Today is March 15, 2017, I am 65 years, 8 mos. old, and have been falling apart ever since I quit smoking on my 60th birthday... I mean, really... Prior to my 60th birthday, I had been hospitalized twice in my entire life. Once for five days, for tonsillitis in 1971, and three days, in 2002, due to my stroke. Since my 60th birthday...
Five days in 2013, for a left upper lobectomy, to remove cancerous nodules. Four days in 2015, for flu, dehydration, and the renal problems associated with dehydration. Three additional days, six months later, for dehydration, and the... Four days last September, for diverticulitis. Eight days in my first 60 years, 16 days in the last five years.
That doesn't count the numerous "procedures" I've had done over the last decade, it's probably a good thing that the records have gone digital, because I'd need a wagon to carry mine. Let's see, I had ESI's once per quarter for over 8 years, so that's 34 - 35 right there. The work-up for the Radio Frequency Ablations, the RFA's themselves, numerous x-rays, CT's, MRI's, etc., lab reports, arthroscopic hip surgery... it's too much for me to remember...
Fortunately, I am hardly a stranger to David Grant Medical Center, and that goes back to 1965, when it was up on the hill, where Base Admin now resides. I was a Navy dependent, right up until I enlisted, so having to deal with civilian doctors is still kind of new for me. The first time I ever visited Travis AFB Hospital (before the name change), was for an ear ache I developed on the day before, when we moved from Vallejo to Vacaville.
Most recently, I wrote to my Primary Care folks, complaining of pain resulting from walking distances of more than 200 yards. I got referred to Heart, Lung, and Vascular, where they did some tests revealing that somewhere just above my hips, I'm losing 20% of blood flow to the left leg. They also stated that there was also a place, somewhere around the knee, where another 10 - 20% loss of blood flow occurred. The recommendation? Angiogram/Angioplasty.
Fortunately, for me, I have a very good friend, who just happens to be a vascular radiologist, who asked me to check their conclusions with him. It turns out, angio-stuff is also done by my friend, and he has scheduled to do it one week from today. The H/L/V doc told me that Dr. Dave could do it, or they could, it was up to me. You know what? Screw all of the people who talk Schmitt about Military Medicine. I've been treated by military doctors most of my life. I placed the fate of the person I love most on this Earth (no, Mary's, not mine) in the hands of a military neural surgeon... The two doctors I trust most work at David Grant Hospital, Dr. Dave, and Dr. John V. I'm getting a growing regard for Dr. White, in Pain Management. I am at six months past the RFA's, and am still without the lower back pain that plagued me for so long, thanks to him and his staff.
I suppose I should just shut-the-heck-up, about getting older... If I were anywhere else, I'd be looking at aging, and be very frightened... Where I am, right now, knowing that I have access to quality healthcare, I look ahead and smile...
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
A Lifetime Filled With Amazing, Strong Women...
For those of you who read my Facebook post, thank you for letting me ramble on about this subject...
I was raised with two older sisters, one 8 years older (Sherry), and one 4 years older (Patricia, now deceased). For a time, I was "Sherry's Birthday Present," because I was born the day after her 8th birthday. Dad was in the Navy, a submarine qualified Torpedoman, who was gone a lot during my first 9 years. From July of 1951 to June of 1958, my family seemed to be constantly on the move. When I was 6mos old, my mom bundled the three of us into a car, and drove us to Steubenville, OH from Bremerton, WA. A year later, we were bundled back into the car, and driven to San Diego (by way of Chicago), to join my dad. A year after that, we were bundled up, and put on a US Navy Sea Plane, and flown to Oahu. Two and-a-half years later, she packed us up, and put us on a Troop ship headed back to San Diego. Does it seem to be excessive, 4 times? Wait, we're only up to 1956...
Between 1956 and 1958, we would move 4 more times... San Diego to Hunter's Point, Hunter's Point to Mare Island, Mare Island to Ladera Drive in Vallejo, I graduate from kindergarten, we move from Ladera Drive to Bergwall Way, still in Vallejo (3 different schools for kindergarten, and two different schools in first grade). Until the move to Ladera Drive, Mom was the one who had to take care of getting the house packed, deal with the movers, and drag three kids off to the next destination.
Dad always seemed to be out to sea, or somehow otherwise disposed.
It dawned on me that my mom was one strong lady, and you didn't want to try testing her. Sure, for most of her life, she weighed 120, and was only 5'4", but you didn't want to anger her, because she'd give you a whole chunk, rather than a piece of her mind.
My sisters? I'm not sure, relations have been strained of late with Sherry, and Pat passed away in 2013. Sherry is caring for a husband with MS, so there's strength there. But my sisters taught me more about being a man than any male influence in my life (of which there were but few). The best part of being taught by older sisters was learning how young ladies liked to be treated (open doors, help with seating, the real basic stuff), but they never knew the most invaluable lessons they taught me weren't on purpose. Being a smart kid, I observed a lot, and thought about what was going on. I'd watch my parents when a guy would come to pick up one of my sisters. If the guy sat out in the car, waiting, the chances of a second date dropped considerably in they eyes of my parents. If my parents told my sisters to be in at 10pm, Dad wouldn't get worried until 10:15, but after that, I watched them age a little with every tick of the clock. I decided that when I started dating, I'd be sure to have a girl home on time. The girls weren't real thrilled, but their parents liked me (all except Mary's mom).
At Christmastime in 1972, I was weak, drugged up, most often drunk, and suicidal. I got sent home on some "basket leave," and got re-acquainted with Mary, and my life took this wild swing towards good. We had dated in high school, and broke up in 1969, over another girl. For the next 3 years, I didn't really have time for a relationship with a girl, after I joined the Navy in March of '71, I shopped around, even landed a date with the best looking female in my A-School class. By Christmas of '72, I hadn't been home for the previous Christmas, and was looking at spending another one away from the people I knew best, and worst of all, alone.
I've gone over this all before, but Mary is proof that God is alive, and that he answers our most fervent prayers. She came back into my life, stood firm on her intent to live according to LDS guidelines, and her intent to be sealed in the Temple. In the 43 years that we've been married, I've had to draw on that strength many times.
I've had three daughters, Tyffany, Amy, and Jacklyn, Tyffany and Jacki are, to be discreet, "over 21," and Amy only survived for a few hours, being born very prematurely. My daughters are good, strong women, and deal with their own issues, but they do it with a strength and grace that fills me with great pride.
I have been fortunate to have lived my life among amazing and strong female influences. I am grateful to my Heavenly Father for making it so.
I was raised with two older sisters, one 8 years older (Sherry), and one 4 years older (Patricia, now deceased). For a time, I was "Sherry's Birthday Present," because I was born the day after her 8th birthday. Dad was in the Navy, a submarine qualified Torpedoman, who was gone a lot during my first 9 years. From July of 1951 to June of 1958, my family seemed to be constantly on the move. When I was 6mos old, my mom bundled the three of us into a car, and drove us to Steubenville, OH from Bremerton, WA. A year later, we were bundled back into the car, and driven to San Diego (by way of Chicago), to join my dad. A year after that, we were bundled up, and put on a US Navy Sea Plane, and flown to Oahu. Two and-a-half years later, she packed us up, and put us on a Troop ship headed back to San Diego. Does it seem to be excessive, 4 times? Wait, we're only up to 1956...
