A old friend recently asked me to "spill my guts," and offer up something that people don't really know about me. I admitted to being a classical music affectionado, although everyone who knows me thinks I am a classic rock-guy. I also admitted to attending a dozen (at least) symphony concerts before ever going to a rock show, and that is true.
My parents bought their first house in 1957 for something like $8,500. It was a "3BR/2BA, Ranch," located at the top of a small hill, on a circle in Vallejo. At the time, Vallejo had a fair symphony orchestra, and they would have a "concert season," during which they would perform at the Hogan Junior High Theater, every other week, doing Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, and my favorite, Motzart. My parents bought season tickets for both the symphony seasons and the play season put on by the local players. I was too young to be left in the care of my 14 and 10 year old sisters, so I had to get dressed up; sports coat, slacks, white shirt and tie, to go with my folks to the symphony and the theater. Six years old.
That's how people appeared in public back then. Look at some of the old live-audience shows back in the late '50's and early '60's, all the men have ties, all the women have their hair done, and are wearing nice dresses. One simply did not appear in public unless properly attired. I blame my generation for the changes that followed.
Yeah, the graduates of the late 1960's and early 1970's. We are the ones who fought all the battles, and never got credit for making a change. Worse yet, by the time the changes got enacted, we were all 21, so it didn't matter to us. We fought the fights; we did the civil disobedience thing and got arrested; we took the backlash of a society that feared change worse than anything, and we got nothing. Yes, we got the voting age lowered, we got out of a war we never belonged in, we got society to go beyond conformity and the associated "-isms" that accompany that line of thinking, and to start looking at the value of "different," rather than to what harm it could bring. So what came next, logically, was all our fault.
It seemed to center around "different," and the argument that different wasn't a moral judgement... it was just... different. Pretty soon, we have casinos in California, and cities that can no longer protect the lives of its citizens. OK, neither has anything do do with each other, but that's the situation out here in the West. Just over in Dodge City... oops, I mean Stockton... there was a double homicide on Sunday, bringing the number of murders in the city to 53, 55 if the ones in critical condition fail to improve. People are not even safe in their own homes in Stockton. It's a war, and the "good guys" are losing. Losing badly.
I hope people are watching Stockton. The city's decent into Hell is a forecast of the future in California. Our governor want us to raise our own taxes. He's so convinced that we'll do it, he's put it to a vote. Spending in the Golden State is out of control. The Governor and Legislature keep writing checks for money we don't have. What happens when the one-time "fourth largest economy" goes bankrupt? The international effects will be devastating, and it will cripple any economic recovery in the US. Proposition 30, the "I want to raise my own taxes so the government can say they didn't do it" Act. I already pay the highest over-all taxes in the Nation, I don't think I'll choose to raise taxes with my vote. Of course, this is California: Land of Fruits and Nuts... I can only pray that there are enough people who tell the State "NO!"
Monday, October 22, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Perfection
During the TBS broadcast of the Reds vs. Giants, Game 5, or perhaps in the wrap-up show after the game, someone made this comment:
"You only have to bat 1.000 in two things; flying and brain surgery. In everything else, you can go four for five."
I liked it the moment I heard it, and asked Mary if she had heard the comment. I like it so much, I intend to steal it, like a good public school teacher, and make it my own.
"You only have to bat 1.000 in two things; flying and brain surgery. In everything else, you can go four for five."
I liked it the moment I heard it, and asked Mary if she had heard the comment. I like it so much, I intend to steal it, like a good public school teacher, and make it my own.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Welcome to My World
I have had a pulled muscle in my back since June, when I played "Good Samaritan," and got hurt for my efforts. I don't blame the old guy; it was my choice to stop and get involved. I actually kind of laughed about it, kind of; I recognized the humor, even my original doctor chuckled when I told him how I hurt myself. After a while, it pissed me off, a little, that every one's first response to my pain was to laugh. Laughter may be the best medicine, but it was pure voodoo at that point. I really did hurt myself, doggone it, and I'm in a lot of pain.
I got sent to a physical therapy clinic not far away, and would get heat, muscle stimulation, and a massage, then exercises. It was working OK, I was feeling better, but on my last visit, the masseuse hurt me, possibly tearing some additional muscles in my back. I don't want to sue her; I don't want her fired; I just want to get my back fixed, so it won't hurt in that spot, too. I got my last ESI on July 30th, so pain-wise I was doing as well as I can, and somewhere around the latter part of August, I did something to re-aggrivate that injury. I've been in some pretty incredible pain since we got back from Yosemite the week after Labor Day.
