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.
Monday, August 6, 2012
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.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Out of My Comfort Zone
I'm really not a very good Latter-day Saint, or Mormon to those of you who choose to go that way. I believe in the Church, the Book of Mormon, and having a living prophet on the Earth. I believe that families can be together forever (and yes, I chose to say it that way), and that it is possible for us to perform the rituals required for salvation (baptism, etc) on behalf of our ancestors who have passed on. I believe that God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit are three separate entities, who together form the Godhead, otherwise the Bible begins with a lie that God made man in his own image. I despair at the ministers of other Christian churches who call my religion a "cult," or deny that we are really Christians because we don't recite the "Apostles Creed" or "Nicene Creed," oaths of allegiance written by men, not given by God. I pay an honest tithe and make a "fast offering," I wear my garments day and night, I am honest in my dealings with others; I just can't deal with the concept of "Every member a Missionary".
Make no mistake, I like to talk to people, and enjoy the times I get to accompany the full-time Missionaries assigned to Vacaville Second Ward (our congregation, as it were). I really enjoy meeting people who are "investigating" the Church, because I can relate to all of the apprehension and doubts they may be having. I like to meet the ones who are "on the edge," but are hung up on some technicality. I love to teach, particularly when I know such a great deal about my subject, and have had personal experiences that are relevant. I am just no good at starting a "gospel discussion," because I am not confident of my scriptural knowledge. Certain passages stick out, and I can remember them, but I couldn't tell you where they were or anything.
I guess it should be easy, particularly with a Church-member on the verge of being a Presidential Candidate, so I should try to get involved with more people, and talk about the Church. We have been asked to look for "Missionary Opportunities," and to pray for them to happen. Our Stake (a collection of Wards) has been asked to dedicate our fasts on June 3 to seeking more opportunities to teach the gospel, and to kneel in prayer at 8am, as a sign of unity. It's just likely to work; I've seen it happen before. Maybe it's time for me to step out of my comfort zone.
Make no mistake, I like to talk to people, and enjoy the times I get to accompany the full-time Missionaries assigned to Vacaville Second Ward (our congregation, as it were). I really enjoy meeting people who are "investigating" the Church, because I can relate to all of the apprehension and doubts they may be having. I like to meet the ones who are "on the edge," but are hung up on some technicality. I love to teach, particularly when I know such a great deal about my subject, and have had personal experiences that are relevant. I am just no good at starting a "gospel discussion," because I am not confident of my scriptural knowledge. Certain passages stick out, and I can remember them, but I couldn't tell you where they were or anything.
I guess it should be easy, particularly with a Church-member on the verge of being a Presidential Candidate, so I should try to get involved with more people, and talk about the Church. We have been asked to look for "Missionary Opportunities," and to pray for them to happen. Our Stake (a collection of Wards) has been asked to dedicate our fasts on June 3 to seeking more opportunities to teach the gospel, and to kneel in prayer at 8am, as a sign of unity. It's just likely to work; I've seen it happen before. Maybe it's time for me to step out of my comfort zone.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
My Take on "Sherlock"
I will make no bones about it, I am a fan of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle's super-sleuth and his partner Dr. Watson. I have read all of the stories, I even transfered some to my Kindle, after I got it at Christmas, so I could, when the time seemed appropriate, re-read the stories. This was all before I found out about the series, simply titled Sherlock, that aired on BBC, and can be seen on PBS's Masterpiece Mystery on the next two Sundays at nine pm. My youngest child, Jacki, actually brought the series to my attention, giving me the DVD set for Season 1, for Christmas. Mary and I watched the first episode, A Study in Pink, and have been "hooked" ever since. The producers are making three 90-minute episodes per season, and we are currently getting Season 2 on PBS.
The series stars Benedict Cumberbatch (how's that for a Brittish name) as Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq, and Martin Freeman as Dr. John Watson, who chronicles the exploits of the world's first "consulting detective," a position that Holmes proudly creates himself. The story lines are straight from the Conan-Doyle manuscripts, but that is where all similarities to the "old Sherlock Holmes" ends. Rather than dashing about 19th Century London, the writing team of Steven Moffat, Steve Thompson, and Mark Gatiss have brought the detective team into the 21st Century, making Dr. Watson an Afghanistan veteran (rather than India), who blogs about his amazing roomate at 221B Baker Street.