Between 1956 and 1958, we would move 4 more times... San Diego to Hunter's Point, Hunter's Point to Mare Island, Mare Island to Ladera Drive in Vallejo, I graduate from kindergarten, we move from Ladera Drive to Bergwall Way, still in Vallejo (3 different schools for kindergarten, and two different schools in first grade). Until the move to Ladera Drive, Mom was the one who had to take care of getting the house packed, deal with the movers, and drag three kids off to the next destination.
Dad always seemed to be out to sea, or somehow otherwise disposed.
It dawned on me that my mom was one strong lady, and you didn't want to try testing her. Sure, for most of her life, she weighed 120, and was only 5'4", but you didn't want to anger her, because she'd give you a whole chunk, rather than a piece of her mind.
My sisters? I'm not sure, relations have been strained of late with Sherry, and Pat passed away in 2013. Sherry is caring for a husband with MS, so there's strength there. But my sisters taught me more about being a man than any male influence in my life (of which there were but few). The best part of being taught by older sisters was learning how young ladies liked to be treated (open doors, help with seating, the real basic stuff), but they never knew the most invaluable lessons they taught me weren't on purpose. Being a smart kid, I observed a lot, and thought about what was going on. I'd watch my parents when a guy would come to pick up one of my sisters. If the guy sat out in the car, waiting, the chances of a second date dropped considerably in they eyes of my parents. If my parents told my sisters to be in at 10pm, Dad wouldn't get worried until 10:15, but after that, I watched them age a little with every tick of the clock. I decided that when I started dating, I'd be sure to have a girl home on time. The girls weren't real thrilled, but their parents liked me (all except Mary's mom).
At Christmastime in 1972, I was weak, drugged up, most often drunk, and suicidal. I got sent home on some "basket leave," and got re-acquainted with Mary, and my life took this wild swing towards good. We had dated in high school, and broke up in 1969, over another girl. For the next 3 years, I didn't really have time for a relationship with a girl, after I joined the Navy in March of '71, I shopped around, even landed a date with the best looking female in my A-School class. By Christmas of '72, I hadn't been home for the previous Christmas, and was looking at spending another one away from the people I knew best, and worst of all, alone.
I've gone over this all before, but Mary is proof that God is alive, and that he answers our most fervent prayers. She came back into my life, stood firm on her intent to live according to LDS guidelines, and her intent to be sealed in the Temple. In the 43 years that we've been married, I've had to draw on that strength many times.
I've had three daughters, Tyffany, Amy, and Jacklyn, Tyffany and Jacki are, to be discreet, "over 21," and Amy only survived for a few hours, being born very prematurely. My daughters are good, strong women, and deal with their own issues, but they do it with a strength and grace that fills me with great pride.
I have been fortunate to have lived my life among amazing and strong female influences. I am grateful to my Heavenly Father for making it so.
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
A Confession, of sorts...
I was due to transfer from the INDEPENDENCE on October 1, 1974, and the ship was scheduled to "out chop" (leave port) on July 6th. In May, a directive from the Navy Department gave permission for people with travel orders that: 1. were within 90 days of the execution of those orders, and 2. that the orders did not contain an NET (No Earlier Than) that was outside the normal allotted leave and travel time, to request an early transfer. I did the math, it was 87 days between out chop and my transfer, I looked at my orders, there was no NET, I'd been Married for three months, and my wife would be alone in a strange city, so I thought to myself, "Why not?"
I filled out a Request Chit, citing the appropriate directive, and requested an early transfer. My LPO, LCPO, the LT in charge of Storage and Retrieval (my work center in the Intel Center), and the LCDR in charge of the Intel Center all thought it was a great idea, especially since I was recently married. Why not?
Why not turned out to be a punk Ensign from Upstate New York. Why not said I was so valuable to the OZ Division that I had to have a "contact relief" (meaning someone coming before I could leave). He was so persuasive, the LCDR in charge changed his mind. The Ensign then proceeded to walk the chit through the chain-of-command, getting denials all the way through the Fleet Commander. He comes in to my work center with the disapproved request, and tells me that I am such a valuable asset to OZ Division, and he's sorry he couldn't get my request approved. "Oh, and by the way, you'll be going to the Mess Decks tomorrow, for your last 90 days."
Homicidal thoughts raced to my head whenever I saw the little weenie after that. He'd intentionally come through when my Section had the watch, just so he could observe me in my misery. I'd fume for a while, and the LPO of the Mess Deck Master-at-Arms force would chuckle to himself. When I asked him what was so funny, he said, "You, man. You get so upset, you want to kill the little f-er, but you won't do Schmitt."
"Yeah, what can I do?" I asked
"You can get even."
"Yeah, and exactly how do I do that?" I asked sarcastically.
"Oh, there's lots of ways," he replied, "but you can't get there unless you stop letting the little pecker get to you."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking getting friendly with the mutt. Say 'Hello, Sir,' 'How are you, Sir,' butter him up until he'll accept an invitation to go out on the town. You tell him you're sorry for not giving him the respect he was due, whatever, just get him to think that you're not angry, you're totally dedicated to doing a good job wherever you're working..."
The plan was actually pretty simple, and as it worked out, the timing of everything was better than I could have ever hoped for. I'd go up to the Intel Center a couple of times a week to talk to my buds up there, and because I had received an "Exceptional" for my Section during a Departmental Personnel Inspection, I was allowed to return to my normal duties after only 80 days. I went right to work. The S&R Officer was very pleased at my getting right into things with so few days left before I transferred. So was the Ensign, so when I invited him to a dinner show with Morrie Amsterdam, and a few cocktails afterwards, to prove there were no hard feelings about anything. He accepted, having seen great improvements in my "attitude" (if only he knew...), and the way I reacted when my chit to leave the ship one day early because the ship left Naples on the 30th, and I transferred on the 1st, got refused because it would take too long to re-write the orders, and I couldn't take leave before taking leave.
So it was, on the evening of September 29th, I met with the Ensign at the Fleet Landing in Naples, we shared a cab to the NATO Base, and went in to the lounge to await seating for the Dinner Show. I asked the Ensign what he would have to drink (Southern Comfort and Coke), and went off to the bar to buy him a double. I was worried that he'd pick something really strong, and a double would be really noticeable, but with all of the sweetness of Southern Comfort, he didn't notice he was getting doubles. He'd had a couple before dinner, two during dinner, and two more during the show, all doubles. He knew I was LDS, and didn't drink, so he felt free to really hang one on, figuring that since I was sober, he'd get back to the ship before liberty expired at 0500, and the ship departed at 0800.
After the NATO Base club, we stopped at a bar he knew in town, since it was only 2230, we had plenty of time to get to the ship. He was on his third drink (he was buying, so he was probably only getting one shots), when he brought up the requests to transfer early. He admitted being responsible for getting the one done in June, to transfer to San Diego early, but he had nothing to do with the one asking to leave one day early, that was just a part of the regulations, however he thought it to be delightfully ironic.
I've come a long way since my younger days. I am extremely well versed in the meaning and use of certain Anglo-Saxon expletives, both from my experiences as a Sailor, and having been raised by one of the world's greatest practitioners of profanity -- who, just happened to be a Sailor himself. I know the words, I try very hard not to use them... OK, I swear on the golf course, but then... it's golf... I've gotten to the point where I try to convey the convection, but not use the actual words. Sometimes I like to be creative and try to show my PC side with stuff like "ca-ca de vaca," for BS, stuff like that... Sometimes I like to be metaphoric, like someone "choking his chicken," or even Biblical, someone "casting pearls before swine..." But enough of that...
