear of it." The bartender confirmed.
"You boys military?" The Deputy had noted our haircuts.
"Yes, Sir." We answered simultaneously. "Navy," I added, "at school on the base."
From that point on, we were treated as Victims, who had defended themselves admirably. The father and son were brought around, and told to pony-up $600, each. They complied, at which time the Deputy arrested them for Assault and Battery, and led them off. A cheer sounded, apparantly at justice having been served, and the bartender bought us both a beer. I looked at Dex, and he looked back, then hung his head. "Don't know why we ain't in that cop car, man." To be honest, neither did I. We took a taxi back to the base.
That's it. My two fights. I like to think that fighting doesn't do anything but create hatred, and if one has to resort to it, one's already lost the argument. I know it sounds funny, coming from a retired military guy, I just have problems understanding violence at any level. One of the reasons I chose to persue a degree in English is a belief that words can solve anything, on any scale.

My Spouse, Mary Christine (Gardner) Martin

What can I say about Mary that I haven't already said, many times? After almost 37 years of marriage, I've used about every superlative (and, honestly, a few derogatives) in the English Language. That's how one stays married for 37 years, by thinking and speaking well about each other all (most) of the time. We've known each other for more than 40 years, going back to high school, we even dated for a few months. She was, as I have often avered, my best friend, and has remained so, through it all.
Mary doesn't remember the first time I ever saw her, but I can still recall it very clearly. It was the day after Labor Day, 1966. I was a sophomore, she was a freshman, but we shared the same Homeroom, 9th and 10th grade, G through M. I was already in the room, pouring over my schedule, when she walked in with a friend who had helped her find her Homeroom. She hates her yearbook photos, because her mom had her wearing a page-boy haircut, black-rimmed "granny glasses," and a skirt that hung well below her knees. I don't know, and have never known, why she became a "person of interest" (as they say) to me. To be honest, she wasn't a "real looker," pleasant looking, modestly dressed (in a day when teachers checked hemlines by making the girls kneel), with the hair and glasses, she still caught my interest. Being 15, and handicapped by a deathly dread of rejection, I kept my distance, but I found out a great deal about her before we ever "met".
I knew her dad, though I didn't realize it for quite a while. He had been in a bowling league with my dad, different teams. I used to keep score, and earn $2 a night for my efforts, plus tips. My dad introduced us when I was a freshman, and Jack was an interesting, slightly odd, and intelligent man, so I kind of liked him. Although, in my mind, I wasn't interesting, I was a little odd myself, and a lot more intelligent than I look. We spoke many times, and one night, after I had seen her in Homeroom, he brought Mary to the bowling alley. DING!
It would be an entire year, after that night, until we were actually introduced. That happened when I joined a nine-person folk-music group called "A Small Cyrcle of Friends". I saw quite a bit of her at rehersals and performances, and got to know her as a person. The group dissolved, due to the difficulties of getting nine people to rehersals, but Mary, a petite red-head named Nina, the Chief of Police's son, George, and I formed a group to perform at a Quartet Festival held at the Napa LDS Stake Center. Mary and Nina were LDS, George was Catholic, and I a lapsed-Lutheran, so we called the group "The Ecumenical Council". Mary was, and is, a very pleasant Alto, Nina was a Soprano, George a Tenor, and I did the bottom. George played a Martin six-string; I played a twelve-string, and we did a lot of Peter, Paul, & Mary stuff, and improvised a fourth-part harmony. We sounded really good.
We had rehearsed Where Have All the Flowers Gone?, and (Stick of)Bamboo for the competition, and had our harmony crisp and polished. We were scheduled late in the program, so we sat together (I sat next to Mary), and listened to group-after-group perform songs in perfect unison. One group, a couple of groups before us, even did the same songs we were doing, but in unison. I got the idea about the same time George did, and we exchanged glances, and hustled the girls into a corner to discuss a slight change to our performance. No one had expected to listen to unisonic performances all night, but no one had shown an inkling of harmony. We decided to sing Where..., but we would sing the first verse in unison, and break into four-part in the second. The impact was amazing.
As we began, the girls were singing to the audience, George and I watched the Judges lean back, bored as all get-out. As we finished the first verse, George and I exchanged smiles, completing the chord-riffs between verses, and broke into a perfectly pitched, four-part harmony. As in most amateur competitions, there was a good deal of background "hubbub," people talking, babies crying, but as soon as we broke, the room went absolutely still. The only thing being heard in that Cultural Hall was a couple of mediocre guitarist, and four young people singing a song as it should be. Some time, during the second verse, George and I exchanged much broader smiles. The girls noticed it, too, and we finished the night confidently, reveling in the rapt attention of our audience. We took First Place.
