1972 - The Dance That Thought It Was A Concert

Some events in life are more memorable than others. Although I played bigger crowds then this 150 - 200 the unexpected joy we got from this experience was one to never forget. An unexpected downturn can turn into an unexpected bonus. Stuff like this can sure put stars in a young man's eyes.


1972 – The Dance That Thought It Was A Concert

“No, I’m sorry, we don’t play any of those songs.” It was the third time I had repeated that message. The look of surprise and disappointment on the young lady’s face was obvious. This time I added, “All of these songs are originals.”

The room had been emptying for the last 15 minutes. From our vantage point on a fairly good-sized stage, it was obvious we were not playing their type of music. Unfortunately for them they had hired us from our reputation. We had offered to audition, as we were very aware we did not play typical “dance” music. The girl on the other end of the line had said we were well recommended and they trusted we would fit the bill. Evidently we had not.

The young lady standing in front of me started to walk away but stopped after only a couple of steps and turned back around, “Did you mean all of these songs are written by the band?”

“Yeah, so far” I replied, “You’ve never heard any of these unless you’ve been to one of our other gigs.” I was pretty sure she had not as we had only performed a couple of times before this job showed up. We only covered a couple of rock tunes from other groups although the entire second set was acoustic renditions of popular songs.

“Wow! That’s pretty cool! You mean you guys wrote all of these songs on your own?”

“Yep.”

She repeated, “Wow!” and walked back towards the little table where she sat with half-a-dozen other girls pausing, with her back to us, and leaning forward on the table. She looked very animated but from the rear it was impossible to tell what she was saying. The first beat of “Old Blue” started and we launched into one of John’s favorite songs about Old Blue, his dog. As I played I could see the girls at the table heading quickly for the door. They looked desperate to leave. Oh, well. Kevin and I looked at each other, a silent communication passing between us acknowledging the rapidly thinning crowd. The tempo of the song was about to change building rapidly to a driving shuffle from the vaguely country-sounding introduction and first chorus which were somewhat slower and plaintive verse about the passing of Old Blue. The body of the song celebrated Blue’s life and adventures but wrapped with the chorus’ realization that Old Blue was gone.

Just as we finished “Old Blue” the girl that had spoken to me walked in the door with 8-people in tow. A few minutes later one of the other girls showed up alone but within 2-minutes a dozen or more girls walked in and strode over to her table where they had a short conversation and found their own table. We launched into our next number hoping the crowd had stabilized, as we really didn’t want to play to an empty room. Another girl entered with a couple of guys in tow…I looked at Kevin…with a “What’s going on?” in my eyes. He shrugged. Over the next 15 minutes the room filled to capacity with the crowd spilling out onto the dance floor. That was just fine as our music wasn’t really “dance” music. Our songs contained a lot of tempo changes as well as an occasional change of key or transitions. I understand we were, supposedly, “cutting-edge.” Some of the tempo and key changes were accompanied with sometimes subtitle & sometimes-abrupt switches from high volume to low volume or vice versa. A big part of our sound was about this ability, which we carefully practiced, to keep the excitement and the “drive” of the song as strong after an abrupt change in volume as it had been before the change. Tight vocal harmonies topped off our two-guitars, a bass and drum kit.

We wrapped our set with our newest version of “Go For It” a song that seemed to be continually evolving. Upon leaving the stage we were surrounded by attendees all of whom seemed fascinated by the fact we had performed all originals. The guys and girls alike were interested and we barely had time to get a cold drink. We sat for a couple minutes with the girl that had originally shown so much interest in our play-list and headed back to the stage. She revealed she had pulled several people out of her sorority house and many of them called other friends who called other friends. We found a small part of our crowd came from the nearby town and were not affiliated with the college except for the friends they had on the inside.