I don't blame camping. It may not have been the best thing I could have done, but it certainly didn't hurt me. I actually noticed the pain had returned on Labor Day weekend, so it definitely wasn't the camping. Too many good things came out of that trip to wish we hadn't done it. Since that time, however, it has gotten worse and worse, to the point where I am losing my appitite, and sleep only in short bits because of this stupid torn muscle.
I have decent pain meds, and never take anything close to the maximum daily dosage, so I have room to up the meds a little. Whirlpool baths help for a little while, as do heating pads, Icy/Hot, SalonPas, lidoderm patches, and the usual topical stuff, but it's at night that things get really bad.
Sleeping in my bed is impossible. It turns out that it is actually an ancient torture device covered with memory foam. For all I know, that may actually be the case, as I haven't been able to get comfortable in it for weeks. On the few occassions I do fall asleep, I usually turn over wrong, or sleep in an awkward position, and I'm almost crippled from it by morning. Fortunately, we have a very comfortable reclining couch, and I can create the support points to at least get some sleep. Tonight I'm going to try a "Zero-Gravity Recliner" that we bought last year. It has a small pillow on it that is a perfect lumbar support, so I'm going to try that tonight.
Meanwhile, I do what I can to try to get through it. My dad, who wasn't a religious person, once told me that he would become a thithe-paying Mormon if I could answer one question for him. "If life is so wonderful, why does it have to hurt so much at the end?" At age 61, I think I'm able to answer that question, it's just my dad passed three and a half years ago, so I can't share it with him right now. I will, though, someday.
Mankind was given one perfect person. His name, on Earth, was Jesus of Nazareth; He is the Son of God. He came to us to teach us, by example, how to live our lives in such a way that we may return to His presence someday. Time and time again, we are given examples of how He lived His life, and we are told to do what He would do. At the end of his Eartly life, Jesus experienced enormous pain in Gethsemane, to the point where he bled through every pore. Mere men could not survive that experience, so we are given, as promised, sufficient to our needs, but not enough to kill us. Plus, we get to have it longer; we do not know how long He suffered for us, but it certainly didn't encompass his "Golden Years". Maybe we can't survive bleeding from every pore; we can certainly carry our pain for a long time. Suffering over the decades what he experienced for us in an instant. I'll take the long-term payments, thank you very much.
That would have been my answer. Maybe if I'd found it sooner, his last words wouldn't have been, "Oh Shhhh..."
I got sent to a physical therapy clinic not far away, and would get heat, muscle stimulation, and a massage, then exercises. It was working OK, I was feeling better, but on my last visit, the masseuse hurt me, possibly tearing some additional muscles in my back. I don't want to sue her; I don't want her fired; I just want to get my back fixed, so it won't hurt in that spot, too. I got my last ESI on July 30th, so pain-wise I was doing as well as I can, and somewhere around the latter part of August, I did something to re-aggrivate that injury. I've been in some pretty incredible pain since we got back from Yosemite the week after Labor Day.
I don't blame camping. It may not have been the best thing I could have done, but it certainly didn't hurt me. I actually noticed the pain had returned on Labor Day weekend, so it definitely wasn't the camping. Too many good things came out of that trip to wish we hadn't done it. Since that time, however, it has gotten worse and worse, to the point where I am losing my appitite, and sleep only in short bits because of this stupid torn muscle.
I have decent pain meds, and never take anything close to the maximum daily dosage, so I have room to up the meds a little. Whirlpool baths help for a little while, as do heating pads, Icy/Hot, SalonPas, lidoderm patches, and the usual topical stuff, but it's at night that things get really bad.
Sleeping in my bed is impossible. It turns out that it is actually an ancient torture device covered with memory foam. For all I know, that may actually be the case, as I haven't been able to get comfortable in it for weeks. On the few occassions I do fall asleep, I usually turn over wrong, or sleep in an awkward position, and I'm almost crippled from it by morning. Fortunately, we have a very comfortable reclining couch, and I can create the support points to at least get some sleep. Tonight I'm going to try a "Zero-Gravity Recliner" that we bought last year. It has a small pillow on it that is a perfect lumbar support, so I'm going to try that tonight.