I launched into a torrent of profanity that probably still lingers over Naples, Italy to this day. I called him everything but "Sir" or "Ensign," berated his lineage back to his ancestors in Israel, and stormed out of the bar. Sometime during my tirade, he had passed out. It was 0200, and the last boat(s) was/were at 0400. I didn't want to be on the last boat, so I hustled down to Fleet Landing, getting there around 0230, got on a boat at 0245, and was back on the Indy by 0300.
At 0600 the Sea and Anchor detail was called, and all hands were directed to muster with their Division Officers by 0700. I had checked out of OZ Division before I went on liberty the previous day, so I went down to Personnel, to let them know I had made it back and had the information on my flights for the following day. I went up to the Intel Center, to make sure I didn't miss saying goodbye to everyone, and started getting grilled... "Where's the Ensign?" I told them that the last time I saw him was at 0200, in a bar, and we had exchanged words, but nothing else, I came straight back. They asked if I knew how much he had to drink, and I told them somewhere between 8 and 10 since I first met him at about 1500.
The next morning, October 1, I boarded a C-2 aircraft (designated COD, for Carrier Onboard Delivery) and was catapulted off USS INDEPENDENCE on a short flight to the Naples/NATO airfield, had a 1 hour wait to board a plane to Da Vinci in Rome, Rome to Paris and a delayed flight, so I got to spend the evening with an international group of people heading to JFK. We stayed up all night, entertaining each other, talking, we tried sleeping, but the only things big enough to lay down on were the floor, and the ceramic tile sills on the windows, so the group slowly grew. We finally got to board at 0915, and took off sometime before 1000, JFK bound. When I left, I had no information on the Ensign.
About two months later, I get a card from one of my ex-shipmates, saying that the Ensign came back on the COD I had left on. He reported to the LCDR, saying he didn't know what happened, he woke up in the bar at 0800, and only remembered me yelling at him. That jived with my story, so he was asked to resign his commission in lieu of a Courts Martial.
My plan was to get him hammered and dump him at Fleet Landing. The CO had a policy that anyone too drunk to walk up the Accommodation Ladder would be placed in a litter, and potentially put on report. The idea was to let him get treated as a nobody. The intermediate stop was his idea. And while I knew that he had been single-handedly instrumental in the denial of my early transfer request, he's the one who literally bragged about it to my face. I got mad, rudely abased him, and left before I decided to punch his face in. He was such a weenie, tried to blame his problems on an E5, but I understand that he ended up "doing the right thing".
I filled out a Request Chit, citing the appropriate directive, and requested an early transfer. My LPO, LCPO, the LT in charge of Storage and Retrieval (my work center in the Intel Center), and the LCDR in charge of the Intel Center all thought it was a great idea, especially since I was recently married. Why not?
Why not turned out to be a punk Ensign from Upstate New York. Why not said I was so valuable to the OZ Division that I had to have a "contact relief" (meaning someone coming before I could leave). He was so persuasive, the LCDR in charge changed his mind. The Ensign then proceeded to walk the chit through the chain-of-command, getting denials all the way through the Fleet Commander. He comes in to my work center with the disapproved request, and tells me that I am such a valuable asset to OZ Division, and he's sorry he couldn't get my request approved. "Oh, and by the way, you'll be going to the Mess Decks tomorrow, for your last 90 days."
Homicidal thoughts raced to my head whenever I saw the little weenie after that. He'd intentionally come through when my Section had the watch, just so he could observe me in my misery. I'd fume for a while, and the LPO of the Mess Deck Master-at-Arms force would chuckle to himself. When I asked him what was so funny, he said, "You, man. You get so upset, you want to kill the little f-er, but you won't do Schmitt."
"Yeah, what can I do?" I asked
"You can get even."
"Yeah, and exactly how do I do that?" I asked sarcastically.
"Oh, there's lots of ways," he replied, "but you can't get there unless you stop letting the little pecker get to you."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking getting friendly with the mutt. Say 'Hello, Sir,' 'How are you, Sir,' butter him up until he'll accept an invitation to go out on the town. You tell him you're sorry for not giving him the respect he was due, whatever, just get him to think that you're not angry, you're totally dedicated to doing a good job wherever you're working..."
The plan was actually pretty simple, and as it worked out, the timing of everything was better than I could have ever hoped for. I'd go up to the Intel Center a couple of times a week to talk to my buds up there, and because I had received an "Exceptional" for my Section during a Departmental Personnel Inspection, I was allowed to return to my normal duties after only 80 days. I went right to work. The S&R Officer was very pleased at my getting right into things with so few days left before I transferred. So was the Ensign, so when I invited him to a dinner show with Morrie Amsterdam, and a few cocktails afterwards, to prove there were no hard feelings about anything. He accepted, having seen great improvements in my "attitude" (if only he knew...), and the way I reacted when my chit to leave the ship one day early because the ship left Naples on the 30th, and I transferred on the 1st, got refused because it would take too long to re-write the orders, and I couldn't take leave before taking leave.
So it was, on the evening of September 29th, I met with the Ensign at the Fleet Landing in Naples, we shared a cab to the NATO Base, and went in to the lounge to await seating for the Dinner Show. I asked the Ensign what he would have to drink (Southern Comfort and Coke), and went off to the bar to buy him a double. I was worried that he'd pick something really strong, and a double would be really noticeable, but with all of the sweetness of Southern Comfort, he didn't notice he was getting doubles. He'd had a couple before dinner, two during dinner, and two more during the show, all doubles. He knew I was LDS, and didn't drink, so he felt free to really hang one on, figuring that since I was sober, he'd get back to the ship before liberty expired at 0500, and the ship departed at 0800.
After the NATO Base club, we stopped at a bar he knew in town, since it was only 2230, we had plenty of time to get to the ship. He was on his third drink (he was buying, so he was probably only getting one shots), when he brought up the requests to transfer early. He admitted being responsible for getting the one done in June, to transfer to San Diego early, but he had nothing to do with the one asking to leave one day early, that was just a part of the regulations, however he thought it to be delightfully ironic.
I've come a long way since my younger days. I am extremely well versed in the meaning and use of certain Anglo-Saxon expletives, both from my experiences as a Sailor, and having been raised by one of the world's greatest practitioners of profanity -- who, just happened to be a Sailor himself. I know the words, I try very hard not to use them... OK, I swear on the golf course, but then... it's golf... I've gotten to the point where I try to convey the convection, but not use the actual words. Sometimes I like to be creative and try to show my PC side with stuff like "ca-ca de vaca," for BS, stuff like that... Sometimes I like to be metaphoric, like someone "choking his chicken," or even Biblical, someone "casting pearls before swine..." But enough of that...
I launched into a torrent of profanity that probably still lingers over Naples, Italy to this day. I called him everything but "Sir" or "Ensign," berated his lineage back to his ancestors in Israel, and stormed out of the bar. Sometime during my tirade, he had passed out. It was 0200, and the last boat(s) was/were at 0400. I didn't want to be on the last boat, so I hustled down to Fleet Landing, getting there around 0230, got on a boat at 0245, and was back on the Indy by 0300.
At 0600 the Sea and Anchor detail was called, and all hands were directed to muster with their Division Officers by 0700. I had checked out of OZ Division before I went on liberty the previous day, so I went down to Personnel, to let them know I had made it back and had the information on my flights for the following day. I went up to the Intel Center, to make sure I didn't miss saying goodbye to everyone, and started getting grilled... "Where's the Ensign?" I told them that the last time I saw him was at 0200, in a bar, and we had exchanged words, but nothing else, I came straight back. They asked if I knew how much he had to drink, and I told them somewhere between 8 and 10 since I first met him at about 1500.