I'm not one to sit and nitpick, so I haven't compared things like dialogue against the original works, I'm not much of a purist in that regards. In fact I didn't even flinch when the famous Sherlock Holmes line, "The game is afoot!" was changed to "The game is on!" I noticed it, surely, but there probably isn't a person in the world who uses "afoot," so the adaptation seemed perfectly natural, to me. With Sir Arthur's stories as a framework, this new Sherlock is well worth watching.
One of the most notable features of this new series is the use of the digital technology that allows the viewer to "see" what the world's greatest detective sees. It doesn't give you what he observes, but it helps the viewer to understand how he collects clues. In the end, as Sherlock explains the crime, it seems logical enough to appeal to another fictional character, this one of Vulcan origins.
The acting is supurb. Cumberbatch is a delightful Sherlock, who is referred to by the people at Scotland Yard as "The Freak". He denies an accusation of being a psychopath by claiming, "I am a high-functioning sociopath, learn the difference." The dynamics between Sherlock and the often befuddled Watson is very engaging, and is often the source of much of the "dry Brittish humor" that many Americans find so delightful (me included).
I am a fan.
The series stars Benedict Cumberbatch (how's that for a Brittish name) as Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq, and Martin Freeman as Dr. John Watson, who chronicles the exploits of the world's first "consulting detective," a position that Holmes proudly creates himself. The story lines are straight from the Conan-Doyle manuscripts, but that is where all similarities to the "old Sherlock Holmes" ends. Rather than dashing about 19th Century London, the writing team of Steven Moffat, Steve Thompson, and Mark Gatiss have brought the detective team into the 21st Century, making Dr. Watson an Afghanistan veteran (rather than India), who blogs about his amazing roomate at 221B Baker Street.
I'm not one to sit and nitpick, so I haven't compared things like dialogue against the original works, I'm not much of a purist in that regards. In fact I didn't even flinch when the famous Sherlock Holmes line, "The game is afoot!" was changed to "The game is on!" I noticed it, surely, but there probably isn't a person in the world who uses "afoot," so the adaptation seemed perfectly natural, to me. With Sir Arthur's stories as a framework, this new Sherlock is well worth watching.
One of the most notable features of this new series is the use of the digital technology that allows the viewer to "see" what the world's greatest detective sees. It doesn't give you what he observes, but it helps the viewer to understand how he collects clues. In the end, as Sherlock explains the crime, it seems logical enough to appeal to another fictional character, this one of Vulcan origins.
The acting is supurb. Cumberbatch is a delightful Sherlock, who is referred to by the people at Scotland Yard as "The Freak". He denies an accusation of being a psychopath by claiming, "I am a high-functioning sociopath, learn the difference." The dynamics between Sherlock and the often befuddled Watson is very engaging, and is often the source of much of the "dry Brittish humor" that many Americans find so delightful (me included).
I am a fan.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Getting Over Myself
I seem to be getting into my own way, lately. I'm not really sure what it's all about, but everytime I turn around, there I am (and no, that's not that old joke). I seem to be going in circles, getting very little done. It's like I've lost my energy, my drive. I don't like being limited in the things I can do, and completely resent the fact that the things I can do get fewer every year. It's all a part of aging, I guess. I played hard and fast as a young man; now I'm just pudgy and slow.
It isn't much fun, getting older. Don't get me wrong, I know what the flip-side is, and I'm not ready to have six of my friends... Do I have six friends?... cart me around by the handles. I am grateful for every day I wake up and my back hurts. At least that way, I know I'm still alive. At this point, if there was a therapy that could take away all of my pain, I'd be scared to death every morning. I know there are people out there who are in worse pain than what I am in, and they have my deepest sympathies, but when your "best days" still register on the "pain meter" every f-ing day, day-in; day-out; 24/7, 365 (or 366) days a year, for more than a decade, you have an understanding of pain that normal people just don't get.
When I was teaching at my old alma mater, I had a student tell me he would have liked to have been around Vacaville in the late '60's. I told him, "No, you don't." Indicating how much he'd be paying for it now. That was ten years ago. Darn I'm old.
I guess that will become my next Pastime, sitting around bitching about how much stuff hurts. I hope not, because I think I'm better than that. But, what do I know? I'm trying to write, and have at least three working drafts on my word processor, and a few blogs, letters to the Editor, that kind of stuff. Trying to keep my mind active; trying to focus on something other than pain. I play computer games, and Wii, anything to keep moving, and not think about pain.