Our second set was completely acoustic. We announced this fact, which we had already revealed to many of the patrons that had inquired as to why we didn’t perform other group’s songs. We replied we did, indeed, cover a few other songs but they were mostly during our second set. For this set both guitarists played acoustic guitars, I played congas and the drummer/purcussionist sat in-and-out depending upon the song and our arrangement. We started with Steven Stills “Love The One You’re With” which is a lively song even when played acoustically. We proceeded to a slightly modified version of “59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)” by Paul Simon. As we started our version of Crosby, Stills and Nash’s “4 and 20” Kevin and I quickly commented on the growing crowd. There was no dance floor left as was covered by students sitting cross-legged gazing at the 3’-tall stage and moving in place to the music. By the time we finished the set we had a standing room only crowd with several groups of people sitting on the grass lawn outside the Student Union. We headed off for our second, and last, break but as the only exit off-stage was directly into the crowd, due to crowd interest, we never made it to the back of the room for drinks or snacks before it was time to start our 3rd set.

As we started our 3rd set, I performed a short bass-solo, which ended with a few clearly recognizable lines from the Blue Danube, one of my favorite waltzes. As I struck the last note I held it humming in the air as a series of subtitle paradiddles arose in the background. The rhythm had the sound of a distant driving train, which I latched on to after the 3rd bar, my bass echoing the same driving beat put out by the drummer. As volume increased John’s guitar broke into the underground with notes that duplicated my own. The guitar laid on top of my bass line gave the tune more drive and increased the excitement level. 3-Bars later Kevin joined in with his guitar playing the exact notes John had been playing. 3-Bars later John’s guitar sang out with a single E-note that held for a bar twisting itself upward as John stretched the string. He came down with a 5-bar screaming lead that, upon ending, brought us all to a chug-chug-chug-brang, cha-cha cha-cha cha-cha cha-cha, chug-chug-chug-brang, cha-cha cha-cha cha-cha cha-cha, doodoo-dup-da (dadadadadadada), doodoo-dup-da (dadadadadadada), doodoo-dup-da (dadadadadadada), da-da-dup-dup, da-da-dup-dup, da-da-dup-dup, da-da-dup-dup, dooda-rang…rang rang dooda-rang…rang rang dooda-rang. We dropped into Chicago’s “I’m A Man” one of the few rock songs we did cover and the only song which I sang lead. At the end, the song ended abruptly with the final note ringing across the crowd.

The place erupted into wild applause that surprised me with a level of excitement and noise that almost scared me for a split-second. As the arranger on most of our songs, and the vocalist on this particular tune, I was understandably proud of how well the song was received. I had arranged the number so the core-song would not be recognizable until we were well into the tune and the excitement level would stay high until we launched back into a finish the recalled some of the same rhythms that had introduced the tune. The song ended abruptly with a lot of energy hanging in the air. It was a good number to start the set with as we hoped to change the subdued energy from the acoustic set and break back to rock n’roll.

We grinned to each other and launched into our next tune…another original. Upon completion we were greeted by another round of rousing applause that drew us together in front if Donny’s drum kit. We conferred for a moment wondering what was going on but eventually decided not to question what was turning into an incredible experience.

At the end of the set we had completed all of our songs approximately 10 minutes after what was supposed to be our completion time. Our student contact walked up to the stage and spoke to John. The noise level was too loud to hear the conversation so when John arose from the crouch he had held while speaking to the student-rep he announced to us we had been asked to complete the hour which left us an additional 20 minutes more to kill. As we had played our whole repertoire we put our heads together to decide how we would complete the dance/now concert. After a short conversation, and agreement by the student rep, John announced our next number would be our last. It was a repeat of our third song played, safe, as most of those in attendance had not heard it. It was an energetic number after which, we assumed would transition to a demand for an encore to fill the last few minutes. We called this correctly and, when we finished the song, we were met with a standing ovation, which simply didn’t stop as we took our bows. When Kevin and I took our axes off our shoulders and placed them in their stands the applause grew louder. Kevin turned toward the crowd and, smiling his Kevin smile held his hand to his ear as if to say, “What?” The applause grew even louder as we picked our instruments back up.