Meanwhile, I do what I can to try to get through it. My dad, who wasn't a religious person, once told me that he would become a thithe-paying Mormon if I could answer one question for him. "If life is so wonderful, why does it have to hurt so much at the end?" At age 61, I think I'm able to answer that question, it's just my dad passed three and a half years ago, so I can't share it with him right now. I will, though, someday.
Mankind was given one perfect person. His name, on Earth, was Jesus of Nazareth; He is the Son of God. He came to us to teach us, by example, how to live our lives in such a way that we may return to His presence someday. Time and time again, we are given examples of how He lived His life, and we are told to do what He would do. At the end of his Eartly life, Jesus experienced enormous pain in Gethsemane, to the point where he bled through every pore. Mere men could not survive that experience, so we are given, as promised, sufficient to our needs, but not enough to kill us. Plus, we get to have it longer; we do not know how long He suffered for us, but it certainly didn't encompass his "Golden Years". Maybe we can't survive bleeding from every pore; we can certainly carry our pain for a long time. Suffering over the decades what he experienced for us in an instant. I'll take the long-term payments, thank you very much.
That would have been my answer. Maybe if I'd found it sooner, his last words wouldn't have been, "Oh Shhhh..."
Monday, September 10, 2012
Surviving Yosemite
All we have heard, for the past few weeks, was about the virus at Yosemite, that was carried by the mice. Albeit early, I think my family survived pretty well. We were all tired last night after getting home, but everyone seems healthy (knocking on wood). Yeah, six people... six... died of a horrible disease, and that's tragic, but six out of what? One million visitors, two million? We figured we'd risk it. We weren't actually staying in the park; we had campsites (or is it a Kampsite) at a KOA about 20 - 25 miles west of the park, so we really didn't think much about it. Additionally, we were in our own (personally owned) tents, and ate over a fully covered table. Pretty much Camping 101.
As you can see, from the picture taken by my youngest child, we had a beautiful early September weekend, the weekend after Labor Day, and we were amazed at how crowded the park wasn't. Sure, there were still a lot of people there, the campgrounds were full, as was the Lodge, and the hotel just outside the West gate, but it wasn't really bad like it can be at times. It's the first time we've been camping (Mary, Tyff, Jacki, and I) in many, many years; like when we first bought the 13X12 screen-porch-tent we have, some where in the mid-1990's. It was also the first time we went camping with Peter and Victor, too. It would be a great weekend. Mister Victor learned about telling "spooky" tales at night with a flashlight. It was a lot of silliness, but he really got into it, and had a great time.
I found out a couple ofthings, however, that seems to be this Universal Truth, that I'm just getting too old for a lot of stuff, and that sleeping on an air bed on the floor of a tent is getting to be one of them. I've had worse beds, this was a Bed-in-a-bag that came out years ago, and was still in good shape, so as far as beds go, this was just short of a Select Comfort. Still, it was a mattress on the ground, and at 61, the ground is a long way down, and a lot longer getting back up. I'm going to have to look for a cot.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Growing Up Quickly
I guess I lead a sheltered life. It was common for the parents of "baby boomers" to try and shield us from the harsh realities of life; most of them survived the Great Depression, and never wanted their kids to have to want for anything. Prosperity was booming in the 1950's, but you wouldn't have known it in our house. Dad was still in the Navy, and we really didn't have much. We had what we needed, and very little else. It didn't matter, though, because there were millions of other kids going through the same things in their homes. The Greatest Generation knew what it meant to be poor, and so they buoyed away money whenever they could, "just in case..." I don't want to call them "cheap," because that wasn't it at all, they simply wanted to be prepared should the bottom drop out of the stock market again. This is all beside the point that our parents did a lot to shield us from the "ugly stuff".
I got through life pretty easily, trauma-wise, the most traumatic thing in my life, up until I was 20, was having to move from Vallejo to Vacaville after eight years, EIGHT years, in one house. We had moved so often before, and I finally had some friendships that spanned years rather than months, and we were moving again. But that was it. That was the most traumatic thing I had to deal with in my first 20 years of life. I lost a few acquaintances, and a couple of friends before I joined the Navy, but I never saw their bodies, so I was a little insulated. To that point in time, I had never seen a real dead person. That would change on a summer's evening in 1973.
I was on the carrier USS INDEPENDENCE, on deployment to the Sixth Fleet, headquartered out of Naples. I was working as an E-4, assigned to the ship's Intelligence Center. I had met a lot of people in a really short time, and became friends with some of the Boatswain's Mates, the guys who drive the Liberty Launches, etc. When we first hit port on this deployment, I spent some time learning how to be a Coxswain, or the absolute "last word" on that 100-man utility-boat when it was in motion. It was a lot of fun, and I even got to drive the boats, a few times, on supply runs, etc. I actually became quite skilled handling the 40-foot launches..