I have to tell that story, because it was Mary's and my First Date. I had asked her mom if we could attend a Moby Grape concert at the Fairgrounds, it was on the way home, and I would have her home by 12:30 am. Mom said "No." Knowing that Christine had said no, the opportunity to "celebrate our victory" was too great of a temptation, even for Mary, who agreed to go "for a while". We claimed "car trouble" for the delay, but it was a weak excuse, and Mom saw right through it. I hated to start-off with parents by lying, I always tried, and was mostly successful at currying parental favor, but I really wanted to see Moby Grape, and hang out with Mary, and hold hands. I don't think we even kissed that night, but I knew I was in love.
Mom -- I've earned the right to call Chris Gardner that -- didn't like me, didn't trust me (for obvious reasons), and only consented to a second "First Date," after Jack stood up for me, and I agreed to "observe all the rules." That meant coming to the door, greeting the family, posing for pictures, the whole nine-yards. I always thought of the experience as my introduction to Southern culture. Besides, the Mormon-lifestyle had intriqued me, even at 16. Even at our wedding, I don't think Mom trusted me, or even liked me much, but I wasn't marrying her, I was marrying the best friend I've ever had.
We did the normal-teenager-dating-thing, for the late-'60's, movies, dances, parties, I even through a Sweet Sixteen party in Mary's honor. That was the night I told her I loved her, and she started "planning our future together." Remember, I was 16 myself, and had gained enough insight to know I didn't know anything, and the woman I loved was sitting with my head in her lap, talking about marriage, and jobs, and all the crap I was trying to avoid thinking about at the time. I didn't know what to think, after that night, but we made it last until the Fall of '68.
Call it youthful restlessness, or a big-breasted blonde freshman, but I mentioned to a "friend" that I was liking this new girl on the bus. Don't know how he did it, but by the end of the class period, it got back to Mary. I'm walking down the main hall, and Mary's friend, Diane, gets right in my face, and tells me, "Mary doesn't want to see you again." BOOM! Huh? What? Right out of the blue.
I respected Mary's wishes, except for rehersals, and they were always tense. I went out with the blonde. Broke up with the blonde. Hung out, smoked a lot of pot, dated sproratically, dropped out of college, hung out some more. As my father's patience began to wear thin, I surprized him by joining the Navy in 1971. Went to boot camp, A-School, got transferred to an aircraft carrier already in the Med, pub-crawled Europe, came back, was in the middle of a major ship's overhaul, and thoughts of suicide were becoming viable options to my lonliness. An observant Leading Petty Officer, a guy named Gibson, or "Gibby," started some paperwork, and I found myself with ten days-off for Christmas and New Years, '72 - '73. Gibby said he didn't care how I got there, but to go home. A phone call later, I had Space-A tickets, NOR-ATL-DFW-SFO.
Somewhere, from the apartment-to-the airport, et al, I caught a flu virus. Spent the first three, of my ten days, flat on my back, on my parents couch. When I got to feeling better, I started thinking of people to call, and got up to make a phone call, but not the one I dialed. It was Mary's home number, and her mom answered. I asked if Mary was home, and she asked, "Who's this?"
I said, "Don't tell her, but this is Steve Martin." I felt a sudden chill across the phone lines.
"Just a minute..."
Mary was delighted by my call, and asked when I could come over. I told her an hour; she said a half-hour; I agreed, she said, "OK, see you in fifteen minutes," and hung up. I stood there, phone in hand, listening to the dial tone, thinking, "That was strange." I actually made it in ten.
I will never forget the image of her opening the door that night. Her hair was long, the glasses more stylish, and she was dressed in a pants-blouse combination. She was every bit the BYU Co-ed, of 1972. In short, she was the most beautiful person I had ever beheld. The very instant I saw her, I knew. It was like a bell, or a gong, there was this ringing in my ears, my heart started pounding, and I started to feel very warm, almost sweaty. I knew I was looking at the woman I would marry. It was absolutely clear.
Over the years, I've only forgotten that image once, when facing one of the toughest tests a marriage can go through, and it lead to even more trying times. It was all my fault, but we came out of it stronger, in the sense that "Those thing that do not kill me..." We've faced it all; the good and bad, the joyous and horrific, even life and death, together.
I tell anyone who'll stand still long enough, that I married my best friend. No one gets through what we have without being friends, the fact that we still love each other has little-to-nothing to do with things. You love somebody because you have to, spouse, or child, or brother/sister, or parent; friendship is a choice. Sure, one may love a friend, but the choice comes first. Clearly, once in my life, I made a good one.