We played our first 2 songs again as most there had not heard these numbers either. With the applause still ringing we noticed we only had a couple of minutes left to kill and decided to calm the crowd. We picked up our instruments used during our acoustic set and launched, once again, into “4 and 20” which ended with a quiet single acoustic note hanging in the air. The applause was loud but somewhat more subdued as we had intended. We wrapped up our encore and stepped to the front of the stage to talk to the students crowding the front lip while, friends and roadies, Ray and Jim started to disconnect equipment and wrap it up for transport. After a few short minutes of conversation we put our guitars away and stepped off the stage for a cool drink. At this point most of the crowd had left and those still present were preoccupied with personal concerns. We sat for a minute at a table talking to each other, shaking our heads in disbelief at the crowd response.

We, of course, had big dreams of success after this performance and had a few more gigs, some on the bill with memorable names, but we unfortunately broke up after several months, each of us going their own way. To our great disappointment the phenomena was not repeated to this level while we remained together.

(Sigh)

1961 - Lessons Learned - Do It Right The First Time

Dad was always a good instructor, he took the time to explain and, often demonstrate his lessons. There are diffrent levels of students...

1961 – Do It Right The First Time

“Dad!! What are you doing!!?” I jumped back across the room ready to stop his wholesale scrapping of all the orders I had started.

He held a hand up. “Hang on. Go over there and have a smoke, calm down and watch a master.” He continued to sweep 15 or so eggs into the trash. He calmly reached up to the order stand and took an order-ticket down, calmly cracked 8-eggs and put toast into the toaster. Scooping a generous portion of home-fries onto a plate already decorated with a sprig of parsley and 3 dill-slices. He set aside and picked up the next ticket. He was way too calm. We had people lined up out the door awaiting a table and several customers who had sent orders back to re-do. How could he be so calm? He picked up the next ticket and began prepping the food as indicated. Upon getting that order started he checked the first order by tapping the corner of the spatula next to each item – they looked about ready to me – he continued to the next ticket. After prepping that order he checked again the first order scooping two eggs, a generous portion of home-fries and 3-slices of bacon. Retrieving the toast he quickly covered it with butter, cut it in half with a efficient move and placed it on the plate. Repeating these process 3-more times he placed the plates on the pick-up area & hit the bell “Order-Up,” he shouted and turned back to the grill before anyone could answer. He grabbed the next ticket and began prepping the items per the order. I virtually vibrated in place as I observed. With all of these customers being so demanding how did he think he was going to get all of these people served? Come-on, dad! Pick it up!

He moved steadily with no wasted moves and in around 20-minutes every customer was served satisfactorily and the next group was entering. I shook my head and moved back to the grill. “How on Earth did you do that?” I asked.

“Your problem was clear as soon as I walked in. You let the crowd get to you.” Dad answered.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I was cooking what they wanted and I was keeping up fine until they started sending the plates back. I think they knew it was me and they were testing the new-guy.”

“Naaa, you’ve been here for 2-weeks. Any testing they were going to do had been done.” He looked over his glasses, “Besides this is a race week. Most of these people have never been in the restaurant before.”

The restaurant in question was the Olympic Restaurant in Daytona Beach, Florida. Dad had “retired” there several years before and had already opened and sold an office cleaning business. Because this business became successful he wound up hiring employees, which, of course would miss time or quit. This turned his retirement “hobby” into work. He had often had second jobs through the years and the ones he enjoyed most were in food service so it was a natural that, if he was going to have a business that required employees, set hours and time on the job it would be something he enjoyed. He bought a restaurant that was going out of business like the previous 2 in this location. Dad was going great-guns and always had a full house. In a couple of years he would sell the restaurant for a big profit…they, too, would soon fail and eventually the next-door used-car dealer would turn it into his showroom. For now the food was good, generous and inexpensive. He had made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: If I moved to Florida and became his cook he would give me the business in 5-years. How could I possibly pass that up? I gave 6-weeks notice and headed out for Florida. Unfortunately I didn’t understand – dad needed a breakfast cook. This meant going to bed at 7:30 PM so I could get up at 3:00 AM, get to work by 3:45 and start bacon and home-fries for opening at 5:00. I’m a night person, ultimately it wouldn’t work out, but for now, I was still enjoying my new position but already having serious doubts. Within 2-weeks I would be giving dad a 6-week notice in prep to return to my old job in San Diego. For the minute I was ok.

