I'm listening to From the Cradle, by Eric Clapton. I'm done with what I wanted to do today, which is to play golf. Had some good shots, lots of bad shots, and made a 35-foot par putt. I hope to do it again, Friday morning, and have an 8:48 am Tee time with Mr. Bill on Saturday. Now that I've had my back "stabbed," I'm in pretty good shape, back-wise. It's ESI Therapy, a steroid injection, near my disks at L5/S1 to shrink the disks, and take pressure off the sciatic. My doctor, Captain David Gover, RD, USAF, is a real nice person, and fun to joke with. After my first ESI Therapy, he looked at me and said, "I didn't realize you were that tall." I've been doing this long enough to know everybody in the Interventional Radiology (Angio) Clinic, nurses, techs, they take great care of me, and I appreciate them more than they'll ever know.
Anyway, the Blues...
I don't remember, exactly, when I first started listening to the Blues, probably in junior high, maybe high school. I was pretty young, though, enough so that I couldn't identify with some of the themes. I mean, c'mon, white kid, living at home, life being somewhat handed to him. I just liked the sound. I know I became a real fan in high school, getting dumped by a girl, or some of the love-themed Blues seemed to "speak" to me. I started to relate to the lyrics, and I was hooked. I realized that it's not a black/white thing; it's a living life thing. A shared common experience. Listening to BB King sing about how "[n]o body loves me but my momma, and she could be jiving, too" always seemed to make me feel that things weren't all that bad.
A few decades have passed since then, and the Blues genre is pretty popular. For me, personally, the songs have become the littany of my own experience. I've had the blues many times, but I guess that goes with depression. The music still helps me to think that things could be worse, and I move on. Now that we've officially reached Spring, we're on DST, and things are starting to warm up, I'm ready to get outside. I tell everyone that I am "solar powered," as my down-cycles mostly come in late-Fall and Winter. I've never been diagnosed with seasonal affective disorder, but I know what goes on in here, and it ain't very pretty. Between you and me, one of us is insane.
My African-American friends have all gotten a kick out of the "white boy" who digs the Blues. 'Course, I'm not much of a "boy" anymore, but I still dig the Blues. They'd bring out some obscure Blues albumn, old recordings, stuff like that, and I dug it very much.
I guess I can relate to Eric Clapton a great deal. Both of us have survived substance abuse, and we've both had to bury a child. Tears in Heaven tore me up the first time I heard it. Even my African-American friends recognize Clapton as a "Bluesman," for some it was a difficult admission, too. Eric has such a gift. Few of his songs are his "own" anymore, but he can take an old blues standard, and give it new life. The rawness of the emotions reflected in his music testify to his authenticity as a Bluesman. His story is my story, so to speak, he just had a lot more money and fame.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Thirty-Nine Years Ago...
I missed my opportunity to touch on my experience of going into the Navy on the actual anniversary. Thirty-nine years ago, however, I woke up in the Receiving and Orientation barracks, to begin my second day of confinement at the Naval Training Center, San Diego. Getting that far, however, was not uneventful.
After the phone call from the Navy Recruiter, my parents were pretty stunned. They had no idea. I had made up a "plausable" story, going to spend the night with friends after going to the Fillmore, to take a Greyhound to SF in order to take my Basic Battery Tests (GCT/ARI/Sonar/bunch of others, now called ASVAB's), to see if I qualified for professional training. I did pretty well, a combined GCT/ARI of 127, well above any minimum requirements for any of the schools. I chose DP, Data Processing Technician, and was guaranteed to attend the Class "A" School after Boot Camp.
Now that the word was out, so to speak, I think my dad was very pleased, perhaps a bit proud, but he would never actually tell me. Mom was worried, probably for a good reason, as she had been a Navy Wife for a long time, and knew what sailors went through. There was also, on her side, a genetic link to alcoholism, and she knew I had been drinking for a while, already. They took me to the Induction Center, witnessed my swearing-in (actually my second), and spent some time hanging out with me until the bus to the airport came. They actually went to the Oakland Airport, and hung out with me until the plane boarded. This did a lot for my "reputation" going in. Most everyone else was alone.
We got on a PSA 727 bound from Oakland, direct to San Diego. I had a gym-bag, and a hefty envelope containing all of my paperwork. Taped to the front were my orders, identifying me as D82-31-8274, my Service number. We were all told not to order alcoholic beverages during the flight, so I drank a cola; the flight took about an hour.
When we arrived at Lindberg Field, we were met by a Navy/Marine Corps Recruit Liason, who shouted a lot, and got us in three lines, standing at Parade Rest, baggage and records between our feet. There were a total of 110 of us, 14 Marines, and 96 Navy. The bus to NTC had a capacity of 90, and I watched everyone, including the guy next to me, get on the bus. I was 91. "Great," I thought, "now we have to wait for the bus to go back, unload, and come back." It was my first day, what the heck did I know.
The Navy driver, upon reaching his limit, went in to tell the Recruit Liason that there were still six Navy recruits left. While he was inside, the MCRD bus came, a smaller, 30-passenger, Marine OD green stopped. The driver was loading his 14 recruits as the Recruit Liason, a Navy CPO, burst through the doors, screaming profanities at everyone, but no one in particular. He got on the Navy bus, looked around, and got off; got back on, then off again, swearing like a Mule Skinner, and stomped off to the MCRD bus. Noticing that the MCRD bus was only half full, he approached the Corporal-driver, and a short, but angry discussion ensued. When it was over, the Corporal got on the bus, moved all the Marine Recruits to the front of the bus, giving the last two rows of seats to the six Navy-guys. "This ain't gonna work," the Corporal kept muttering. When we were all situated, he told us to stay in our seats, no matter what happened at MCRD, and he would drive us to NTC.