The next morning, October 1, I boarded a C-2 aircraft (designated COD, for Carrier Onboard Delivery) and was catapulted off USS INDEPENDENCE on a short flight to the Naples/NATO airfield, had a 1 hour wait to board a plane to Da Vinci in Rome, Rome to Paris and a delayed flight, so I got to spend the evening with an international group of people heading to JFK. We stayed up all night, entertaining each other, talking, we tried sleeping, but the only things big enough to lay down on were the floor, and the ceramic tile sills on the windows, so the group slowly grew. We finally got to board at 0915, and took off sometime before 1000, JFK bound. When I left, I had no information on the Ensign.
About two months later, I get a card from one of my ex-shipmates, saying that the Ensign came back on the COD I had left on. He reported to the LCDR, saying he didn't know what happened, he woke up in the bar at 0800, and only remembered me yelling at him. That jived with my story, so he was asked to resign his commission in lieu of a Courts Martial.
My plan was to get him hammered and dump him at Fleet Landing. The CO had a policy that anyone too drunk to walk up the Accommodation Ladder would be placed in a litter, and potentially put on report. The idea was to let him get treated as a nobody. The intermediate stop was his idea. And while I knew that he had been single-handedly instrumental in the denial of my early transfer request, he's the one who literally bragged about it to my face. I got mad, rudely abased him, and left before I decided to punch his face in. He was such a weenie, tried to blame his problems on an E5, but I understand that he ended up "doing the right thing".
Monday, February 20, 2017
Some Memories...
I got around as a kid. Shortly after I was born, I was on a "road trip" with my mom and sisters, to Steubenville, Ohio while my dad went to sea. His boat would pull in close to shore, and my dad (a Torpedoman's Mate) would go and disarm mines on a beach the Marines would hit the following day. We went to stay with my mom's family, and went to Chicago to visit my dad's mom and aunt. I remember none of this, although I've found some pictures of the time.
When Dad's boat got back, it was stationed at Pearl Harbor, and we traveled from Ohio to California, to board a sea plane for the flight to Honolulu. I remember images from those times (I was 3 when we first arrived), and a couple of things are pretty complete, memory-wise. Like I can remember riding around on my dad's Cushman scooter, and getting "dish packs" (a cardboard barrel that they would pack dishes in for moving), and rolling down the long, sloping front lawn, inside the barrel. Every time someone moved into the neighborhood, the kids would scramble to get the dish pack(s), and we'd spend a whole day out running up the lawn, and rolling back down. I liked Hawaii, but Dad got a little claustrophobic on an island, so he got orders to a boat out of San Diego.
I was 4 when we got to San Diego, I remember we lived in a house on the edge of a canyon, and a big, friendly boxer (dog) I would wrestle with, but not much else. We were only there for 18 months, just long enough for me to get registered in Kindergarten, and actually start school. After two or three months, I was pulled out, and we moved to Hunter's Point Naval Shipyard, while my dad's boat underwent an overhaul. We were there a month, and Dad got orders to the Naval Reserve Training Center, in Vallejo, so we moved into a Quonset hut until Dad found us a house in town. I went to school on Mare Island for 6 weeks, and moved to John Davidson Elementary. Dad had a 1 year lease on the house on Ladera Drive, and by the time the lease expired, we moved again, and I started at another new school, Pennycook Elementary.
We spent 8 years in that house. Longer than anyplace, but Dad had retired from the Navy, and took a job at the California Medical Facility (CMF), in Vacaville, some 30 minutes drive each way... Dad did well, and made Correctional Sargent, a promotion that my mom had promised to move, yet again, to Vacaville, so he wouldn't have to commute an hour every day. I "graduated" from Pennycook Elementary, and was going to Springstown Junior High... right at the end of my 8th grade year, when I was supposed to be an "almighty Ninth Grader," I ended up as a freshman at Vacaville High School. As much as I bitched and moaned about moving again, and despite the fact that the town had 14,000 people, one movie theater, and the Nut Tree, in retrospect, I needed to move here... If I hadn't, I'd have never met Mary, and would probably be dead right now.
One of the guys I used to hang out with, in Vallejo, ended up as an inmate at CMF, and was re-assigned to Chino by my dad. When Dad got home that night, he asked, "Do you know a guy named Such And Such?" I said I did, and he told me he was a prisoner, in for an armed robbery, and attempted murder of his accomplice. I've always wondered, if I'd have stayed in Vallejo, would I have been that accomplice? Dad said he had no choice but to send him to Chino, since there was a loose connection between inmate and officer through me. I shudder every time I think about it.
We lived in an upstairs, 3br, 2ba, apartment when we first moved to Vacaville. We had a balcony that overlooked the pool, and a downstairs neighbor who was an Air Force pilot, and was hardly ever around. It was Summer, and the only kid in the complex that was "around" my age was a girl who was going into the 7th grade. She had an abundance of baby fat, and just acted weird (at least to a guy who was used to Vallejo). If I went for a swim, she'd come to the pool and hang out, and we talked some, but there was nothing going from my perspective.
We were in the apartment from July 1965 until February 1966, moving into a newly constructed house just in time for Mom's 40th birthday. It was cool, I didn't have to change schools, Pat (my middle sister) had gotten married, so Mom made a "guest" room, and a "study" out of the extra rooms in the house, and I was allowed to sound-proof my room, so I could play my stereo without bothering anyone. In the "study," Dad constructed a big table out of a door blank. It turned out really great, and had a lot of room to put stuff on. I did most of my homework (when I actually DID my homework) at that desk. I lived in that house for 6 years, my folks spent 8 in that house, and bought a "cluster home" in '73.
Sometimes I think I've spent my entire life moving. Navy transfers aside, I've moved a lot. Especially after getting married. We were always trying to find a "nice" place for a low rent, and lived in several different places in San Diego over the years. We end up back in Vacaville, but moved a number of times while we've been here. Currently, we've been in this house for 8 years, equaling the longest period of time I've ever lived in one house. I'm not sure when we moved out of the house on Ladera Dr. I know it was during school, but we moved out in July of 1965, so it was sometime in 1957. I want to say it was in March, or April of '57, so that would be 8 years, 4 months in Vallejo, and we're on 8 years, 3 months on the 23rd of February. That means, that in addition to our celebrating our 43rd Wedding Anniversary, we will also be celebrating the longest period of time I've spent in one house, EVER. That may not be exciting to many people, but it's really a milestone in my life.
When Dad's boat got back, it was stationed at Pearl Harbor, and we traveled from Ohio to California, to board a sea plane for the flight to Honolulu. I remember images from those times (I was 3 when we first arrived), and a couple of things are pretty complete, memory-wise. Like I can remember riding around on my dad's Cushman scooter, and getting "dish packs" (a cardboard barrel that they would pack dishes in for moving), and rolling down the long, sloping front lawn, inside the barrel. Every time someone moved into the neighborhood, the kids would scramble to get the dish pack(s), and we'd spend a whole day out running up the lawn, and rolling back down. I liked Hawaii, but Dad got a little claustrophobic on an island, so he got orders to a boat out of San Diego.