The restaurant was in an industrial area so all of his regulars were folks that lived or worked in the immediate area…except during Race Week, this week, when Daytona was so full of people EVERY restaurant would be sold out all day, every day. The regulars avoided the crowd during Race Weeks. I couldn’t believe how busy it was! The difference in 1-day!

Dad continued, “Problem was you can’t cook a 3-minute egg in 2 ½ minutes.”

It was my turn to look over my glasses. “I know that.”

“I’m sure you do but you weren’t practicing what you knew. I used to have the same problem. You’ve got a board full of orders, there is no sign of letting up and you’re anxious to get those orders out of the way so you can get to the next. Problem is when you don’t let the product have its final 30-seconds you wind up serving eggs that are not as ordered and you wind up having to redo anything that wasn’t correct. You’re cooking twice the number of orders as you have because you are re-doing most of them.” He turned toward the grill. “Try this. When you just can’t wait anymore greet the eggs, put the spatula down and ask them if they’re ready. Check the order to make sure it’s right, pick up the spatula and then flip or serve ‘em.”

It sounded absolutely ridiculous. How would talking to the eggs help them cook? I opened my mouth to ask and dad held up a hand. “Wait.” He paused. “The egg doesn’t really care about hearing from you but taking that extra time, as ridiculous as it sounds will give the eggs the extra time they need to finish. You can’t rush an egg.” Then he said those reminiscent words: “If you’re going to do this it needs to be done right. If you know how to do the job and take the care to do it right the first time you will save time in the long run because you are only doing the task once.” I recalled those exact words had been used years before when I was only around 12.

I had only been performing my job at the family music store for about a month. My job consisted of normal janitorial tasks. I arrived every night after school to dust, sweep and do general clean-up. Saturdays I arrived early in the morning. After finishing the normal duties Dad had asked me to sweep the big dance area, which sat at the rear of the store and often was used to overstock instruments or assorted supplies. I grabbed the big push-broom that I had seen dad use so many times and began to run it quickly across the floor. It was a Saturday and I had told my friend, Bobby, I would be over to visit by 10:00 AM. It was already 9:45 and I had several blocks to walk. I practically ran the broom over the floor and propped it back into the corner. I headed towards the front of the store where dad was watching the counter while mom did a demo on an accordion. “I’m taking off, dad.” I said.

“Just a minute. Not so fast.” He said. “Lets check your work.”

“Come-on,” I thought, “how hard could sweeping be? What the heck is he checking for?” Out loud I said, “OK, but Bobby is waiting for me. I have to get going.” Dad headed for the back of the store. After a few seconds I followed.

“Look at this!” He said, “There’s a big pile of dirt and dust in the corner here and you’ve missed big swatches of the floor.” It was easy to see where I had missed as when the back door was opened it revealed quite plainly the swept areas, which glittered in the sunlight. The floor, although concrete, was kept polished for better dancing and the spots I missed didn’t glow like the rest of the floor. “It’ll have to be done again.” He left.

Grumbling I picked the push-broom back up and began to sweep parallel to the wall as close as possible. I carefully swept every inch of the floor although I performed all of this work while I was practically, again, on the run. When I finished I stopped at the door – looked great…to me.

Not so much for dad. After a second review I was instructed again to re-do the job which was not done to his satisfaction. Now I REALLY wined and complained, “But I already did it twice! Why do I have to do it again?”

“Because the job’s not done right.” He said, “If you’re going to do this it needs to be done right.” He glanced at the floor. “Who taught you how to use a broom?”

“No one! Everybody knows how to use a broom! I’ve seen you enough times! I was careful! Why do I have to do it again? It can’t be done any better.” He looked at me in silence for a few seconds. “Which broom did you use?” I pointed to the push-broom I had seen dad use for the same job. “Let’s see you sweep.”

Putting the broom directly in front of me I began to walk the length of the room staying as close to the wall as possible.

“Whoa! Stop! Who taught you how to use a broom?” Dad asked again.

“No one.” I repeated.