The drive was quiet-ish, some general conversation, getting to know one's fellow recruit, stuff like that. As we pulled in to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, things got real quiet as we entered the gate, and pulled up to the main building. A Drill Instructor, complete with his "Smokey the Bear" hat waited patiently for the bus to stop. As soon as the door opened, the largest, meanest, angriest black man I have ever seen leaped onto the bus, put his hand on his hips (effectively blocking the forward exit), and started screaming. "Maggots, you got ten seconds, and ten seconds only to get off this bus, and get on those yellow footprints outside; we've already used up five, and you won't touch me on the way out, now MOVE!"
Fourteen Marine Recruits got busy throwing things out the windows, going out the emergency exits, and otherwise getting out of this man's immediate vicinity. It was Marx Brothers, Keystone Kops, and Three Stooges, all at once, live. It struck me as funny, and I laughed, attracting the attention of the DI. "What the [explicative] is your problem [explicative]?" The Corporal tugged on the DI's trouser-leg, and told him we were headed for NTC. A look of hatred passed across the DI's face, "Pussies!" He yelled, exiting the bus. Our journey continued not a moment too soon.
The short ride between MCRD and NTC was very, very quiet. I looked around at the other guys, and they all had the same look on their faces, "What have I done?" After the experience with the Marine DI, none of us knew what to expect when we reached our destination. I worked on steeling myself up for a repeat performance, a badass shouting orders. For the second time, as a newly-enlisted Navy recruit, I was wrong.
I swear, the man who got on the bus was Wally Cox. Looked like him, sounded like him, I almost laughed when he said, "OK you guys, they have already started a session, you need to wait out here, and you can smoke if you want, until they come to get you." Getting off the bus, I noticed a guy in dungarees, folded up once, at the bottom, wearing a white helmet, and deck shoes. He was walking around the compound, going from floor-to-floor, and he looked like he was in some kind of pain. Some of my previous doubts returned.
It was all pretty smooth. We went in, took everything out of our pockets, dumped any baggage into a box, kept our razors and shaving cream, sealed it all up, and mailed it to our home address. Relieved of any possible contraband, we were handed linens, pillows, and blankets, and led to a second-story barracks room. We were directed to remove any facial hair, including sideburns, up to the tops of our ears, immediately after we claimed, and made, a bunk. It was after "Taps," but the room was a-buzz with noise, as we shaved, and prepared ourselves for a sleepless night.
Crash! "Get the [explicative] up!
It was the loudest sound I'd ever heard (OK, up to this point). Up? I was half-way dressed before the trash can stopped bouncing down the "centerboard". Up? I had slept maybe an hour, the image of that poor guy in the white helmet had me worried. Up? I'm scared out of my wits, and you come in bouncing a trashcan through the middle of the room, screaming your lungs out, and expect me not to be up? That was March 16, 1971.
Thirty-nine years ago, today, the wake-up was much less dramatic.
After the phone call from the Navy Recruiter, my parents were pretty stunned. They had no idea. I had made up a "plausable" story, going to spend the night with friends after going to the Fillmore, to take a Greyhound to SF in order to take my Basic Battery Tests (GCT/ARI/Sonar/bunch of others, now called ASVAB's), to see if I qualified for professional training. I did pretty well, a combined GCT/ARI of 127, well above any minimum requirements for any of the schools. I chose DP, Data Processing Technician, and was guaranteed to attend the Class "A" School after Boot Camp.
Now that the word was out, so to speak, I think my dad was very pleased, perhaps a bit proud, but he would never actually tell me. Mom was worried, probably for a good reason, as she had been a Navy Wife for a long time, and knew what sailors went through. There was also, on her side, a genetic link to alcoholism, and she knew I had been drinking for a while, already. They took me to the Induction Center, witnessed my swearing-in (actually my second), and spent some time hanging out with me until the bus to the airport came. They actually went to the Oakland Airport, and hung out with me until the plane boarded. This did a lot for my "reputation" going in. Most everyone else was alone.
We got on a PSA 727 bound from Oakland, direct to San Diego. I had a gym-bag, and a hefty envelope containing all of my paperwork. Taped to the front were my orders, identifying me as D82-31-8274, my Service number. We were all told not to order alcoholic beverages during the flight, so I drank a cola; the flight took about an hour.
When we arrived at Lindberg Field, we were met by a Navy/Marine Corps Recruit Liason, who shouted a lot, and got us in three lines, standing at Parade Rest, baggage and records between our feet. There were a total of 110 of us, 14 Marines, and 96 Navy. The bus to NTC had a capacity of 90, and I watched everyone, including the guy next to me, get on the bus. I was 91. "Great," I thought, "now we have to wait for the bus to go back, unload, and come back." It was my first day, what the heck did I know.
The Navy driver, upon reaching his limit, went in to tell the Recruit Liason that there were still six Navy recruits left. While he was inside, the MCRD bus came, a smaller, 30-passenger, Marine OD green stopped. The driver was loading his 14 recruits as the Recruit Liason, a Navy CPO, burst through the doors, screaming profanities at everyone, but no one in particular. He got on the Navy bus, looked around, and got off; got back on, then off again, swearing like a Mule Skinner, and stomped off to the MCRD bus. Noticing that the MCRD bus was only half full, he approached the Corporal-driver, and a short, but angry discussion ensued. When it was over, the Corporal got on the bus, moved all the Marine Recruits to the front of the bus, giving the last two rows of seats to the six Navy-guys. "This ain't gonna work," the Corporal kept muttering. When we were all situated, he told us to stay in our seats, no matter what happened at MCRD, and he would drive us to NTC.
The drive was quiet-ish, some general conversation, getting to know one's fellow recruit, stuff like that. As we pulled in to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, things got real quiet as we entered the gate, and pulled up to the main building. A Drill Instructor, complete with his "Smokey the Bear" hat waited patiently for the bus to stop. As soon as the door opened, the largest, meanest, angriest black man I have ever seen leaped onto the bus, put his hand on his hips (effectively blocking the forward exit), and started screaming. "Maggots, you got ten seconds, and ten seconds only to get off this bus, and get on those yellow footprints outside; we've already used up five, and you won't touch me on the way out, now MOVE!"