Some Arab group put a bomb on a Pan-Am flight out of Rome, and detonated it over the Mediterranean between Rome and Malta. The "Indy" was called into service for a Search and Recovery mission. It took us less than an hour to reach the "crash site," and within another half-hour had every boat on board in the water, and the ship was "drafting" volunteers to help recover whatever we could. I was actually working, at the time, we had just finished serving "mid-rats," and my crew was cleaning up in the aftermath. A call came in to the galley, and the Cook came out and told me to report to the Hangar Deck, to help man a boat. I found out it was one of the Boatswain's Mates I had trained with, and he asked for me because he knew I could drive the boat should it be necessary. I ended up holding a "battle lantern" (a yellow lantern seen almost everywhere on Naval ships), and a gaffe (a long pole with a little hook near the end), working the port-side.
My lantern hit something bobbing up-and-down in the dark waters, and I called out "Got something. Port side." Boats maneuvered the launch around slowly, expertly, getting us right next to the object, and allowing me to hook, what turned out to be a seat, with my gaffe, and draw it towards the boat. It seemed a little heavy, for a seat, as I pulled it close aboard. I unhooked my gaffe, and plunged it into the water near the foot of the seat, pulling upward to roll the seat over. A woman and her young daughter were still seat-belted in place, death attested to by the blueness of their complexions. I dove to the starboard-side of the boat, and deposited the contents of my stomach into the Mediterranean.
With the help of another boat, we managed to get the seat, and its gristly contents, onto a "collections" boat, where human remains were processed, tagged, and bagged. It would be a very grim morning on the Hangar Deck, as the remains of nearly 100 casualties, laying in body bags, in a corner of the ship's main deck. Still others were laying in bags on the other ships called to render assistance. Two hundred fourteen, if I recall correctly. Two hundred fourteen people just exterminated by a terrorist. I just couldn't get my mind wrapped around that. Hijacking, I could see, but bombing? To me, it was the worst day of my life. That distinction wouldn't last long.
Later in that same deployment, I had been working the "mid-shift," from 1930 to 0730, for our longest period out of port, brought about by the October War between Egypt/Syria and Israel. Some cute jokes came out of that, and we had some really close calls over a month at sea, but Israel prevailed, and earned it's right to exist. For most of that month, I rarely saw the sun, which can be done very easily on a ship the size of a small city. When the hostilities ceased, and it looked like we'd be able to duck into port somewhere for a little liberty, I went up to Vulture's Row, four stories above the Flight Deck, to observe the morning operations, take-offs and landings, the movement of planes around the deck, all just before sunrise.
It was going to be a glorius morning to be at sea, the sun, from below the horizon, colored them a bright yellow, it was chilly, but promised to be a fine southern Mediterranian day. I thought about spending some time on the weather decks that morning, just to break-up the daily "at-sea" routine. Just being on Vulture's Row that morning was a start.
Sitting below us, and forward of us, was an A-7 Corsair doing "low revs," sort of like idleing for a jet plane. The A-7 is a unique airplane, that kind of resembles a shark, with a wide, mouth-like intake for the engines. On normal occassions, an A-7 would not be started, for non-flight purposes, without a screen (for lack of a better word) that covered that grinning maw, and it certainly wouldn't do an "on-deck high-rev" evolution because the engines will suck down anything within a 25-foot radius of the intake, including a 180 lb. man. Three mistakes were made that morning, The last one, fatal.
I won't go into detail, it happened so fast, a guy was running across the bow of the A-7, and then he wasn't. The sound will haunt me to my dying day, as the blades of the turbines were introduced to body and bones. Worse, however, was that the young man had been reduced to "ground beef," and sprayed against the island of CV-62. Right directly at the six. The material was forced up and out, sprayint into the winds, and right into my face. That was the day I grew up.
I got through life pretty easily, trauma-wise, the most traumatic thing in my life, up until I was 20, was having to move from Vallejo to Vacaville after eight years, EIGHT years, in one house. We had moved so often before, and I finally had some friendships that spanned years rather than months, and we were moving again. But that was it. That was the most traumatic thing I had to deal with in my first 20 years of life. I lost a few acquaintances, and a couple of friends before I joined the Navy, but I never saw their bodies, so I was a little insulated. To that point in time, I had never seen a real dead person. That would change on a summer's evening in 1973.