“Watch me.” He said as he grabbed the regular straw broom and began sweeping and digging dust and dirt out of the corners. “First we have to get all of the dirt out where you can get to it. Here, take the broom.” I grasped it with both hands about a foot apart and near the middle of the handle. “Stop. Wait. Hold the broom like this.” He demonstrated holding one hand near the end of the handle and the other placed 1 ½ - 2 feet lower. “Use the broom kind of like a lever,” he said, “Use the lower hand to get the bristles into the corner or against the wall, then use the other hand to twist the broom so it sweeps dirt out onto the floor. Use your lower hand as a fulcrum, just like the teeter-totter we were talking about the other day.” We had been at the school with my little brothers when dad began explaining how the teeter-totter was just like the crowbar he had used just that particular morning to break a large boulder loose from behind the garage where we had been mowing around it for years. He placed a smaller rock under the crow-bar and near the head and began to pry the small boulder out he explained how the rock was a “fulcrum” just like the middle support on a teeter-totter. The playground ride was simply a balanced lever. This day as I swept he continued to expand upon the principles of the fulcrum and lever. Luckily by the time I was done with the job he was done explaining or we would still be there discussing basic physical physics.

As I was anxious to get out to my friends I sincerely hoped he had wrapped this explanation up. He finished with, “You wasted a lot of time by redoing and redoing the job. Remember if you’re going to do a job it needs to be done right. If you know how to do the job and take the care to do it right the first time you will save time in the long run because you are only doing the task once. Understand?”

I nodded my understanding and took off for play.

Reflecting back perhaps I hadn’t learned that lesson as well as I had hoped.

Guess every once in a while…I just need a refresher course.

1976 - Working Girls

Most of the women I've known have worked in some profession - in one way or another.

1976 – Working Girls

She lay on her side on my living room floor in panties and bra. Little white bikinis. Low-cut lacy black semi-transparent bra that barely held her in place. Who was this mysterious woman? How did she get on my living room floor? Why did she tell my girlfriend she knew me & why had she called me by name?

It was just a little after 1:30 AM on a Saturday morning when I got the call. My live-in girlfriend was on the other end. “What the hell is going on? I’ve got a drunken woman here sitting on our couch asking for you! Get your ass home right now!” As I was ½ a block away and had no idea of who or what she going on about, I hit the exit running and made the block home in under two minutes. My girlfriend, Barbara, greeted me at the door. Her long red hair whipped over her face as she turned toward our bedroom and threw a parting comment over her stiff back, “She woke me up. Take care of this and get her out of here. I’m going back to bed!” She headed down the hall towards the darkened bedroom.

Turning the corner into the tiny living room I saw her immediately as she was in the first paragraph above. Mostly undressed in tiny white bikini panties and semi-transparent little lacy brassiere that left almost nothing to the imagination. I nudged her with my foot…nothing. Bending over I placed my hand on her shoulder and shook it for a few seconds…nada. The smell of Tequila told me she was quite obviously passed out and was not going to be awakening any time soon. In her sleep she moved to a more comfortable position that was even more revealing. It may have been more comfortable for her but it made me even more uncomfortable. I always thoroughly enjoyed the sight of revealing clothing on women but this was somewhat distracting at a time when I didn’t really need the distraction. I took a good look at her face. She didn’t ring a bell in my memory and I had no idea how she knew my name or why she was knocking on my door. I tried awakening her a couple more times becoming increasingly more persistent but she had no reaction whatsoever. Her lungs were filling and emptying in a most pleasing way so I was sure she was still alive and there was no need to worry on that account but I still didn’t know anything about her or why she was here.

I placed a pillow from the couch under her head. Grabbing the throw off the back of the couch I covered her and contemplated my recourse. I could have called the police, and in fact now realize this is exactly what I should have done, but did not. As she was completely unconscious she was also completely harmless as she was. I dimmed the lights a bit and found a comfortable position overlooking San Diego Harbor, Point Loma and the airport, Lindberg Field. I looked out the window that overlooked the airport as I contemplated my next move. By now it was just after 2:00 AM and at this hour the blue lights on the runway were subdued and the flashing control-tower light, a few cars slowly cruising empty city streets and business night-lights were the only indication that the city was still alive. The light-house at the end of Point Loma swung through it orbit illuminating the underside of the occasional low cloud. It was a clear mid-summer night and windows were open to the weather and sounds of the outside. The sounds of the freeway immediately below my window permeated the room. All else was silence except for petite snores coming from my floor.