Fourteen Marine Recruits got busy throwing things out the windows, going out the emergency exits, and otherwise getting out of this man's immediate vicinity. It was Marx Brothers, Keystone Kops, and Three Stooges, all at once, live. It struck me as funny, and I laughed, attracting the attention of the DI. "What the [explicative] is your problem [explicative]?" The Corporal tugged on the DI's trouser-leg, and told him we were headed for NTC. A look of hatred passed across the DI's face, "Pussies!" He yelled, exiting the bus. Our journey continued not a moment too soon.
The short ride between MCRD and NTC was very, very quiet. I looked around at the other guys, and they all had the same look on their faces, "What have I done?" After the experience with the Marine DI, none of us knew what to expect when we reached our destination. I worked on steeling myself up for a repeat performance, a badass shouting orders. For the second time, as a newly-enlisted Navy recruit, I was wrong.
I swear, the man who got on the bus was Wally Cox. Looked like him, sounded like him, I almost laughed when he said, "OK you guys, they have already started a session, you need to wait out here, and you can smoke if you want, until they come to get you." Getting off the bus, I noticed a guy in dungarees, folded up once, at the bottom, wearing a white helmet, and deck shoes. He was walking around the compound, going from floor-to-floor, and he looked like he was in some kind of pain. Some of my previous doubts returned.
It was all pretty smooth. We went in, took everything out of our pockets, dumped any baggage into a box, kept our razors and shaving cream, sealed it all up, and mailed it to our home address. Relieved of any possible contraband, we were handed linens, pillows, and blankets, and led to a second-story barracks room. We were directed to remove any facial hair, including sideburns, up to the tops of our ears, immediately after we claimed, and made, a bunk. It was after "Taps," but the room was a-buzz with noise, as we shaved, and prepared ourselves for a sleepless night.
Crash! "Get the [explicative] up!
It was the loudest sound I'd ever heard (OK, up to this point). Up? I was half-way dressed before the trash can stopped bouncing down the "centerboard". Up? I had slept maybe an hour, the image of that poor guy in the white helmet had me worried. Up? I'm scared out of my wits, and you come in bouncing a trashcan through the middle of the room, screaming your lungs out, and expect me not to be up? That was March 16, 1971.
Thirty-nine years ago, today, the wake-up was much less dramatic.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Some Blasts From the Past
Just made contact with an old Shipmate, and an old classmate, in the past two days. As much as I gripe about technology, it is great. Angelo Olivo (such a nice Irish name) was a DP1 when I first met him at FCTCP, one of the LHA Training Instructors of Code 37/337. John Vasquez and I used to wrestle for Vaca High, and graduated in 1969.
Thinking about Angelo, takes me back a ways, 1974 to be exact. I was a DP2, on his second tour. Angelo probably remembers the stupid things I did, and I know he probably laughs, but Angelo taught me a very good, and long-remembered lesson. I arrived at FCTCP in November of '74, right in the middle of the NFL season. Angelo was a NY Giants fan, his desk modestly adorned with Giants paraphernalia; I was a Raider fan (have been ever since the Raiders came into being). What I remember most about Angelo was his pride in being from New York. On the few occassions when he'd tell me about his "home," even he would admit that it "sucked," but it was his home, born and raised. When I looked back on my own "home," I really didn't have any strong attachments to any place in particular. I had lived in Vallejo the longest, but I was actually glad to leave that city for Vacaville.
Angelo, "Smitty," Master Chief Sam, LT Losli, Frank, Marty Cluck, Tom, and a few others, were Code 37. It was a pretty loose organization, our assignment was to learn ITAWDS, and the applications of an AN/UYK-7 computer. From the designer's training, we were to develop a series of instruction by which to train subsequent users. "What Litton handed us," Gerry Losli used to say, "was a burning bag of [explicative], and we were barefoot."
It was a great environment to hone my alcoholic tendencies. Everybody drank. Beer at lunch; beer after work; beer at the bowling alley... you see where I'm going here? I got my first DUI. Paid a $127 fine, and two-points on my license. Got stopped a second time, three years later, but charges were dismissed. Yeah, it was pretty loose.
John Vasquez, excuse me, Supervisor Vasquez, is an old friend, and foe. In our Junior year at Vaca High, John and I competed in the same weight-class, 127 pounds (been a long time since those days, eh Johnny?). I was pretty good, John was a little better. One-on-one, John usually came out on top, but he never pinned me. Oh, I got my share of chances at Varsity matches, but I'm sure that was mostly Larry Nelson's doing.
John taught me about family, early in my life. The Vasquez family was always involved in the community, even to the extent that they entered a "mounted-unit" in local parades. The Vasquez's seemed to be related to everone, either through marriage, or business. I once attended a Cinco de Mayo celebration at El Rancho Vasquez, when the family held the property between the Coffee Tree and the overpass to Nut Tree Road from Monte Vista. There's no trace of the place, anymore, it's all shopping centers. Even the Coffee Tree is gone, in favor of an Olive Garden. I ask you, Mr. Supervisor, don't you have the least bit of sorrow over the fate of your old homestead?
Thinking about Angelo, takes me back a ways, 1974 to be exact. I was a DP2, on his second tour. Angelo probably remembers the stupid things I did, and I know he probably laughs, but Angelo taught me a very good, and long-remembered lesson. I arrived at FCTCP in November of '74, right in the middle of the NFL season. Angelo was a NY Giants fan, his desk modestly adorned with Giants paraphernalia; I was a Raider fan (have been ever since the Raiders came into being). What I remember most about Angelo was his pride in being from New York. On the few occassions when he'd tell me about his "home," even he would admit that it "sucked," but it was his home, born and raised. When I looked back on my own "home," I really didn't have any strong attachments to any place in particular. I had lived in Vallejo the longest, but I was actually glad to leave that city for Vacaville.