I am supposed to be relatively "pain-free" a week after my ESI treatment, and normally I am, but there's now an arthritic pain that seems to be with me all of the time. I would take Motrin, or Alieve, or whatever NSAID's available, except I took them for so long, it would be like taking an M&M, and, frankly, M&M's taste better. I have been taking Norco for the last six months, and it helps to mask the pain a bit. I have had conversations with both my Primary Care Physician and an Interventional Radiologist as to the appropriateness of narcotics in my pain management therapy, and both of them think it is still on the good side. I take the medication in accordance with the instructions of the doctor, and sometimes not at all. If I am not in pain, I do not take the medicine. Thus far, there have been no apparent side-effects, nor do I attempt to abuse it in anyway.
It's not about me, though. Well, maybe it is; my own self-consciousness about my limitations, and a desire not to suffer in public, but I think of other's first. I ask myself if I was going to be able to be social, due to my pain, or if I am going to become an object of pity. I might stick it out as a social antagonist, but I will be pitied by no one. I don't want anyone to be "sorry," sorry doesn't help. I would like it if people could be a little more understanding of why I don't get out often. I can straighten myself up, and look kind of normal, but dig it, people, if you aren't looking at me laying in a box, I'm in pain and I don't want pity.
It isn't much fun, getting older. Don't get me wrong, I know what the flip-side is, and I'm not ready to have six of my friends... Do I have six friends?... cart me around by the handles. I am grateful for every day I wake up and my back hurts. At least that way, I know I'm still alive. At this point, if there was a therapy that could take away all of my pain, I'd be scared to death every morning. I know there are people out there who are in worse pain than what I am in, and they have my deepest sympathies, but when your "best days" still register on the "pain meter" every f-ing day, day-in; day-out; 24/7, 365 (or 366) days a year, for more than a decade, you have an understanding of pain that normal people just don't get.
When I was teaching at my old alma mater, I had a student tell me he would have liked to have been around Vacaville in the late '60's. I told him, "No, you don't." Indicating how much he'd be paying for it now. That was ten years ago. Darn I'm old.
I guess that will become my next Pastime, sitting around bitching about how much stuff hurts. I hope not, because I think I'm better than that. But, what do I know? I'm trying to write, and have at least three working drafts on my word processor, and a few blogs, letters to the Editor, that kind of stuff. Trying to keep my mind active; trying to focus on something other than pain. I play computer games, and Wii, anything to keep moving, and not think about pain.
I am supposed to be relatively "pain-free" a week after my ESI treatment, and normally I am, but there's now an arthritic pain that seems to be with me all of the time. I would take Motrin, or Alieve, or whatever NSAID's available, except I took them for so long, it would be like taking an M&M, and, frankly, M&M's taste better. I have been taking Norco for the last six months, and it helps to mask the pain a bit. I have had conversations with both my Primary Care Physician and an Interventional Radiologist as to the appropriateness of narcotics in my pain management therapy, and both of them think it is still on the good side. I take the medication in accordance with the instructions of the doctor, and sometimes not at all. If I am not in pain, I do not take the medicine. Thus far, there have been no apparent side-effects, nor do I attempt to abuse it in anyway.
It's not about me, though. Well, maybe it is; my own self-consciousness about my limitations, and a desire not to suffer in public, but I think of other's first. I ask myself if I was going to be able to be social, due to my pain, or if I am going to become an object of pity. I might stick it out as a social antagonist, but I will be pitied by no one. I don't want anyone to be "sorry," sorry doesn't help. I would like it if people could be a little more understanding of why I don't get out often. I can straighten myself up, and look kind of normal, but dig it, people, if you aren't looking at me laying in a box, I'm in pain and I don't want pity.
Monday, April 2, 2012
My "Real" Education
I fancy myself to be an excellent teacher. Not just as a school teacher, but I love to teach young people some of the important things about life, a portion of their education that is woefully lacking. I always joked about having taught Marines to program computers, like it was the hardest thing one could ever do (it pretty much is, too). I'd tell an interviewing Principal, "If I can teach a bunch of Jar heads to program a computer, I can teach English to teenagers." They'd laugh, but it would stick with them, and I'd get a teaching job.
My students, especially the Marines, always learned a lot from me, because my lessons were based upon my personal experiences, from programming computers, to riding motorcycles (I taught that in the Navy, too.), to relating to a piece of literature, I gave my students examples from my own life. It may have been a sort of "been there, done that," but students learn best from people that have more than just a knowledge of a certain topic.