Another Rant About Schools

Every year, it's the same scene. Chester the Freshman is running down the main hall, which is difficult because he's carrying everything he owns in his backpack. CF is scared, obviously he has drawn the attention of one of the football players, and is fleeing for his life. Yep, momentarily, the entire varsity defensive line appears, in hot pursuit; another school year has begun in high school. Pick one; doesn't matter, you'll see the scene played out in every high school in America, every year.
Some call it "hazing," some call it "bullying," but it's all the fault of school districts from coast-to-coast. In a haste to teach math, science, and language to acceptable test standards, schools fail to teach children how to use math, science, and language in their lives, and about "working and playing well with others". By the time they get to high school, they should be used to being around people with all types of abilities, and disabilities, but they aren't. So they aren't prepared to "go to the next level," as the popular phrase goes.
There should be, in the year before a student attends high school, a semester-long class on transitioning to high school. It could be a big help towards surviving a freshman, or sophomore year. Kids need to know, in advance, that there are students, in high school, that have little-to-no regard for their welfare, modesty, or existence. Perhaps, instead, an extra week, in the freshman/sophomore year, so they know how to get around, and are less likely to stand out. Either way, they should learn what's in store for them.
And while I'm on this subject, would the teachers who drill into their middle school student's minds that "the best way to start an essay is with a question," please freaking stop. I have had to work, sometimes, years to get students to stop doing it. At least, for God's sake, if you have to hang with that philosophy, teach them what a rhetorical question is. If I had a nickle for every essay I've read that began with a "Yes or No" question, at least I'd have something to show for my efforts. Get a life. My standard response was "No," or the opposite of what the writer was getting at, with a note, "Rewrite opening paragraph. No questions, please." Time and time again, I should have had a rubber stamp made. Personally, I find a personal anecdote to be appropriate in almost all forms of writing, even professional/technical.
Any way, getting back to my original topic, a lot of the hazing/bullying in high school could be prevented if kids understood what was out there. Things like, "No student in middle school drives a car, half-to-two-thirds of high school students do." Simple enough, but I bet I could get an hour out of it, at least, possibly a whole unit. Lesson Objective: The student will understand that sixteen year-old drivers are dangerous, and survive to be one.
Looking back, I was lucky. I was new to the town, which already was "strike one," socially, but I made friends, somehow, with a senior, that year, who at 6'2", and 245 pounds, was the biggest kid in school. Because of his prowress at football, wrestling, and track -- he was a big "country boy," raised on a ranch -- he was given a great deal of respect. His friendship pretty much ended my days of "freshman orientation," but not the bullying altogether, after all, he was gone the next year.

My Take on Language

Language has always facinated me. Not just English, although I am multi-lingual enough only to order a beer, or find a restroom (besides a few insults in Tagalog), but listening to the spoken language, it's a music all its own. Spoken language has a rhythm, a cadance if you will, a beat that can be altered to create emphasis, reveal emotion, or sound the alarm. I'm an eavesdropper, but not an ill-meaning one. I listen for the sounds of language, the background music of life.
OK, I'm rambling already, but have you ever noticed how smoothly conversations go in the Movies and TV, and realized how different that is from life? The difference is that actors reherse their parts of the conversation, for the most part, people in life do not. Plus, what makes it into the production is often the results of several "takes," and we only get one shot at getting it right. Even if we can, or do reherse what we want to say, we say it wrong, "putting the em-PHASIS on the wrong sy-LABLE" (see, that joke isn't funny in print, only mildly when you hear it), or say it at the wrong time, or we get an unexpected response, and life, once again, overcomes.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating rehersing conversations, but I believe that people should think about how they say things before they say them. I realize we live under the illusion of "instantanious" communication; you can probably get on the internet and see how I feel about anything much faster than asking me, and have me make a considered response. So, why think about it? Blurt out something like,"Great. You?"
I am still a fan of the late-George Carlin, who made millions of dollars on seven words. Carlin understood a fasination with the sounds that language made, and was always at his best when substituting words for those we use most commonly. The "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television" routine remains an all-time favorite, even among folks who don't routinely profane. It's his emphasis on the sounds of words, as in, "sounds like a snack," or "those regressive 'k' s." Those of you who are familiar with "Seven Words..." will understand the words referred to, but the best part of that routine is the "Words You Never Hear Together" bit towards the end. "Hand me that piano." "Please saw off my legs." These don't seem funny, here in text, the meaning is lost until you "hear" the words. I "got" Carlin in a big way.
Today, we use language like a hammer, and while still a "tool," not one I'm very fond of. Language is a tool, or, rather, a tool-box with a wide assortment. Each has an appropriate use, as in a language for expressing one's self appropriately. I mean, you don't want to yell "Hi Jack!" across the airport concorse, even if he is a friend. No, I haven't done that, nor do I suggest anyone try it, as the attention you would receive would not be a hug or a handshake, it would be handcuffs and hustled-off to a room with no door handles. We are constantly bombarded by other people's words, and some of them are scripted in a way to "hammer in a message," read by people hired for their ability to read copy, first take.
It was my great fortune to learn to visualize literature at a young age, and is the basis for my love of written language, particularly books. For me, a book had a secret, some piece of intelligence I had yet to aquire, which I could actually "see" (through the printed word) a picture of Tom Sawyer's cave, or Bilbo Baggins' dragon, to the point of "being there". Too often, I'll miss some deeper meaning, but I read to escape. I'm sorry to part with the Literary Experts (whoever they are), but I have to go with Freud, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." In looking for some deeper meaning, believing it to be essential in something being considered "literary," the LE's miss the author's ability to draw a reader into a story, to put a face on a character, to make the moments come alive.
I once told a group of students that I had "been to Mars..." I took the barage of what passes for humor among teenagers, and finished the thought, "...in my mind." That gave them a little to think about. In the end, I doubt if I taught anyone, my own kids included, how to make a character come alive, but they had to admit it was possible.