Angelo, "Smitty," Master Chief Sam, LT Losli, Frank, Marty Cluck, Tom, and a few others, were Code 37. It was a pretty loose organization, our assignment was to learn ITAWDS, and the applications of an AN/UYK-7 computer. From the designer's training, we were to develop a series of instruction by which to train subsequent users. "What Litton handed us," Gerry Losli used to say, "was a burning bag of [explicative], and we were barefoot."
It was a great environment to hone my alcoholic tendencies. Everybody drank. Beer at lunch; beer after work; beer at the bowling alley... you see where I'm going here? I got my first DUI. Paid a $127 fine, and two-points on my license. Got stopped a second time, three years later, but charges were dismissed. Yeah, it was pretty loose.
John Vasquez, excuse me, Supervisor Vasquez, is an old friend, and foe. In our Junior year at Vaca High, John and I competed in the same weight-class, 127 pounds (been a long time since those days, eh Johnny?). I was pretty good, John was a little better. One-on-one, John usually came out on top, but he never pinned me. Oh, I got my share of chances at Varsity matches, but I'm sure that was mostly Larry Nelson's doing.
John taught me about family, early in my life. The Vasquez family was always involved in the community, even to the extent that they entered a "mounted-unit" in local parades. The Vasquez's seemed to be related to everone, either through marriage, or business. I once attended a Cinco de Mayo celebration at El Rancho Vasquez, when the family held the property between the Coffee Tree and the overpass to Nut Tree Road from Monte Vista. There's no trace of the place, anymore, it's all shopping centers. Even the Coffee Tree is gone, in favor of an Olive Garden. I ask you, Mr. Supervisor, don't you have the least bit of sorrow over the fate of your old homestead?
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Day My World Ended
I've never talked about this, nor have I ever written about it, either. The day my world ended was November 27, 1979. It should have been a "happy" day, Mary had just given birth to our second child, Amy Lynn Martin, but it was far too early, and Amy died. I didn't know what to do, I hadn't been prepared for anything like this to happen. The only thing I knew to do was to be the "Man," to take care of business. I thought I was doing pretty good, until a nurse approached me and asked, "What do you want to do with the remains?"
I knew I needed help, so I took my dilemma to the Navy. Fortunately, the Navy would take care of "collecting the remains," and transporting them back to Vacaville for interrment in Mary's family's plot. I put the wheels in motion, and things got done in a prompt and orderly fashion. It wasn't quite that easy, as is the case of reporting anything in the Navy. I was having trouble getting over the denial stage, but I must have had to tell the same story to fifteen different people. fifteen different times.
I was going back to the office, to collect my leave papers, and clean-up my desk, when I was approached by a woman, a civilian programmer in our office, who had recently lost her husband of 20+ years. "I know exactly how you feel." She stated simply. She didn't realize she was going to jump-start the Anger-stage. I know she meant well, but she had no more idea of how I felt than I did, and I was really confused. Unfortunately, for her, I let her have it. I dumped a load on this woman, asking how losing a husband and losing a child were, in any way, similar, and how dare she presume to know anything about how I felt. It was ugly. In time, I appologized to her, but we never became friends, or anything.
I still cannot put my finger on what I was feeling. Probably because I was drinking pretty heavily, trying to stave off the grief. I wrecked a car, drunk, and got taken in by a guy I knew. When I told him about Amy, and broke down crying on his desk, he took me home, and filed no charges. I got sued by the guy who's truck I hit, but was advised by my attorney to stall until I could get transferred, as Louisiana civil-law is only binding within state boundaries. The guy's lawyer, somehow, found out I was in San Diego, and called me on the ship. I told him, yes, I understood I had a civil judgement against me in Louisiana, but I also understood it wasn't valid in California, and to never call me again. The lawyer wasn't happy, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one.
Losing Amy was a convenient exuse for me to drink. It was a subject non grata at home, and one of the last few planks in the fence we'd built between us. At the start of 1980, Mary became obssessed with having another child, but by that time, physical relations were about our only form of communication with each other. When Cory was born, 355 days after Amy, I was relieved, another loss would have killed me. The entire pregnancy was text-book, and proceeded right along, but I was scared, the whole time, and drank to make the scary stuff go away. It didn't (Duh!).
When I finally drank my way into the Navy Alcohol Rehabilitation Center, in 1984, I dealt with a lot of issues, primarily in my relationships with people, Amy came up, and was successfully deflected. I got sober, started talking to Mary again, created new and better relationships with my kids (Jacki being born about six-months prior to ARC), and took responsibility for my alcoholism. Amy was still one of those "nagging, unfinished" issues in my life, but it was burried pretty deep.
From '84 to '89, I would, on occassion, think about Amy, and get that uneasy feeling that something had been left undone. While on deployment to Misawa, Japan, I got a letter from home, containing a picture wrapped up in a piece of stationery, upon which were warnings written to prepare myself for the picture. The photo was of Amy's permanent marker in the cemetary. That was it! That's what was left undone. Ten years worth of grief welled up in a day, my co-workers wondering if I'd lost my mind. But it was over.
All that remained, until now, was to write about it.
I knew I needed help, so I took my dilemma to the Navy. Fortunately, the Navy would take care of "collecting the remains," and transporting them back to Vacaville for interrment in Mary's family's plot. I put the wheels in motion, and things got done in a prompt and orderly fashion. It wasn't quite that easy, as is the case of reporting anything in the Navy. I was having trouble getting over the denial stage, but I must have had to tell the same story to fifteen different people. fifteen different times.
I was going back to the office, to collect my leave papers, and clean-up my desk, when I was approached by a woman, a civilian programmer in our office, who had recently lost her husband of 20+ years. "I know exactly how you feel." She stated simply. She didn't realize she was going to jump-start the Anger-stage. I know she meant well, but she had no more idea of how I felt than I did, and I was really confused. Unfortunately, for her, I let her have it. I dumped a load on this woman, asking how losing a husband and losing a child were, in any way, similar, and how dare she presume to know anything about how I felt. It was ugly. In time, I appologized to her, but we never became friends, or anything.