Eventually I began to grow drowsy due to the late hour and eventually fell into a series of fitful naps, waking automatically every so often to check on the condition of the attractive figure on my living room floor. I was full of questions, none of which could be answered at the moment. Rousing myself slightly I looked at her and noticed she was, although asleep and her face contorted by her arm and position, exceptionally beautiful. As I reflected on this my visitor again moved in her sleep to a more comfortable position on her back which pushed the blanket aside and exposed what was, essentially a complete breast fallen completely out of her brassiere. I raised an eyebrow and gazed from my comfortable position on the couch. It was evidently chilly as well as indicated by the usual physical response to the slight breeze that blew through the open window. I unwound my body, reached down and covered her back up. I did this as much, or more, to ease my discomfort as for her comfort. She now looked somewhat familiar at rest but I couldn’t place her in my recent experiences. She was obviously part or wholly Asian and reminded me a bit of the “girlfriend” I had in Taiwan when I celebrated my 21st birthday.

I thought of Taiwan.

As we first approached the island of Taiwan, or Formosa, I could smell the new odors of this port a mile at sea. The fascinating smells of each port gave a different exotic feeling and an individual scent-memory of the port. In 1971 Kaoshung had all of the industrial smells of a developing country as well as all of the odors unique to this cultures use of varying foods, spices and methods of preparation. There was also the usual odor of raw sewage which seemed to be a background odor in many of the places we visited due to their open air methods of routing sewage either to processing or, more likely, straight into the ocean. Here it didn’t permeate the air as it did in many ports as, over everything else, was a sweet smell of blooming flowers of some kind which lent an exotic aroma to the breeze. The ocean was shallow enough to be a lovely aqua-blue-green. The air was calm and the white seabirds shone in the low sun as they swooped and followed in our wake. With the sun behind us the lovely and verdant greens, reds and yellows of crops set on beautifully terraced mountainsides fairly glowed with color. They had probably looked this way for generations. The view was as lovely as any painting and, being real, absolutely stunning in its beauty. HD: Eat your heart out. As we approached the sounds of an active working port came to our ears although there was a low background sound of late-60’s music coming from some unidentifiable source.

Merle, Albert and I headed out to have a couple of drinks in one of the downtown nightclubs. We hadn’t been there very long when we were greeted by a couple of girls that worked for the bar. They’re job was to sell drinks but they were often, but not always, available for dating as long as the conditions of their contract was met. According to this contract, which I still have, anyone wanting to date the young lady had to compensate the bar for the amount they were expected to bring in that evening…usually around $10-$20.

Sophie was lovely with long dark hair and a sweet laugh. We started “dating” my first time on this lovely island. She was just an inch shorter than me and knew enough ballroom dancing to make the occasional underarm-turn or waltz a delight to dance. She frequented a night-club that had a rocking band and knew of an ice-cream parlor which served some of the most exotic flavors of ice-cream and sherbet I’ve ever tasted. The taste of Magnolia Blossom or Ginger/Mango/Star-Fruit was unbelievably rich. Sophie and I had plenty of great times before I went back to sea.

She awaited our next arrival on the dock, somehow knowing which ships were coming into port & when. I say “somehow” as American ships movements in the Asian Theatre were classified so our opponents in that conflict would not know which ship was where; or when a specific vessel was due to be relieved or the area in question was temporarily uncovered by a warship.

The second time in Taiwan I happened to turn 21-years old. Merle joined Sophie and me for an evening at her work-place during which he let it slip that my birthday was that day. As the drinking age is…younger than I was…it wasn’t as particularly special day for me. It was special enough to simply be back in port after 45-days at sea with 3-weeks at Yankee Station in the Northern Pacific followed by 3-more weeks on the gun-line off North Viet Nam.