Okay, I'm not going to make the claim of the Strother Martin character in Rooster Cogburn and The Lady, that "I've been everywhere; done everything; know everybody. That's why I can say people are no damned good." I love that line, but I haven't been everywhere, haven't done diddly, and have but a few friends, in all honesty. I sure as Hell can act like it, though, because I've been through enough, and at least went outside of the US several times. I've stopped in ports all along the southern European coastline, and a couple in North Africa. I lived on an US airbase in Japan for six months, and saw a little of that side of the world, too. Closer to home, I've been to a number of places in Mexico, and both ends of the Panama Canal, Cologne and Panama City, so I feel safe to say I've been a few places, anyway.
Everyone, now days, talks about their "bucket list," things they'd like to do before they die, but I can't. For one, it's too long to be just a list; an inventory, perhaps, but certainly more than a list. It's liable to stay that way, too, because I can't do certain things anymore, and I'm not in a financial position to do the rest. I've been able to do a couple of things, like visit the Acropolis in Athens, the pyramids in Egypt, the Colosseum in Rome, and see the Rock of Gibraltar, but that hardly scratches the surface. The best part of my visits to foreign lands was meeting the people, though, everywhere I went, I met wonderful people. My first visit to Europe was pretty much a "Pub Crawl," but I got to see how Europeans reacted to English-only Americans. Subsequent sorties beyond the US borders went a whole lot better, and I met the most wonderful people.
I learned, on that first "Med Cruise," that when one approached a Greek in Athens, and pretty much demand that he speak English, one of two things happened: either the Greek was more interested in taking the Americans money, or he'd claim "No Engleesh," and walk away. When one approached a Greek in Athens, and inquired (in Greek) if he spoke English, almost everyone did, and all appreciated the courtesy. One taxi driver in Athens (and one in Istanbul, too), would have us schedule times to meet him, and he would drive us for the entire day. We got to meet their families, and shared food in their homes. It was like we were part of their families for a day, something every sailor abroad really enjoys. It makes us feel... normal. None of those people would remember me now, most likely, so I can hardly claim I know them.
I tend to get along okay in almost any group of people, and I've done it in some rather diverse groups, too. Once, on the Caspian Sea side of the Dardanelles, we drank vodka with, and learned Russian folk songs from a group of Soviet Navy guys because our Turkish driver wanted to show us the inland sea. We had an outrageous time, swapping insults on our Presidents, and doing normal "guy in a bar" stuff. All under the watchful eye of the KGB, which was probably the funniest thing of all. The KGB-guy didn't speak English. Two of the Russian sailors did. He tried to break us up, but the senior Russian sailor basically told him to mind his own business, in a rather profane Russian way. We all left with new-found "friends," who just happened to be our enemies, but we were watched the entire time.
By the time I got to college, at age 40, I had sufficient knowledge of everything my instructors covered, to the point where I feel that I really didn't learn anything in college. I struggled a little in the literature studies, until I realized I knew most of the periods, common themes, and styles from my own reading. The rest, the Liberal Arts crap, was way too easy. I was dealing with teachers who had not been outside of an academic setting since they were five. Every single one of them (well, with the exception of one) was a screaming, bleeding liberal. Idealistic as all hell, but never having had to face life in the real world, they were easy prey. In one class, a fellow student I knew from some of the morning coffee house discussions asked me how I did it. "How do you, knowing what you know, being the conservative person you are, put up with all of the liberalism around you?" I basically told him that I visualize the instructor's point of view, throw in a hand full of unicorns and rainbows, and see it for the cartoon it really is. After he got done laughing, he wrote it down.
While I still maintain that I didn't actually learn anything at college, I freely admit that it gave me an opportunity to look at what I did know from several differing viewpoints, but even that wasn't new to me. By the time I got to college I'd been married 17 years, had three kids, done a 20-year career in the Navy, and experienced things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I've looked at a lot of things, from a number of perspectives many times. As I said, only one of my instructors understood the world as I did, a retired Army Colonel, who taught Editing, mostly. Fortunately, I caught him in a Lit class, and we got along from Day One.
On a warm May afternoon in 1997, at the age of 46, I was bestowed by the Regents of the State of California a Baccalaureate Degree in English - Language and Literature. Having played all of the games, jumped through all of the hoops, I had the piece of paper that said I actually knew all of the stuff I knew. Tell that to the student loan people.
My students, especially the Marines, always learned a lot from me, because my lessons were based upon my personal experiences, from programming computers, to riding motorcycles (I taught that in the Navy, too.), to relating to a piece of literature, I gave my students examples from my own life. It may have been a sort of "been there, done that," but students learn best from people that have more than just a knowledge of a certain topic.