I was 4 when we got to San Diego, I remember we lived in a house on the edge of a canyon, and a big, friendly boxer (dog) I would wrestle with, but not much else. We were only there for 18 months, just long enough for me to get registered in Kindergarten, and actually start school. After two or three months, I was pulled out, and we moved to Hunter's Point Naval Shipyard, while my dad's boat underwent an overhaul. We were there a month, and Dad got orders to the Naval Reserve Training Center, in Vallejo, so we moved into a Quonset hut until Dad found us a house in town. I went to school on Mare Island for 6 weeks, and moved to John Davidson Elementary. Dad had a 1 year lease on the house on Ladera Drive, and by the time the lease expired, we moved again, and I started at another new school, Pennycook Elementary.
We spent 8 years in that house. Longer than anyplace, but Dad had retired from the Navy, and took a job at the California Medical Facility (CMF), in Vacaville, some 30 minutes drive each way... Dad did well, and made Correctional Sargent, a promotion that my mom had promised to move, yet again, to Vacaville, so he wouldn't have to commute an hour every day. I "graduated" from Pennycook Elementary, and was going to Springstown Junior High... right at the end of my 8th grade year, when I was supposed to be an "almighty Ninth Grader," I ended up as a freshman at Vacaville High School. As much as I bitched and moaned about moving again, and despite the fact that the town had 14,000 people, one movie theater, and the Nut Tree, in retrospect, I needed to move here... If I hadn't, I'd have never met Mary, and would probably be dead right now.
One of the guys I used to hang out with, in Vallejo, ended up as an inmate at CMF, and was re-assigned to Chino by my dad. When Dad got home that night, he asked, "Do you know a guy named Such And Such?" I said I did, and he told me he was a prisoner, in for an armed robbery, and attempted murder of his accomplice. I've always wondered, if I'd have stayed in Vallejo, would I have been that accomplice? Dad said he had no choice but to send him to Chino, since there was a loose connection between inmate and officer through me. I shudder every time I think about it.
We lived in an upstairs, 3br, 2ba, apartment when we first moved to Vacaville. We had a balcony that overlooked the pool, and a downstairs neighbor who was an Air Force pilot, and was hardly ever around. It was Summer, and the only kid in the complex that was "around" my age was a girl who was going into the 7th grade. She had an abundance of baby fat, and just acted weird (at least to a guy who was used to Vallejo). If I went for a swim, she'd come to the pool and hang out, and we talked some, but there was nothing going from my perspective.
We were in the apartment from July 1965 until February 1966, moving into a newly constructed house just in time for Mom's 40th birthday. It was cool, I didn't have to change schools, Pat (my middle sister) had gotten married, so Mom made a "guest" room, and a "study" out of the extra rooms in the house, and I was allowed to sound-proof my room, so I could play my stereo without bothering anyone. In the "study," Dad constructed a big table out of a door blank. It turned out really great, and had a lot of room to put stuff on. I did most of my homework (when I actually DID my homework) at that desk. I lived in that house for 6 years, my folks spent 8 in that house, and bought a "cluster home" in '73.
Sometimes I think I've spent my entire life moving. Navy transfers aside, I've moved a lot. Especially after getting married. We were always trying to find a "nice" place for a low rent, and lived in several different places in San Diego over the years. We end up back in Vacaville, but moved a number of times while we've been here. Currently, we've been in this house for 8 years, equaling the longest period of time I've ever lived in one house. I'm not sure when we moved out of the house on Ladera Dr. I know it was during school, but we moved out in July of 1965, so it was sometime in 1957. I want to say it was in March, or April of '57, so that would be 8 years, 4 months in Vallejo, and we're on 8 years, 3 months on the 23rd of February. That means, that in addition to our celebrating our 43rd Wedding Anniversary, we will also be celebrating the longest period of time I've spent in one house, EVER. That may not be exciting to many people, but it's really a milestone in my life.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
"Because I said so."
I think that was one of my dad's favorite sayings. I know it was the one I hated the most. It got to the point where I swore an oath to myself, never to use that phrase with my children. That lasted an entire two years after Tyffany was born.
I remember it like it was fairly recent, I don't think I can ever forget it, as it stands as the day I realized that children can really be annoying, particularly when they get to the, "Why?" stage. After answering a number of "Why?" questions, that phrase popped out. The weirdest thing was, it was my dad's voice, coming out of my mouth... After a few moments of stunned silence, I started to laugh...
I am one who believes that everyone can be an example, as even a bad example is still an example. There was much that I wanted to change when I started my own family. For one, my family was never really affectionate. Mom and Dad would simply say, "Good night." No "Love you's," or "Sweet dreams," just Good night. I don't ever remember being "tucked in," or getting read bedtime stories, just a "Good night," after which I was expected to go to sleep. I'm not calling my parents "bad examples," but their parenting could have been better, so the answer to "What would Dad do?" was often the opposite of what I would do.
For one thing, my family never hugged each other. Growing up in a non-demonstrative home, you don't realize how important it is to be hugged. After Tyffany was born, it was "hugs and kisses" at bedtime, when I came home from work, as well as any number of other occasions. I told my kids, every day, that I loved them, and was proud of them. My dad waited until I was 50 before he told me he was proud of me. I spent my entire life trying to make my dad proud of me, and would have killed to hear those words. When he finally got around to it, it didn't mean as much to me as it would have when I was young. By the time he said it, I had retired from the Navy, gone to college and got my Bachelor's, and was teaching. Hell, I was pretty proud of myself, and really didn't need validation from anyone.
I never did get any respect from my sisters, who felt it their business to tell me how to raise my family, despite the fact that one sister refused to see that one of her kids had learning disabilities and needed help, and the other was a meth-head. I've been vindicated, however, as my kids are all serving in positions that help people, and animals. I am extremely proud of my children, and the people they've become, even if one hasn't talked to me in four years, and one has rejected my beliefs. Other than not being able to see my two granddaughters, there are no regrets. We taught them to stand up for themselves, and they have. It doesn't mean I've stopped loving them, or praying for them. It also doesn't mean that I plan to make any changes to accommodate them. Mary and I get along just fine, since I'm married to her, and have completed my obligations to my kids, I am pretty happy with my life. Happy, not complacent...
I know there are things in my life that need work... I also know that, at the present time, I lack the knowledge to make these changes, but I trust that that knowledge will be made available to me in the future. We either keep growing, or we start dying, and at 65, I'm not quite ready to go. I'm not ready to claim omniscience quite yet, either.
In the Book of Mormon, the prophet Nephi tells us that, "... man is that he might have joy." A latter-day prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley tells us that there is great joy in obeying the commandments of God, doing His will, and honoring the covenants we make with him. That we should, "Be happy. Don't get discouraged, [because] [t]hings will work out."
I remember it like it was fairly recent, I don't think I can ever forget it, as it stands as the day I realized that children can really be annoying, particularly when they get to the, "Why?" stage. After answering a number of "Why?" questions, that phrase popped out. The weirdest thing was, it was my dad's voice, coming out of my mouth... After a few moments of stunned silence, I started to laugh...
I am one who believes that everyone can be an example, as even a bad example is still an example. There was much that I wanted to change when I started my own family. For one, my family was never really affectionate. Mom and Dad would simply say, "Good night." No "Love you's," or "Sweet dreams," just Good night. I don't ever remember being "tucked in," or getting read bedtime stories, just a "Good night," after which I was expected to go to sleep. I'm not calling my parents "bad examples," but their parenting could have been better, so the answer to "What would Dad do?" was often the opposite of what I would do.