I was on the carrier USS INDEPENDENCE, on deployment to the Sixth Fleet, headquartered out of Naples. I was working as an E-4, assigned to the ship's Intelligence Center. I had met a lot of people in a really short time, and became friends with some of the Boatswain's Mates, the guys who drive the Liberty Launches, etc. When we first hit port on this deployment, I spent some time learning how to be a Coxswain, or the absolute "last word" on that 100-man utility-boat when it was in motion. It was a lot of fun, and I even got to drive the boats, a few times, on supply runs, etc. I actually became quite skilled handling the 40-foot launches..
Some Arab group put a bomb on a Pan-Am flight out of Rome, and detonated it over the Mediterranean between Rome and Malta. The "Indy" was called into service for a Search and Recovery mission. It took us less than an hour to reach the "crash site," and within another half-hour had every boat on board in the water, and the ship was "drafting" volunteers to help recover whatever we could. I was actually working, at the time, we had just finished serving "mid-rats," and my crew was cleaning up in the aftermath. A call came in to the galley, and the Cook came out and told me to report to the Hangar Deck, to help man a boat. I found out it was one of the Boatswain's Mates I had trained with, and he asked for me because he knew I could drive the boat should it be necessary. I ended up holding a "battle lantern" (a yellow lantern seen almost everywhere on Naval ships), and a gaffe (a long pole with a little hook near the end), working the port-side.
My lantern hit something bobbing up-and-down in the dark waters, and I called out "Got something. Port side." Boats maneuvered the launch around slowly, expertly, getting us right next to the object, and allowing me to hook, what turned out to be a seat, with my gaffe, and draw it towards the boat. It seemed a little heavy, for a seat, as I pulled it close aboard. I unhooked my gaffe, and plunged it into the water near the foot of the seat, pulling upward to roll the seat over. A woman and her young daughter were still seat-belted in place, death attested to by the blueness of their complexions. I dove to the starboard-side of the boat, and deposited the contents of my stomach into the Mediterranean.
With the help of another boat, we managed to get the seat, and its gristly contents, onto a "collections" boat, where human remains were processed, tagged, and bagged. It would be a very grim morning on the Hangar Deck, as the remains of nearly 100 casualties, laying in body bags, in a corner of the ship's main deck. Still others were laying in bags on the other ships called to render assistance. Two hundred fourteen, if I recall correctly. Two hundred fourteen people just exterminated by a terrorist. I just couldn't get my mind wrapped around that. Hijacking, I could see, but bombing? To me, it was the worst day of my life. That distinction wouldn't last long.
Later in that same deployment, I had been working the "mid-shift," from 1930 to 0730, for our longest period out of port, brought about by the October War between Egypt/Syria and Israel. Some cute jokes came out of that, and we had some really close calls over a month at sea, but Israel prevailed, and earned it's right to exist. For most of that month, I rarely saw the sun, which can be done very easily on a ship the size of a small city. When the hostilities ceased, and it looked like we'd be able to duck into port somewhere for a little liberty, I went up to Vulture's Row, four stories above the Flight Deck, to observe the morning operations, take-offs and landings, the movement of planes around the deck, all just before sunrise.
It was going to be a glorius morning to be at sea, the sun, from below the horizon, colored them a bright yellow, it was chilly, but promised to be a fine southern Mediterranian day. I thought about spending some time on the weather decks that morning, just to break-up the daily "at-sea" routine. Just being on Vulture's Row that morning was a start.
Sitting below us, and forward of us, was an A-7 Corsair doing "low revs," sort of like idleing for a jet plane. The A-7 is a unique airplane, that kind of resembles a shark, with a wide, mouth-like intake for the engines. On normal occassions, an A-7 would not be started, for non-flight purposes, without a screen (for lack of a better word) that covered that grinning maw, and it certainly wouldn't do an "on-deck high-rev" evolution because the engines will suck down anything within a 25-foot radius of the intake, including a 180 lb. man. Three mistakes were made that morning, The last one, fatal.