This port was a further relief after our nearly causing of an international event by setting a course that took as between, as the Captain said “…that little island over there…” and mainland China. “That little island over there” turned out to be Hainan Island, part of Red China but the Captain, having a reputation for booking no disagreement or un-requested suggestion, had raised fear among the two junior Quartermasters who were responsible for finding our recommended course. In their reluctance to confront the Captain he remained uninformed. Enraged, my chief went out to the bridge in a royal-rage to rant at the Captain and the Quartermaster, both of whom took it pretty well when they realized fire-control radars were locked onto us with a steady tone – meaning they were ready to launch. We had several small fast-boats approaching but still dozens of miles off and still in Chinese waters where we would have been in 15-minutes if we had not changed course. After that incident and our many days at sea, just being in port with a lovely lady and friends was perfect without any celebration at all.

When the ladies discovered it was my birthday they insisted on buying me a cake and a special birthday meal. The cake was…interesting. A rice-flour cake frosted with a sweet-rice frosting. The taste was not unpleasant just…unusual…and not at all what I expected. I ate my piece offering the girls the leftovers which they were delighted to take home. Then they disappeared to buy my special birthday meal. The returned less than 5-minutes later with a plate of hot rice that had a generous dollop of raw fish…looked like minnows…laying in an indention in the center of the pile of rice. Now I’m a fairly nice guy and I’ve a fairly open mind when it comes to foreign cooking so, wanting to show my appreciation I began to s-l-o-w-l-y eat the meal. I was not a fan of either rice or fish, which I like better now but, then, only tolerated. I ate with some trepidation but had managed to get about ¼ of the plate finished before I was forced to pause for a while before taking up the chop sticks again. We talked for a few minutes before I glanced down at my plate…which was now full of rice and little wiggling fish. LITTLE WIGGLING FISH!! LIVE - LITTLE - WIGGLING - FISH!! Whoa! I backed up in the booth noting the situation to my companions. “Look! Little! Wiggling! Fish! Yuck!!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Sophie, “That good food.”

“Not for me! Yuck!” I looked at her, “Do you want it?”

“Sure!” She reached over and retrieved my plate which she proceeded to consume with relish. It was a special day.

I roused myself from my reverie and shook off the nap in which I had been engaged. The visitor sleeping on my living room floor moved and I glanced down. She was still safely covered. As I looked up I noticed a bit of light that indicated dawn was not far away. Traffic had increased on the freeway and the city was beginning to awaken. I glanced at the clock. The lighthouse continued to sweep the early dawn sky. I would have to leave for work in the next hour so it was time to make another attempt to awaken my guest.

I nudged her with my toe. She drew her shoulder away from me and made a little groaning sound, barely auditable. I reached down and shook her shoulder. One eye opened…closed. I shook her again, “Hey girl. It’s almost time to go.” She opened her eyes and looked up at me, silent. “I’m leaving for work soon and there is no way I’m going to leave you here with my girlfriend in the next room so you’re going along.” She sat up, stretched and yawned. She was mussed from sleeping, makeup faded and maybe a bit smeared around her eyes and her hair was pushed up on one side but overall she remained very comely. “I don’t know where you came from or how you knew my name but it’s time to go.”

“OK.” She said calmly and yawned again. “Gimme a minute and I’ll be ready.” She stood and began to get dressed showing no shyness at all as she adjusted herself in her bra and stooped to retrieve her skirt and top. “I’m sorry but I was abandoned on this block last night and I didn’t know where to go. I got your name from the mail-box.” That question was answered. “Can you drop me downtown?”

“Uhh, sure.” Anything to get her out of the house and away from our neighborhood. “How did you get abandoned here?”

“I had a job not far from here last night but when he took me home this was as far as he would take me.” I wondered aloud what kind of job would take her in this area late at night. She looked at me as though I was having trouble understanding English as she put her jacket on and headed for the door. “I had a job…a pick-up…” My blank stare gave away my innocence.

As we got into the car I asked again “Whom were you working for?”

I got the same look and a pause… “I have no idea…I’m a working girl.” She got nothing but a blank look from me. “…Hooker? …Prostitute?” Ok, I’m slow but finally I got it. We actually had an interesting conversation in the 10 minutes it took to get her downtown, but in the long run it was a story of a runaway who was too scared to go home and after a couple of years in this profession, too shamed. Drugs, a pimp and fear pretty much wrote the story of her life.