For one thing, my family never hugged each other. Growing up in a non-demonstrative home, you don't realize how important it is to be hugged. After Tyffany was born, it was "hugs and kisses" at bedtime, when I came home from work, as well as any number of other occasions. I told my kids, every day, that I loved them, and was proud of them. My dad waited until I was 50 before he told me he was proud of me. I spent my entire life trying to make my dad proud of me, and would have killed to hear those words. When he finally got around to it, it didn't mean as much to me as it would have when I was young. By the time he said it, I had retired from the Navy, gone to college and got my Bachelor's, and was teaching. Hell, I was pretty proud of myself, and really didn't need validation from anyone.
I never did get any respect from my sisters, who felt it their business to tell me how to raise my family, despite the fact that one sister refused to see that one of her kids had learning disabilities and needed help, and the other was a meth-head. I've been vindicated, however, as my kids are all serving in positions that help people, and animals. I am extremely proud of my children, and the people they've become, even if one hasn't talked to me in four years, and one has rejected my beliefs. Other than not being able to see my two granddaughters, there are no regrets. We taught them to stand up for themselves, and they have. It doesn't mean I've stopped loving them, or praying for them. It also doesn't mean that I plan to make any changes to accommodate them. Mary and I get along just fine, since I'm married to her, and have completed my obligations to my kids, I am pretty happy with my life. Happy, not complacent...
I know there are things in my life that need work... I also know that, at the present time, I lack the knowledge to make these changes, but I trust that that knowledge will be made available to me in the future. We either keep growing, or we start dying, and at 65, I'm not quite ready to go. I'm not ready to claim omniscience quite yet, either.
In the Book of Mormon, the prophet Nephi tells us that, "... man is that he might have joy." A latter-day prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley tells us that there is great joy in obeying the commandments of God, doing His will, and honoring the covenants we make with him. That we should, "Be happy. Don't get discouraged, [because] [t]hings will work out."
Friday, January 20, 2017
A Return to Sanity...?
The deed is done, the oath has been administered, and witnessed world-wide, so if your are an American, Donald Trump is your president. Never, in the 240 years of our history have people gone to such extremes to attempt to invalidate a Presidential election. Such whining and sniveling I have not witnessed in my lifetime, and hope to heck I never have to live through another... and that's just the Network media... Some a-hole actually immolated himself in the entry of Trump Towers... The only thing accomplished was a little less stupid in the gene pool.
Okay, enough on political crap.
I have taken on the Calling to teach two lessons a month to the men over 50, second and third Sundays, every month. This year, the lesson material is in The Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Gordon B. Hinkley. President Hinkley was a major reason I decided to become a better Latter-day Saint. Whenever he would speak, or write articles for the Church magazine, even before he became President, I felt like he was reading from my life history, and giving me, personally, directions on how to do it. Reading through the book, I can hear him speaking the words in my mind, and I miss him all the more.
We are approaching the 44th Anniversary of my baptism and Membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and though I have written on parts of my experience as a Mormon, I have never put it together in one piece. To tell the whole story, I have to go back a little further, however. I will try to be as brief as possible, but it goes back to the 1950's, when I was a kid in Vallejo...
Dad was retiring from the Navy, we were living in a house that wasn't a rental, or on-base, and I started going to St. Paul's Lutheran Church, with my mom, on Sundays. The Pastor was a former Russian Orthodox Priest, who turned Lutheran after the Russian Religious purges in the early 20th Century. The movie Fiddler on the Roof illustrates what happened from the Jewish perspective, but Christians, as well, were being exiled from Soviet Russia. Pastor John Zeltin had a thick Russian accent, which required me to pay extra attention, to understand what he was saying. Since everything he said (ok, a little hyperbole, here) was interesting, I paid a lot of attention to him. Our relationship was good enough that I could ask him about things in the liturgy, church tenants, or even something he said in a sermon, and we would talk about it. To make a long story short, I have been a religious person since boyhood. I have grown up as a Christian, so my downfall was a hard one.
When we moved to Vacaville in 1965, we tried making the drive into Vallejo on Sundays, but tired of it pretty quickly. We started going to the various Lutheran Churches in Vacaville, but never got "hooked" by any of the Pastors or congregations. As a kid, I had planned to go to Pacific Lutheran University, in Pullman, WA, and take theology classes to become a Lutheran Minister. Now, spiritually adrift, it didn't take me long to find trouble. Anyone who says that Evil doesn't exist has his/her head so far up their rear, they can't hear the screaming...
Shortening more, I went into the Navy after graduation, and identified myself as a Lutheran, but took an almost instant dislike for the Lutheran chaplain, and only went once. Since it was either go to church, or work in the barracks, during Boot Camp, I began my search for "The True Church". I think I made every Christian church service available, and when I moved on, I put my search on hold.
Finally, a combination of drug and alcohol abuse had me seriously considering suicide, and I caught my first break. I got 10 days of leave, and was told that I didn't have to go home, but I wasn't to be on the ship. During the 10 days, I got reconnected to an old girlfriend, Mary Gardner, and realized that the happiest moments of my last six years all involved her. I had loved her before, and found that I still felt the same way. Two months passed, and I convinced her to marry me, with just one catch... our wedding would be in an LDS Temple.
I won't try to hide the fact that everything I did, up to my baptism, was to try to make that happen, and that I was doing it all for her. Okay, maybe not all... As I learned about the Church, I started praying again, for the first time in years. The more I prayed, the more I began to believe, I read the Book of Mormon in a week, I didn't understand it all, but I believed it to be scripture... I knew that my life depended upon this choice, either I would join the Church, or I would lose Mary... I knew I couldn't lose her, every really happy memory I had had her in it... was I going to go back to what I was before, drunk, stoned, and suicidal? I was baptized on April 20, 1973.
Shortly after, the family that offered their house for meetings with the Missionaries, and played host to Mary and one of her BYU roommates, Marja, moved to Utah so Jim could go to UofU and get an electronics degree, and become an officer. Mary and Marja left on April 25, to go back to school, and my friends left on the first of May. I suddenly felt very lonely. Jim was the only other LDS guy in my Division (I thought), so when he departed, I had to take busses to Church, and it seemed like, since I'd already been baptized, the people in the Ward weren't all that friendly. I never put the "Norfolk hates the Navy" thing together until years later, but I was, pretty much, left alone. I had a ton of questions about my new religion, and not a soul who could answer them. The closest I could get was a "Born Again," who hated Mormons.
Just before we left on a six-month deployment, an LDS Group Leader was called for each of the ships in our Task Group that had more than a handful of LDS sailors. Ours was a Lieutenant from one of the Squadrons assigned to the INDEPENDENCE, a "spook," and intelligence analyst who worked in the IOIC (Integrated Operational Intelligence Center). I was pretty amped about that, finally someone I could talk to, and learn from. I waited until he had unpacked, and set up his cubicle in Mission Planning, and was going to introduce myself to him, and ask when and where Sacrament Meeting would be. I suppose I was wrong, but I came up behind him, and saw an open porn catalogue, and him writing numbers on an order form. He must have sensed my presence, because he covered the catalogue, and gave me one of those, "Can I help you?"