I won't go into detail, it happened so fast, a guy was running across the bow of the A-7, and then he wasn't. The sound will haunt me to my dying day, as the blades of the turbines were introduced to body and bones. Worse, however, was that the young man had been reduced to "ground beef," and sprayed against the island of CV-62. Right directly at the six. The material was forced up and out, sprayint into the winds, and right into my face. That was the day I grew up.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
My Children, and My "Chidren"
I was blessed with four children, Tyffany, Cory, Amy, and Jacklyn. Unfortunately, Amy was a "placenta previa" baby born way too early, and returned to God after a few brief hours of life. If I haven't written about this, I think I may need to, as this incident rippled through much of my life. I am very proud of my children, Tyff has a Masters in Marriage and Family Therapy, and walks the walk, talks the talk, and is a vocal advocate for children in foster care. Cory is an MA1 in the Navy, and has decided to make it a career, making three consecutive generations of career sailors in my family. Jacki is the Office Manager at the Animal Care Center here in town, and looking to move somewhere outside of California in the near future. She doesn't know that I will have a really hard time with it, but I am willing to bear it if it is best for her. I would do anything for my children.
My "children," on the other hand, are a group of special souls who have been friends with my kids, and always felt like part of the family. These are too numerous to name, because I know I would forget someone, and possibly hurt their feelings because of the omission. There have been dozens of them over the years. I believe it was due to the fact that we had rules in our house, they were firmly enforced, and they didn't change with the seasons, so to speak. They were simple, easy to remember, and violations were dealt with in a loving and respectful manner. Mary always called it the three R's of discipline, the three R's were, "Related," "Reasonable," and most of all "Respectful". At least for the ones we "adopted" as our children grew up, before they left home.
There haven't been many since we became "empty nesters," although we've had a few. One young woman in particular, and you know who you are, has been especially close to our family, and has attended family activities, the whole nine yards. She's leaving for Newfoundland at some point soon, and as much as it pains me to do so, I'm going to have to really say good-bye, knowing it will be the last time I see her in this life. I guess the old addage is true, in order to really love someone, you have to let them go. Good-bye my little Canknucklehead. Have a great life.
My "children," on the other hand, are a group of special souls who have been friends with my kids, and always felt like part of the family. These are too numerous to name, because I know I would forget someone, and possibly hurt their feelings because of the omission. There have been dozens of them over the years. I believe it was due to the fact that we had rules in our house, they were firmly enforced, and they didn't change with the seasons, so to speak. They were simple, easy to remember, and violations were dealt with in a loving and respectful manner. Mary always called it the three R's of discipline, the three R's were, "Related," "Reasonable," and most of all "Respectful". At least for the ones we "adopted" as our children grew up, before they left home.
There haven't been many since we became "empty nesters," although we've had a few. One young woman in particular, and you know who you are, has been especially close to our family, and has attended family activities, the whole nine yards. She's leaving for Newfoundland at some point soon, and as much as it pains me to do so, I'm going to have to really say good-bye, knowing it will be the last time I see her in this life. I guess the old addage is true, in order to really love someone, you have to let them go. Good-bye my little Canknucklehead. Have a great life.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Our Favorite Picture
I've just added a "new" picture to my blog. The black-and-white photograph was taken by a Photographer's Mate, who's name I've completely forgotten, as we were preparing to deploy on my final Med Cruise on the USS INDEPENDENCE(CV-62), in early July 1974. We had been married for less than five months at the time, and I did everything I could to get out of having to go for less than half of the six months-long deployment, but got screwed by this young Ensign, and had to stay until the morning of October 1, 1974, before I could execute my transfer orders, a grand total of 84 days aboard ship, and 6,000 miles further from home.
All of that is irrelevant, the fact of the matter is that this is our favorite photograph of the two of us. No wonder, we're almost 40 years younger, but it's pretty symbolic of what our life together has been, saying good-bye for periods of time. That may sound pretty sad, but the "welcome home's" were always extremely nice, so it evened out, so-to-speak. It's actually my second favorite of her, my favorite being a full color, studio portrait she had done in 1973 for me. She's so beautiful with long hair! Not that she isn't beautiful with her hair worn short, but I really loved the long hair. I don't have many pictures of her with her hair long, so I kind of treasure the ones I do have.
OK, back to the tale of Steve vs. The Ensign. The guy was a "Yalie," a little rich-kid, playing "navy" with some new kids he got to boss around, because he hung around school long enough for Daddy to buy him a degree in something totally stupid. I was 22, had made E-5, and was a Shift Supervisor for the Intel Center; he was 21, and he had just graduated, sent through OCS, and then to the Indy. Shortly after he came aboard, I didn't see him out on the pier, and didn't salute, and he got all over me about it. Seriously, I didn't see the little SOB, and it was all a mistake, but he made such a big deal out of it, I made a vow to never salute the little sh*t if I saw him out in town, screw the consequences.