I still cannot put my finger on what I was feeling. Probably because I was drinking pretty heavily, trying to stave off the grief. I wrecked a car, drunk, and got taken in by a guy I knew. When I told him about Amy, and broke down crying on his desk, he took me home, and filed no charges. I got sued by the guy who's truck I hit, but was advised by my attorney to stall until I could get transferred, as Louisiana civil-law is only binding within state boundaries. The guy's lawyer, somehow, found out I was in San Diego, and called me on the ship. I told him, yes, I understood I had a civil judgement against me in Louisiana, but I also understood it wasn't valid in California, and to never call me again. The lawyer wasn't happy, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one.
Losing Amy was a convenient exuse for me to drink. It was a subject non grata at home, and one of the last few planks in the fence we'd built between us. At the start of 1980, Mary became obssessed with having another child, but by that time, physical relations were about our only form of communication with each other. When Cory was born, 355 days after Amy, I was relieved, another loss would have killed me. The entire pregnancy was text-book, and proceeded right along, but I was scared, the whole time, and drank to make the scary stuff go away. It didn't (Duh!).
When I finally drank my way into the Navy Alcohol Rehabilitation Center, in 1984, I dealt with a lot of issues, primarily in my relationships with people, Amy came up, and was successfully deflected. I got sober, started talking to Mary again, created new and better relationships with my kids (Jacki being born about six-months prior to ARC), and took responsibility for my alcoholism. Amy was still one of those "nagging, unfinished" issues in my life, but it was burried pretty deep.
From '84 to '89, I would, on occassion, think about Amy, and get that uneasy feeling that something had been left undone. While on deployment to Misawa, Japan, I got a letter from home, containing a picture wrapped up in a piece of stationery, upon which were warnings written to prepare myself for the picture. The photo was of Amy's permanent marker in the cemetary. That was it! That's what was left undone. Ten years worth of grief welled up in a day, my co-workers wondering if I'd lost my mind. But it was over.
All that remained, until now, was to write about it.
Friday, March 12, 2010
A Spiritual Moment (1)
I admit to being a spiritually-oriented kind of guy. I believe in a God, Who Lives, and who will guide me, if I am living my life in a worthy manner. I feel His Spirit, mostly in small ways, which can often be misinterpreted. A quick example:
I was sitting at a red light, at the intersection of Elmira and Leisure Town Roads, planning to take a left-turn onto Leisure Town when the light changed. When it did change, I was just about to accelerate, and a loud "DON'T MOVE!" sounded in my head. I'm telling you, I HEARD these words. Sure enough, a woman in a big, green SUV, traveling about 50 in a 40 zone, talking on a cell phone, blows right through the light, almost taking out a car turning right onto Leisure Town Road. Had I moved, I'd have been road-kill.
There have been many more occasions, sometimes little more than deep impressions, but I know that the Spirit has been a companion, when I get humble enough, upon whom I can rely. I know that, through earnest prayer, I was once given a glimpse into a future that frightened me badly.
It was 1981, I was on the pre-commissioning crew of USS McKEE (AS-41), Tyffany was 5, Cory 6 mos. Eighteen months earlier, we had lost Amy, Mary and I were no longer communicating, and we were legally-separated. She was in Vacaville, I was in Seattle, WA. I could only contact her through my mother-in-law, who, at the time, hated my guts. I was turning 30, the age, according to my generation, at which one was no longer trustworthy. I had never figured to live that long. I thought, for sure, I'd piss-off the wrong person, and be killed by that time.
I was in a "bad way". En route to divorce, I arrived in Seattle, and was immediately handed a check for $5,000, and told to find a hotel. I chose the Cosmopolitan, on 5th, right under the monorail tracks. I got a deal for $350 per week, and paid for six weeks, in advance. I was trying to wrap my mind around the idea of being divorced. I drank a lot, among other things.
On weekends, I'd walk a lot. I walked to the Kingdome, and all the way out to the shipyards in West Seattle. I walked all over downtown Seattle, saw the Pike's Place Market, the old World's Fair grounds, even out to Lake Washington. Walking gave me a chance to think. Once, while walking quite late, I happened on the grounds of the Seattle LDS Temple. It was closed, and I trespassed, but I had finally gotten humble enough to ask God "Where am I going? What will my life be like?" I was answered with darkness, although I failed to realize it at the time.
I thought, "Great, big waste of time... Nothing."
On the walk back to my hotel, I passed a house in which a party was still going at three a.m., the stereo blaring the Stone's You Can't Always Get What You Want. I remember thinking, "Yeah, even when you ask." As I passed by, the lyric, "But if you try sometime/you just might find/you get what you need," made a connection happen, and I was jolted to a stop, staring at the light-up house. I had gotten the answer I needed. I had asked what my life would be like without Mary and the kids. Nothing. DING! Hello? I got it. Now, what could I do?
Music has always been an important thing in my life. At times, certain songs seem to fit perfectly with our experiences, their lyrics becoming the poetry of our lives. At that time, Styx had released Kilroy Was Here, and the song "Don't Let It End" wouldn't get out of my head.
I called Mary's mom, received a gruff acknowledgement, and asked her to have Mary call me at a certain number, after I got off watch. Her mom grumbled something about Mary not wanting to talk to me, and how she couldn't blame her, blah, blah, blah...
"OK, since it's the only way I'm sure she will get the message, you tell her to call, or she won't get a dime from me until she does." The ploy was ruthless, but infinitely effective.
At the appointed time, the phone rang, and Mary started in on my threat to cut off her money, and I stopped her. I appologized for the threat, but I needed to talk to her, and it seemed to be the only way. "So, what do you want?" she asked.