I wanted to, with all my might, answer, "Hi. DP2 Martin, I understand you're my LDS Group Leader..." I didn't, though, I just said, "Hi Lieutenant, got any S & R requests?" S & R were Storage and Retrieval requests, parameters for a computer, microfiche, microfilm search in 1973. We would go to a list, find a 1/2 inch magnetic tape that had the information, and we would print 11.5 by 14 inch pages with the information they requested. I didn't go to any of the LDS meetings on the ship for the remaining 5 1/2 months. Fortunately, I met the Branch President of the Athens, Greece Branch, during our time in the Mediterranean, and we got pretty close. Close enough that he played host to my parents for a week, when they came out to visit me. I learned a lot about Service from him.
For most of the first 12 years of my membership in the Church, I felt like I didn't quite belong. I'd get a calling, get no help on how to do it, and fail. I would go to Church, then I wouldn't go, then I'd go... I kept finding faults in the Church... stuff like, if I smoke, I'm not living the Word of Wisdom, but if I keep stuffing my face, weigh 340 pounds, I'm OK, despite the urging to use moderation in the use of foods. Stuff like that still baffles me, but I don't think about it much anymore. Once I figured out that I was as guilty of judging people as the jerks who were (in my mind) judging me, I really stopped doing it. That and a year in a Bishopric convinced me that a smoking habit was way, way, way down the list of sins.
Through most of my growth in the Church, President Hinkley was there, telling me how to be a better me. Just before he passed away, Mary and I got to attend a General Conference, which turned out to be his last. He spoke in each of the three meetings I attended, and it was like he could see into my heart, and knew everything about me. He talked of the Church moving ahead, and made me feel a desire to be a part of it. He talked about Repentance, stressing that it wasn't a one-time deal, and outlining how the process works. He helped me understand what it felt like to be forgiven for my sins, bringing great calm to my life.
My point? I am grateful to a loving Heavenly Father for allowing me to focus on one of the truly great men this world has known, and to be able to pass that on to the group.
Okay, enough on political crap.
I have taken on the Calling to teach two lessons a month to the men over 50, second and third Sundays, every month. This year, the lesson material is in The Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Gordon B. Hinkley. President Hinkley was a major reason I decided to become a better Latter-day Saint. Whenever he would speak, or write articles for the Church magazine, even before he became President, I felt like he was reading from my life history, and giving me, personally, directions on how to do it. Reading through the book, I can hear him speaking the words in my mind, and I miss him all the more.
We are approaching the 44th Anniversary of my baptism and Membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and though I have written on parts of my experience as a Mormon, I have never put it together in one piece. To tell the whole story, I have to go back a little further, however. I will try to be as brief as possible, but it goes back to the 1950's, when I was a kid in Vallejo...
Dad was retiring from the Navy, we were living in a house that wasn't a rental, or on-base, and I started going to St. Paul's Lutheran Church, with my mom, on Sundays. The Pastor was a former Russian Orthodox Priest, who turned Lutheran after the Russian Religious purges in the early 20th Century. The movie Fiddler on the Roof illustrates what happened from the Jewish perspective, but Christians, as well, were being exiled from Soviet Russia. Pastor John Zeltin had a thick Russian accent, which required me to pay extra attention, to understand what he was saying. Since everything he said (ok, a little hyperbole, here) was interesting, I paid a lot of attention to him. Our relationship was good enough that I could ask him about things in the liturgy, church tenants, or even something he said in a sermon, and we would talk about it. To make a long story short, I have been a religious person since boyhood. I have grown up as a Christian, so my downfall was a hard one.
When we moved to Vacaville in 1965, we tried making the drive into Vallejo on Sundays, but tired of it pretty quickly. We started going to the various Lutheran Churches in Vacaville, but never got "hooked" by any of the Pastors or congregations. As a kid, I had planned to go to Pacific Lutheran University, in Pullman, WA, and take theology classes to become a Lutheran Minister. Now, spiritually adrift, it didn't take me long to find trouble. Anyone who says that Evil doesn't exist has his/her head so far up their rear, they can't hear the screaming...
Shortening more, I went into the Navy after graduation, and identified myself as a Lutheran, but took an almost instant dislike for the Lutheran chaplain, and only went once. Since it was either go to church, or work in the barracks, during Boot Camp, I began my search for "The True Church". I think I made every Christian church service available, and when I moved on, I put my search on hold.
Finally, a combination of drug and alcohol abuse had me seriously considering suicide, and I caught my first break. I got 10 days of leave, and was told that I didn't have to go home, but I wasn't to be on the ship. During the 10 days, I got reconnected to an old girlfriend, Mary Gardner, and realized that the happiest moments of my last six years all involved her. I had loved her before, and found that I still felt the same way. Two months passed, and I convinced her to marry me, with just one catch... our wedding would be in an LDS Temple.
I won't try to hide the fact that everything I did, up to my baptism, was to try to make that happen, and that I was doing it all for her. Okay, maybe not all... As I learned about the Church, I started praying again, for the first time in years. The more I prayed, the more I began to believe, I read the Book of Mormon in a week, I didn't understand it all, but I believed it to be scripture... I knew that my life depended upon this choice, either I would join the Church, or I would lose Mary... I knew I couldn't lose her, every really happy memory I had had her in it... was I going to go back to what I was before, drunk, stoned, and suicidal? I was baptized on April 20, 1973.
Shortly after, the family that offered their house for meetings with the Missionaries, and played host to Mary and one of her BYU roommates, Marja, moved to Utah so Jim could go to UofU and get an electronics degree, and become an officer. Mary and Marja left on April 25, to go back to school, and my friends left on the first of May. I suddenly felt very lonely. Jim was the only other LDS guy in my Division (I thought), so when he departed, I had to take busses to Church, and it seemed like, since I'd already been baptized, the people in the Ward weren't all that friendly. I never put the "Norfolk hates the Navy" thing together until years later, but I was, pretty much, left alone. I had a ton of questions about my new religion, and not a soul who could answer them. The closest I could get was a "Born Again," who hated Mormons.
Just before we left on a six-month deployment, an LDS Group Leader was called for each of the ships in our Task Group that had more than a handful of LDS sailors. Ours was a Lieutenant from one of the Squadrons assigned to the INDEPENDENCE, a "spook," and intelligence analyst who worked in the IOIC (Integrated Operational Intelligence Center). I was pretty amped about that, finally someone I could talk to, and learn from. I waited until he had unpacked, and set up his cubicle in Mission Planning, and was going to introduce myself to him, and ask when and where Sacrament Meeting would be. I suppose I was wrong, but I came up behind him, and saw an open porn catalogue, and him writing numbers on an order form. He must have sensed my presence, because he covered the catalogue, and gave me one of those, "Can I help you?"
I wanted to, with all my might, answer, "Hi. DP2 Martin, I understand you're my LDS Group Leader..." I didn't, though, I just said, "Hi Lieutenant, got any S & R requests?" S & R were Storage and Retrieval requests, parameters for a computer, microfiche, microfilm search in 1973. We would go to a list, find a 1/2 inch magnetic tape that had the information, and we would print 11.5 by 14 inch pages with the information they requested. I didn't go to any of the LDS meetings on the ship for the remaining 5 1/2 months. Fortunately, I met the Branch President of the Athens, Greece Branch, during our time in the Mediterranean, and we got pretty close. Close enough that he played host to my parents for a week, when they came out to visit me. I learned a lot about Service from him.