It was about a month before I found out about a Sixth Fleet regulation that would allow sailors in deploying units a chance to execute orders early, as long as the orders didn't have a "NET" (no earlier than) date, and had less than 90 days left before transfer. I was on the pier, and sure-enough, here comes the young Engign, and I suddenly had to repair a shoelace. When I stood back up, there he was, waiting for me to salute him.
I refused.
The Ensign informed me that it was appropriate for an enlisted man to salute his "superior" as a sign of respect.
There was something about the word "superior," maybe the snotty way he said it, or the fact that he used "enlisted man" as though we were some sort of sub-species, but that part of my brain that keeps my mouth shut was suddenly paralized.
"Excuse me, Sir." I addressed him appropriately. "As far as I know, I have no superiors, and damn few peers. Sir!" One thing I learned in the Navy, always have a wittness. Two of my shipmates heard him use the word "superior," and knew that the Navy was, at the time, trying desperately to NOT give the appearance of any form of "class distinction". Both saw and heard my reply, and would attest that it was done with all courtesy, I walked away.
A month later, I find out about the Sixth Fleet-thing, and submit a request to transfer early, since I would have 84 days left aboard when the Indy deployed. Somehow, it ends up in the Ensign's hands, and he says "No". Department Head: "No." XO: "No." CO: "No."
The little bastard had the balls to hand it to me saying, "You're too valuable to the Division. We need a contact-relief, and he won't be here until October. By the way, you're value to the Division is to fill a TAD spot on the mess decks, as a Master-at-Arms. You go tomorrow." He walked away, smiling back over his shoulder. I was screwed, no doubt, but he thought he had the last word. I love it when the smug ones think they've had the last laugh; they're so confused when they find out that they're wrong.
Oh, yeah, I went to the mess decks. They tried to make me move in to what amounted to transient quarters, but I declined to move, and my supervisor told them to back-off. It was ninety days of Hell. The only good thing was that the time went by really fast. I was even released a few days early from my 90 day sentence, ironcially serving 84 days as a Mess Deck Master-at-Arms. In truth, I learned a great deal about myself in that 84 days in Hell, and had a positive influence on a group of young men who didn't understand why they had to spend time "mess cookin'".
I was the Starboard Section Leader, and in charge of 50 these confused young men. We worked pretty hard, one day on; one day off if we were in port, 12 hrs on; 12 off at sea. We had meal hours that overlapped, at sea, to where there was always some place to get a meal, 24 hours a day for as long as the ship was out of port. When the spaces weren't used for meals, they were used for bomb assembly and transfer to the hangar deck. In between, my people cleaned. They cleaned during meals, too, grabbing a tray at some point, and then back to work. My Section, when I took it over, had the worst rate of Unautorized Absence (UA) in the Supply Department. My "boss," a grizzled E-5, who was just waiting to retire, told me that I would have to "ride these [people] every... moment." I told him I didn't work that way.
On my first day back in the Intel Center, I was greeted warmly by everyone, and shocked everyone by seeking out the Ensign, and publicly thanking him for sending me out to the mess decks. I was, actually, somewhat sincere in my gratitude to this Ensign, I offered to take him to dinner at the NCO Club in Naples, and to see Morey Amsterdam's show on our last night in Naples. We drank, we ate, he had a whole bunch of drinks, I sipped two beers the whole night, he had a few more drinks, and I ended up with this seemingly boneless mass of Ensign, trying to catch a cab back to the Fleet Landing before the expiration of liberty at 0400. Somehow, I made it on to one of the last boats back to the ship; the Ensign didn't. I don't know what happened to him, but the CO was pretty hard on guys who missed ship's movement; he'd be less than enthused about an Ensign missing movement.
All of that is irrelevant, the fact of the matter is that this is our favorite photograph of the two of us. No wonder, we're almost 40 years younger, but it's pretty symbolic of what our life together has been, saying good-bye for periods of time. That may sound pretty sad, but the "welcome home's" were always extremely nice, so it evened out, so-to-speak. It's actually my second favorite of her, my favorite being a full color, studio portrait she had done in 1973 for me. She's so beautiful with long hair! Not that she isn't beautiful with her hair worn short, but I really loved the long hair. I don't have many pictures of her with her hair long, so I kind of treasure the ones I do have.