"I want to say I'm sorry. About everything. I can't go on like this."
We reconciled in October.
It's true, you can't always get what you want. You can, however, learn to appreciate what you have.
I was sitting at a red light, at the intersection of Elmira and Leisure Town Roads, planning to take a left-turn onto Leisure Town when the light changed. When it did change, I was just about to accelerate, and a loud "DON'T MOVE!" sounded in my head. I'm telling you, I HEARD these words. Sure enough, a woman in a big, green SUV, traveling about 50 in a 40 zone, talking on a cell phone, blows right through the light, almost taking out a car turning right onto Leisure Town Road. Had I moved, I'd have been road-kill.
There have been many more occasions, sometimes little more than deep impressions, but I know that the Spirit has been a companion, when I get humble enough, upon whom I can rely. I know that, through earnest prayer, I was once given a glimpse into a future that frightened me badly.
It was 1981, I was on the pre-commissioning crew of USS McKEE (AS-41), Tyffany was 5, Cory 6 mos. Eighteen months earlier, we had lost Amy, Mary and I were no longer communicating, and we were legally-separated. She was in Vacaville, I was in Seattle, WA. I could only contact her through my mother-in-law, who, at the time, hated my guts. I was turning 30, the age, according to my generation, at which one was no longer trustworthy. I had never figured to live that long. I thought, for sure, I'd piss-off the wrong person, and be killed by that time.
I was in a "bad way". En route to divorce, I arrived in Seattle, and was immediately handed a check for $5,000, and told to find a hotel. I chose the Cosmopolitan, on 5th, right under the monorail tracks. I got a deal for $350 per week, and paid for six weeks, in advance. I was trying to wrap my mind around the idea of being divorced. I drank a lot, among other things.
On weekends, I'd walk a lot. I walked to the Kingdome, and all the way out to the shipyards in West Seattle. I walked all over downtown Seattle, saw the Pike's Place Market, the old World's Fair grounds, even out to Lake Washington. Walking gave me a chance to think. Once, while walking quite late, I happened on the grounds of the Seattle LDS Temple. It was closed, and I trespassed, but I had finally gotten humble enough to ask God "Where am I going? What will my life be like?" I was answered with darkness, although I failed to realize it at the time.
I thought, "Great, big waste of time... Nothing."
On the walk back to my hotel, I passed a house in which a party was still going at three a.m., the stereo blaring the Stone's You Can't Always Get What You Want. I remember thinking, "Yeah, even when you ask." As I passed by, the lyric, "But if you try sometime/you just might find/you get what you need," made a connection happen, and I was jolted to a stop, staring at the light-up house. I had gotten the answer I needed. I had asked what my life would be like without Mary and the kids. Nothing. DING! Hello? I got it. Now, what could I do?
Music has always been an important thing in my life. At times, certain songs seem to fit perfectly with our experiences, their lyrics becoming the poetry of our lives. At that time, Styx had released Kilroy Was Here, and the song "Don't Let It End" wouldn't get out of my head.
I called Mary's mom, received a gruff acknowledgement, and asked her to have Mary call me at a certain number, after I got off watch. Her mom grumbled something about Mary not wanting to talk to me, and how she couldn't blame her, blah, blah, blah...
"OK, since it's the only way I'm sure she will get the message, you tell her to call, or she won't get a dime from me until she does." The ploy was ruthless, but infinitely effective.
At the appointed time, the phone rang, and Mary started in on my threat to cut off her money, and I stopped her. I appologized for the threat, but I needed to talk to her, and it seemed to be the only way. "So, what do you want?" she asked.
"I want to say I'm sorry. About everything. I can't go on like this."
We reconciled in October.
It's true, you can't always get what you want. You can, however, learn to appreciate what you have.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
To My Loving Wife (1)
I have mentioned my wife, Mary, many times in my blog. She is "the love of my life," and all those other cliches, but much, much more. We've been through a whole lot, over the years, not all of it good, but we've made it to 36 years, and that is a testimony to Mary's love and loyalty. I don't quite understand how I deserve to have such a wonderful companion, best friend, and loving wife, but I thank God for her every day.
The first time I saw Mary Christine Gardner was in Home Room, my sophomore year, in 1966. Don't get me wrong, but she really wasn't much to look at back then. She had a Page Boy haircut, and these rectangular-shaped, black plastic-framed glasses. She was, actually, fairly plain-looking, but I remember thinking "Who's that?" when she walked in. I wasn't much to look at back then, either. I had gone out with a few girls, by then, but not many. I couldn't understand the "steady" thing, at the time, I thought "Who'd want to be tied to one girl?"
At the time, I was involved in sports -- football in the Fall, wrestling in Winter, and I was planning on trying out for American Legion baseball in the Spring. I managed to keep my grades up to a "C" average, which pissed my parents off, but, under the circumstances, it was the best I could do. Wrestling, in particular, was my best sport, but this is about Mary. ADD, ADD.
I really didn't get to know Mary until the Spring of 1968, when I was asked to join a "folk group," as a guitar-player/singer. Mary was part of the original group called A Small Cyrcle of Friends, and we got to know one another fairly well. Since our dad's had both worked as correctional officers, knew each other well, and bowled in the CMF league, I'd seen her around some, but singing together gave me an opportunity to talk to her. I liked talking to her a lot.
I found out she was "Mormon," but only knew it was some strange religion like Seventh-Day Adventist, or Jehovah's Witness, or something like that. I wasn't involved in any religion, at the time, but never begrudged anyone else their beliefs. I didn't care about any of that, Mary turned out to be a "genuine nice person," who, whether it was her beliefs or just her, seemed to have her life "together". There was a certain amount of innocence, due to a fairly sheltered childhood, but she was honest, and very empathetic, too. I found myself trusting her more and more, telling her some of my deepest feelings, and my fears. I didn't realize it, but I was falling in love with Mary, and falling hard.