Okay, I'm not going to make the claim of the Strother Martin character in Rooster Cogburn and The Lady, that "I've been everywhere; done everything; know everybody. That's why I can say people are no damned good." I love that line, but I haven't been everywhere, haven't done diddly, and have but a few friends, in all honesty. I sure as Hell can act like it, though, because I've been through enough, and at least went outside of the US several times. I've stopped in ports all along the southern European coastline, and a couple in North Africa. I lived on an US airbase in Japan for six months, and saw a little of that side of the world, too. Closer to home, I've been to a number of places in Mexico, and both ends of the Panama Canal, Cologne and Panama City, so I feel safe to say I've been a few places, anyway.
Everyone, now days, talks about their "bucket list," things they'd like to do before they die, but I can't. For one, it's too long to be just a list; an inventory, perhaps, but certainly more than a list. It's liable to stay that way, too, because I can't do certain things anymore, and I'm not in a financial position to do the rest. I've been able to do a couple of things, like visit the Acropolis in Athens, the pyramids in Egypt, the Colosseum in Rome, and see the Rock of Gibraltar, but that hardly scratches the surface. The best part of my visits to foreign lands was meeting the people, though, everywhere I went, I met wonderful people. My first visit to Europe was pretty much a "Pub Crawl," but I got to see how Europeans reacted to English-only Americans. Subsequent sorties beyond the US borders went a whole lot better, and I met the most wonderful people.
I learned, on that first "Med Cruise," that when one approached a Greek in Athens, and pretty much demand that he speak English, one of two things happened: either the Greek was more interested in taking the Americans money, or he'd claim "No Engleesh," and walk away. When one approached a Greek in Athens, and inquired (in Greek) if he spoke English, almost everyone did, and all appreciated the courtesy. One taxi driver in Athens (and one in Istanbul, too), would have us schedule times to meet him, and he would drive us for the entire day. We got to meet their families, and shared food in their homes. It was like we were part of their families for a day, something every sailor abroad really enjoys. It makes us feel... normal. None of those people would remember me now, most likely, so I can hardly claim I know them.
I tend to get along okay in almost any group of people, and I've done it in some rather diverse groups, too. Once, on the Caspian Sea side of the Dardanelles, we drank vodka with, and learned Russian folk songs from a group of Soviet Navy guys because our Turkish driver wanted to show us the inland sea. We had an outrageous time, swapping insults on our Presidents, and doing normal "guy in a bar" stuff. All under the watchful eye of the KGB, which was probably the funniest thing of all. The KGB-guy didn't speak English. Two of the Russian sailors did. He tried to break us up, but the senior Russian sailor basically told him to mind his own business, in a rather profane Russian way. We all left with new-found "friends," who just happened to be our enemies, but we were watched the entire time.
By the time I got to college, at age 40, I had sufficient knowledge of everything my instructors covered, to the point where I feel that I really didn't learn anything in college. I struggled a little in the literature studies, until I realized I knew most of the periods, common themes, and styles from my own reading. The rest, the Liberal Arts crap, was way too easy. I was dealing with teachers who had not been outside of an academic setting since they were five. Every single one of them (well, with the exception of one) was a screaming, bleeding liberal. Idealistic as all hell, but never having had to face life in the real world, they were easy prey. In one class, a fellow student I knew from some of the morning coffee house discussions asked me how I did it. "How do you, knowing what you know, being the conservative person you are, put up with all of the liberalism around you?" I basically told him that I visualize the instructor's point of view, throw in a hand full of unicorns and rainbows, and see it for the cartoon it really is. After he got done laughing, he wrote it down.
While I still maintain that I didn't actually learn anything at college, I freely admit that it gave me an opportunity to look at what I did know from several differing viewpoints, but even that wasn't new to me. By the time I got to college I'd been married 17 years, had three kids, done a 20-year career in the Navy, and experienced things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I've looked at a lot of things, from a number of perspectives many times. As I said, only one of my instructors understood the world as I did, a retired Army Colonel, who taught Editing, mostly. Fortunately, I caught him in a Lit class, and we got along from Day One.
On a warm May afternoon in 1997, at the age of 46, I was bestowed by the Regents of the State of California a Baccalaureate Degree in English - Language and Literature. Having played all of the games, jumped through all of the hoops, I had the piece of paper that said I actually knew all of the stuff I knew. Tell that to the student loan people.
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