For most of the first 12 years of my membership in the Church, I felt like I didn't quite belong. I'd get a calling, get no help on how to do it, and fail. I would go to Church, then I wouldn't go, then I'd go... I kept finding faults in the Church... stuff like, if I smoke, I'm not living the Word of Wisdom, but if I keep stuffing my face, weigh 340 pounds, I'm OK, despite the urging to use moderation in the use of foods. Stuff like that still baffles me, but I don't think about it much anymore. Once I figured out that I was as guilty of judging people as the jerks who were (in my mind) judging me, I really stopped doing it. That and a year in a Bishopric convinced me that a smoking habit was way, way, way down the list of sins.
Through most of my growth in the Church, President Hinkley was there, telling me how to be a better me. Just before he passed away, Mary and I got to attend a General Conference, which turned out to be his last. He spoke in each of the three meetings I attended, and it was like he could see into my heart, and knew everything about me. He talked of the Church moving ahead, and made me feel a desire to be a part of it. He talked about Repentance, stressing that it wasn't a one-time deal, and outlining how the process works. He helped me understand what it felt like to be forgiven for my sins, bringing great calm to my life.
My point? I am grateful to a loving Heavenly Father for allowing me to focus on one of the truly great men this world has known, and to be able to pass that on to the group.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
A Rough Couple of Weeks to Start a New Year
I'll start with the latest... A lady I've known since I was a teenager, one I've called "Ma" for the past 25 years, or so, got sick with a UTI on Christmas Day, and passed away this week. Her name was Dorothy Case, mother to Gene and Bill, loving wife to Thurle for close to 70 years. I met her when Bill asked me over to watch a KC/OAK football game, a clash of two AFL power houses. Bill introduced me to her, and I took an instant liking to her, and over the years, we developed a relationship that I don't think Bill or Thurle were aware of... mostly due to my friendship with Billy. She asked me, a long time ago, to not forget about Bill, and to stay friends with him, something that has changed me significantly.
Billy is a great guy, and I've never gotten any special favors, or money, for being friends with Bill Case. Sometimes it isn't easy, as he's a bit of a worry wart, and can fret on command. He's a technological Neanderthal, doesn't own a computer, laptop, tablet, just a cell phone, and while it has a browser function, he doesn't go near it. Add to that, the complete lack of any desire to learn or have one, and you can begin to see where it can occasionally be a frustrating friendship. Of course, he gets just as frustrated with me, because I keep offering him one of my older (but functional) computer systems, and he's running out of reasons to refuse.
In amongst all of that, I tried to switch medications for Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS), since about 2005, I had been taking a Parkinson's medication called "klonopin," or Clonazepam, in the Valium family, and while it has worked just fine for the past 11 years, the FDA has clamped down on prescriptions for controlled substances (which includes klonopin), allowing a doctor to prescribe only 30 days at a time, and requires a face-to-face meeting to get a renewal for another 30 days... A doctor in Pain Management took control of all my controlled meds (Norco and klonopin at the time), and he's a hard SOB to track down sometimes. I had had a reaction to Requip the first time I took it, but it turned out to be Lipitor that caused the problems, so I decided to try it again, just so I wouldn't have to make appointments every 30 days...
Ropinrol, the generic Requip has a side-effect that can be made worse if taken with Benadryl, and I've taken Benadryl every night since I can't remember, as a sleep aid (if you need a sleep aid, diphenhydramine - generic Benadryl - is in all of the "Night Time" versions of cold/flu/fever medications you can buy OTC). It is, perhaps, the least toxic form of sleep aids, too, as it is often given to children, for the aforementioned conditions... With the 20/20 vision of hindsight, I screwed up by not taking Benadryl with the Requip. I was so concerned about the side-effect that was mentioned.
According to the Patient Information, ropinrol can cause Narcoleptic-esque episodes, where the person taking the drug can go to sleep, never feeling tired, not knowing, and not remembering. After 11 days, I had a little "episode" with the med.
I was playing an EA Sports golf game on my PS4, and was just about to start a new game. I looked up at the TV; then scooted up to the edge of the couch for a better playing posture. I was interested in how long it would take me to play a full 18 holes, so I looked at the clock, it was 3:07pm, I looked back at the image on the screen, moved my thumbs into playing position, looked back at the clock, and it was 5:19. I don't think I played; I can't remember. I was still poised on the edge of the couch in "attack position," but two hours had passed, and I have no idea what happened.
I didn't tell Mary. I was supposed to drive our son-in-law to the airport on Sunday, in the worst rainstorm to hit the area in decades. I knew I'd be OK going to the airport, but had serious concerns about being alone on the return. The fact that it's a Tuesday, and I'm writing this is proof that miracles happen. As soon as I got home, I took a Benadryl, and passed out on the couch. I've stopped taking Requip, and gone back to klonopin and Benadryl.
Billy is a great guy, and I've never gotten any special favors, or money, for being friends with Bill Case. Sometimes it isn't easy, as he's a bit of a worry wart, and can fret on command. He's a technological Neanderthal, doesn't own a computer, laptop, tablet, just a cell phone, and while it has a browser function, he doesn't go near it. Add to that, the complete lack of any desire to learn or have one, and you can begin to see where it can occasionally be a frustrating friendship. Of course, he gets just as frustrated with me, because I keep offering him one of my older (but functional) computer systems, and he's running out of reasons to refuse.
In amongst all of that, I tried to switch medications for Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS), since about 2005, I had been taking a Parkinson's medication called "klonopin," or Clonazepam, in the Valium family, and while it has worked just fine for the past 11 years, the FDA has clamped down on prescriptions for controlled substances (which includes klonopin), allowing a doctor to prescribe only 30 days at a time, and requires a face-to-face meeting to get a renewal for another 30 days... A doctor in Pain Management took control of all my controlled meds (Norco and klonopin at the time), and he's a hard SOB to track down sometimes. I had had a reaction to Requip the first time I took it, but it turned out to be Lipitor that caused the problems, so I decided to try it again, just so I wouldn't have to make appointments every 30 days...
Ropinrol, the generic Requip has a side-effect that can be made worse if taken with Benadryl, and I've taken Benadryl every night since I can't remember, as a sleep aid (if you need a sleep aid, diphenhydramine - generic Benadryl - is in all of the "Night Time" versions of cold/flu/fever medications you can buy OTC). It is, perhaps, the least toxic form of sleep aids, too, as it is often given to children, for the aforementioned conditions... With the 20/20 vision of hindsight, I screwed up by not taking Benadryl with the Requip. I was so concerned about the side-effect that was mentioned.
According to the Patient Information, ropinrol can cause Narcoleptic-esque episodes, where the person taking the drug can go to sleep, never feeling tired, not knowing, and not remembering. After 11 days, I had a little "episode" with the med.
I was playing an EA Sports golf game on my PS4, and was just about to start a new game. I looked up at the TV; then scooted up to the edge of the couch for a better playing posture. I was interested in how long it would take me to play a full 18 holes, so I looked at the clock, it was 3:07pm, I looked back at the image on the screen, moved my thumbs into playing position, looked back at the clock, and it was 5:19. I don't think I played; I can't remember. I was still poised on the edge of the couch in "attack position," but two hours had passed, and I have no idea what happened.
I didn't tell Mary. I was supposed to drive our son-in-law to the airport on Sunday, in the worst rainstorm to hit the area in decades. I knew I'd be OK going to the airport, but had serious concerns about being alone on the return. The fact that it's a Tuesday, and I'm writing this is proof that miracles happen. As soon as I got home, I took a Benadryl, and passed out on the couch. I've stopped taking Requip, and gone back to klonopin and Benadryl.
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