The Cyrcle got caught up in the usual problems; with 11 people, scheduling rehearsals became unmanageable, and things got ugly... Mary and Nina Edmonson, who had both been a part of the Cyrcle, and possessed very pleasant Alto and Soprano voices (respectively), asked me to find another guitar player, as they wanted to compete in a Stake Quartet Festival, whatever that was. A friend of mine, George Lehman, filled the bill nicely. The girls were both Mormon, George was a Catholic, and I was a recovering-Lutheran, so we called the group The Ecumenical Council in deference to the one being conducted in Rome.
We traveled to Napa, as Vacaville was a part of the Napa Stake at the time, ready to give it our best shot. We'd worked on two songs, Stick of Bamboo, and another folk-standard I'm failing to remember right now. I remember watching a number of groups, variations of boys and girls, guitars, accordions, pianos, before a group, identical in make-up to our own, two guys, two girls, two guitars, got up and performed the same two songs we had prepared. The guitar playing was much better than the rhythmic strumming George and I could manage, and any thought of winning the award pretty much went out the window. That is, until I realized that the vocals were all in unison. We had practiced these numbers in four-part harmony, and I thought we sounded pretty good. I came up with a plan.
When we were introduced, we were last, we got a smattering of applause, and we started into our first song, the one I can't remember just now, singing in unison for the first verse. I was watching the judges, and they got this "nothing new here" look on their faces, and were starting to get bored. We hit the four-part harmony hard in the second verse, and the judges attitudes changed to great interest. We finished to "thunderous" applause, the other group coming over to congratulate us even before the award was announced. We won. On the tail-end of this was my "First Date" with Mary. We went to see Moby Grape at the fairgrounds.
We did the "steady" thing, whenever we were together, which was often, we talked, she was, with the exception of our first date, always home five minutes before her curfew. The deal with Jack and Christine (Mary's folks) was that Mary would "check-in," turn the porch-light off, and we would sit in my car, in the driveway, and talk. When they figured we had been out long enough, they'd turn the light on, and Mary would be inside shortly after. It was great, because we talked. Sure, we made-out some, but mostly we talked, and I learned all about this wonderful person, Mary Gardner. It was mostly a Summer thing, because I made a stupid move in my senior year. All I did was to confide to an aleged-friend that I thought a certain "other girl" was cute.
The next thing I knew, it was all over school, I was dumping Mary for another girl. She was, rightfully so, angry with me, and refused to speak to me. The Council was still, sort of, going on, but it got too hard for me, and I quit going. I wouldn't see Mary from June of 1969 until December of 1972. An aforementioned phone call took place, during one of my darkest hours, that I now believe to be my Heavenly Father's guidance. I'll never forget the call:
"Hello."
"Uh, is Mary there?"
"Who may I say is calling?"
"Um, well, don't tell her, but this is Steve Martin."
Some fumbling with the phone, I can hear "Mary, it's for you." and some background noise.
"Hello?"
"Hi Mary, this is Steve Martin."
"Steve? You're in town? Where are you?"
"At my parents."
"When can you come over?"
"Well, I've been sick, and I need to shower, but maybe in an hour, or so."
"Can you make it in half-an-hour?"
"I guess..."
"Great, see you in fifteen minutes."
I stared at the now buzzing receiver for a moment, and decided I'd better get moving.
The first time I saw Mary Christine Gardner was in Home Room, my sophomore year, in 1966. Don't get me wrong, but she really wasn't much to look at back then. She had a Page Boy haircut, and these rectangular-shaped, black plastic-framed glasses. She was, actually, fairly plain-looking, but I remember thinking "Who's that?" when she walked in. I wasn't much to look at back then, either. I had gone out with a few girls, by then, but not many. I couldn't understand the "steady" thing, at the time, I thought "Who'd want to be tied to one girl?"
At the time, I was involved in sports -- football in the Fall, wrestling in Winter, and I was planning on trying out for American Legion baseball in the Spring. I managed to keep my grades up to a "C" average, which pissed my parents off, but, under the circumstances, it was the best I could do. Wrestling, in particular, was my best sport, but this is about Mary. ADD, ADD.
I really didn't get to know Mary until the Spring of 1968, when I was asked to join a "folk group," as a guitar-player/singer. Mary was part of the original group called A Small Cyrcle of Friends, and we got to know one another fairly well. Since our dad's had both worked as correctional officers, knew each other well, and bowled in the CMF league, I'd seen her around some, but singing together gave me an opportunity to talk to her. I liked talking to her a lot.
I found out she was "Mormon," but only knew it was some strange religion like Seventh-Day Adventist, or Jehovah's Witness, or something like that. I wasn't involved in any religion, at the time, but never begrudged anyone else their beliefs. I didn't care about any of that, Mary turned out to be a "genuine nice person," who, whether it was her beliefs or just her, seemed to have her life "together". There was a certain amount of innocence, due to a fairly sheltered childhood, but she was honest, and very empathetic, too. I found myself trusting her more and more, telling her some of my deepest feelings, and my fears. I didn't realize it, but I was falling in love with Mary, and falling hard.
The Cyrcle got caught up in the usual problems; with 11 people, scheduling rehearsals became unmanageable, and things got ugly... Mary and Nina Edmonson, who had both been a part of the Cyrcle, and possessed very pleasant Alto and Soprano voices (respectively), asked me to find another guitar player, as they wanted to compete in a Stake Quartet Festival, whatever that was. A friend of mine, George Lehman, filled the bill nicely. The girls were both Mormon, George was a Catholic, and I was a recovering-Lutheran, so we called the group The Ecumenical Council in deference to the one being conducted in Rome.