OK, back to the tale of Steve vs. The Ensign. The guy was a "Yalie," a little rich-kid, playing "navy" with some new kids he got to boss around, because he hung around school long enough for Daddy to buy him a degree in something totally stupid. I was 22, had made E-5, and was a Shift Supervisor for the Intel Center; he was 21, and he had just graduated, sent through OCS, and then to the Indy. Shortly after he came aboard, I didn't see him out on the pier, and didn't salute, and he got all over me about it. Seriously, I didn't see the little SOB, and it was all a mistake, but he made such a big deal out of it, I made a vow to never salute the little sh*t if I saw him out in town, screw the consequences.
It was about a month before I found out about a Sixth Fleet regulation that would allow sailors in deploying units a chance to execute orders early, as long as the orders didn't have a "NET" (no earlier than) date, and had less than 90 days left before transfer. I was on the pier, and sure-enough, here comes the young Engign, and I suddenly had to repair a shoelace. When I stood back up, there he was, waiting for me to salute him.
I refused.
The Ensign informed me that it was appropriate for an enlisted man to salute his "superior" as a sign of respect.
There was something about the word "superior," maybe the snotty way he said it, or the fact that he used "enlisted man" as though we were some sort of sub-species, but that part of my brain that keeps my mouth shut was suddenly paralized.
"Excuse me, Sir." I addressed him appropriately. "As far as I know, I have no superiors, and damn few peers. Sir!" One thing I learned in the Navy, always have a wittness. Two of my shipmates heard him use the word "superior," and knew that the Navy was, at the time, trying desperately to NOT give the appearance of any form of "class distinction". Both saw and heard my reply, and would attest that it was done with all courtesy, I walked away.
A month later, I find out about the Sixth Fleet-thing, and submit a request to transfer early, since I would have 84 days left aboard when the Indy deployed. Somehow, it ends up in the Ensign's hands, and he says "No". Department Head: "No." XO: "No." CO: "No."
The little bastard had the balls to hand it to me saying, "You're too valuable to the Division. We need a contact-relief, and he won't be here until October. By the way, you're value to the Division is to fill a TAD spot on the mess decks, as a Master-at-Arms. You go tomorrow." He walked away, smiling back over his shoulder. I was screwed, no doubt, but he thought he had the last word. I love it when the smug ones think they've had the last laugh; they're so confused when they find out that they're wrong.
Oh, yeah, I went to the mess decks. They tried to make me move in to what amounted to transient quarters, but I declined to move, and my supervisor told them to back-off. It was ninety days of Hell. The only good thing was that the time went by really fast. I was even released a few days early from my 90 day sentence, ironcially serving 84 days as a Mess Deck Master-at-Arms. In truth, I learned a great deal about myself in that 84 days in Hell, and had a positive influence on a group of young men who didn't understand why they had to spend time "mess cookin'".
I was the Starboard Section Leader, and in charge of 50 these confused young men. We worked pretty hard, one day on; one day off if we were in port, 12 hrs on; 12 off at sea. We had meal hours that overlapped, at sea, to where there was always some place to get a meal, 24 hours a day for as long as the ship was out of port. When the spaces weren't used for meals, they were used for bomb assembly and transfer to the hangar deck. In between, my people cleaned. They cleaned during meals, too, grabbing a tray at some point, and then back to work. My Section, when I took it over, had the worst rate of Unautorized Absence (UA) in the Supply Department. My "boss," a grizzled E-5, who was just waiting to retire, told me that I would have to "ride these [people] every... moment." I told him I didn't work that way.
On my first day back in the Intel Center, I was greeted warmly by everyone, and shocked everyone by seeking out the Ensign, and publicly thanking him for sending me out to the mess decks. I was, actually, somewhat sincere in my gratitude to this Ensign, I offered to take him to dinner at the NCO Club in Naples, and to see Morey Amsterdam's show on our last night in Naples. We drank, we ate, he had a whole bunch of drinks, I sipped two beers the whole night, he had a few more drinks, and I ended up with this seemingly boneless mass of Ensign, trying to catch a cab back to the Fleet Landing before the expiration of liberty at 0400. Somehow, I made it on to one of the last boats back to the ship; the Ensign didn't. I don't know what happened to him, but the CO was pretty hard on guys who missed ship's movement; he'd be less than enthused about an Ensign missing movement.
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