We traveled to Napa, as Vacaville was a part of the Napa Stake at the time, ready to give it our best shot. We'd worked on two songs, Stick of Bamboo, and another folk-standard I'm failing to remember right now. I remember watching a number of groups, variations of boys and girls, guitars, accordions, pianos, before a group, identical in make-up to our own, two guys, two girls, two guitars, got up and performed the same two songs we had prepared. The guitar playing was much better than the rhythmic strumming George and I could manage, and any thought of winning the award pretty much went out the window. That is, until I realized that the vocals were all in unison. We had practiced these numbers in four-part harmony, and I thought we sounded pretty good. I came up with a plan.
When we were introduced, we were last, we got a smattering of applause, and we started into our first song, the one I can't remember just now, singing in unison for the first verse. I was watching the judges, and they got this "nothing new here" look on their faces, and were starting to get bored. We hit the four-part harmony hard in the second verse, and the judges attitudes changed to great interest. We finished to "thunderous" applause, the other group coming over to congratulate us even before the award was announced. We won. On the tail-end of this was my "First Date" with Mary. We went to see Moby Grape at the fairgrounds.
We did the "steady" thing, whenever we were together, which was often, we talked, she was, with the exception of our first date, always home five minutes before her curfew. The deal with Jack and Christine (Mary's folks) was that Mary would "check-in," turn the porch-light off, and we would sit in my car, in the driveway, and talk. When they figured we had been out long enough, they'd turn the light on, and Mary would be inside shortly after. It was great, because we talked. Sure, we made-out some, but mostly we talked, and I learned all about this wonderful person, Mary Gardner. It was mostly a Summer thing, because I made a stupid move in my senior year. All I did was to confide to an aleged-friend that I thought a certain "other girl" was cute.
The next thing I knew, it was all over school, I was dumping Mary for another girl. She was, rightfully so, angry with me, and refused to speak to me. The Council was still, sort of, going on, but it got too hard for me, and I quit going. I wouldn't see Mary from June of 1969 until December of 1972. An aforementioned phone call took place, during one of my darkest hours, that I now believe to be my Heavenly Father's guidance. I'll never forget the call:
"Hello."
"Uh, is Mary there?"
"Who may I say is calling?"
"Um, well, don't tell her, but this is Steve Martin."
Some fumbling with the phone, I can hear "Mary, it's for you." and some background noise.
"Hello?"
"Hi Mary, this is Steve Martin."
"Steve? You're in town? Where are you?"
"At my parents."
"When can you come over?"
"Well, I've been sick, and I need to shower, but maybe in an hour, or so."
"Can you make it in half-an-hour?"
"I guess..."
"Great, see you in fifteen minutes."
I stared at the now buzzing receiver for a moment, and decided I'd better get moving.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
An "Ode" to Pain, or Paying for All My Fun
I have pain management issues. Lots of issues. I tell my doctor that on a scale of one-to-ten, I live at five. So far, it is not unmanageable -- Praise God -- there are still things I can do to make myself "comfortable". Comfort is a relative thing, a matter of getting into a position where pain doesn't scream at you. and fortunately I still have a few of those left, also. We have a reclining sofa, not a sofa with recliners on the ends, the whole sofa reclines in two parts. With pillows, heating pads, and some adjustment, I can get pretty comfortable.
I have a Jacuzzi-tub in the Master Bath, one of the reasons I wanted to buy this house. I take a fifteen-to-twenty minute cycle (jets on, soak,jets,soak) in very warm water. I don't know what condition I would be in without it this past year, but I don't think I'd be as well-off as I am. My biggest concern, at this time of year, is the arthritis. Cold makes my bones ache, and the arthritis makes it a whole lot worse. I've tried every "arthritis strength/formula" patent remedy currently available. I might as well have bought M&M's, for all the relief I got for my money. Ibuprophen scares me, due to the years I spent trying to turn my liver into a stone with alcohol. We only get one of those, don't need to take stuff that has a history of negatively impacting the liver.
I take "epidural steroid injection" therapy, approximately every 90 days. My next is nine days from now, and my pain level is probably at seven, or so. I hurt. There, I've said it. I have good days; I have bad days. Right now, it's not a good day. So I do a little around the house, and try to occupy myself with thoughts other than how much I'm hurting. So I write.
My blog has become a part of my pain management program. I try to focus on something other than pain, and thinking about what I'm writing helps me to do that. Okay, that and Vicodin, which is probably another reason I ramble. I've had some pretty great times, been a lot of places, met a ton of people, and lived through some historic times. At least I've found a therapy that can always help, to some extent.
I once had a young student say "I wish I'd have been around when you were my age."
I laughed, and told him "No, because you'd be in as much pain as I am now. Besides, the 60's would have killed you."
I have a Jacuzzi-tub in the Master Bath, one of the reasons I wanted to buy this house. I take a fifteen-to-twenty minute cycle (jets on, soak,jets,soak) in very warm water. I don't know what condition I would be in without it this past year, but I don't think I'd be as well-off as I am. My biggest concern, at this time of year, is the arthritis. Cold makes my bones ache, and the arthritis makes it a whole lot worse. I've tried every "arthritis strength/formula" patent remedy currently available. I might as well have bought M&M's, for all the relief I got for my money. Ibuprophen scares me, due to the years I spent trying to turn my liver into a stone with alcohol. We only get one of those, don't need to take stuff that has a history of negatively impacting the liver.
I take "epidural steroid injection" therapy, approximately every 90 days. My next is nine days from now, and my pain level is probably at seven, or so. I hurt. There, I've said it. I have good days; I have bad days. Right now, it's not a good day. So I do a little around the house, and try to occupy myself with thoughts other than how much I'm hurting. So I write.
My blog has become a part of my pain management program. I try to focus on something other than pain, and thinking about what I'm writing helps me to do that. Okay, that and Vicodin, which is probably another reason I ramble. I've had some pretty great times, been a lot of places, met a ton of people, and lived through some historic times. At least I've found a therapy that can always help, to some extent.
I once had a young student say "I wish I'd have been around when you were my age."
I laughed, and told him "No, because you'd be in as much pain as I am now. Besides, the 60's would have killed you."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)