I thanked my lucky stars, as I dropped her off, that her story wasn’t one for anyone I was close to…as far as I know. I wished her luck. After her story – I’m absolutely sure she could use some luck.
Unfortunately, as we mostly make our own luck, I have serious doubts her life improved. I can only hope.

1969 - The Yards/Damage Control

Upkeep and repair is a routine part of Navy life. It is usually a dirty, bothersome but necessary job. Sometimes for reasons both in my control and sometimes for reasons out of my control, it's not so routine.


1969 – The Yards/Damage Control School

“We’re not stopping, guys. I’m pretty sure we’re going to hit the pier.” As I said the last words an announcement came over the ship’s announcement system: “Rig for collision. Rig for collision.”

Stacked About the main deck were shells and “cans” of gunpowder. On the ASROC Deck were stacked missiles for the ASROC launcher. We were headed into the Seal Beach Ammo Pier to offload all of our ammunition and explosives in preparation to go into dry-dock the following morning. I was on the bridge standing behind the helmsman and watching our approach to the pier upon which we were to begin the offloading…next to which we should have moved slowly up to and our bumpers would gently kiss the wooden boarders of the pier as we tied up and prepared to spend the day carrying ammunition, by hand, to the stocking pallets which the Seal Beach Command would secure and store. Rumor on board was that 1 or 2 of those missiles could have been nukes…great!

I heard Mr. Weaver over the sound-powered communications system which linked the bridge with all major departments in the ship and all lookouts, “Larry sayz were goin’ ta hit the pier.” His Oklahoma accent was stronger when he was comfortable and this docking should have been the most casual thing we did all day. We were, in fact, so casual that I, an RD3, was on the bridge for the first time during entry into port and the CIC Watch Officer was manning the sound-powered telephone, both positions normally manned by one of the lowest-ranked seamen. After all, CIC had nothing to do but watch as all operations were inside our radar range. After some background commotion Mr. Weaver replied to me, “Really?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “we were flank back on the port screw and flank forward on the right just trying to get’er to twist. Now we’re back flank and the helm is full to port. Nothing is happening – no response. ” The ship, when properly handled, should have twisted around in place and moved gently toward the pier. As it was we were moving quickly forward with no indication the ship was responding at all to the helm. In this case quickly was around 2-3 knots. As we spoke, awaiting the slow-motion collision, I heard a loud SLAM! from aft the starboard wing. I ignored the noise as all of my attention was focused on the oncoming pier.

Just before we made contact the Captain took command of the ship back from the Ensign that had been commanding the approach. He did this with a quick “Aw, shit! Captain has the Conn!” He knew it would be best during the investigation if he had command rather than the log showing a rookie was in charge while the Captain was present. Everyone on the bridge that wasn’t holding on to a solid structural part of the bridge felt drawn inexorably to their knees as the mass of the rapidly slowing/stopping ship transferred part of it’s energy to the crew. A loud grinding noise began to squeal as we came to a stop in a space of around 20 feet. A personal investigation later revealed that full 10-feet of the pier had been removed/bent/deformed by the impact chewing heavy wooden support beams, steel structural beams and thick concrete. Another 10-foot had been similarly abused and chewed out of the nose of the ship. The crew members that had been manning the area near the chain locker and the main deck barely escaped damage by heeding the warning I had given to Mr. Weaver and the collision warning.

The loud slam I had heard was RD3 Bob breaking through lines that tied the outer hatch to CIC and the hatch slamming open as Bob made his way overboard. Not long before Bob’s ship, and our sister ship, The USS Evans, had been cut-in-half at the flex joint by the Melbourne, an Australian carrier, while at-sea on maneuvers during early morning hours. His time spent bobbing around in the water awaiting rescue was an event he didn’t want any part of and was determined if any ship he was on was in an accident, he would not be on board. Bob had related that when he was in the water he was surrounded by other sailors in the same predicament but was aware that in the deep darkness, if the searchlight missed him by 1-foot he would probably be left floating alone in what felt like the middle of the ocean which, for all practical purposes, he was. As he tried to escape our ship on its way through the pier, he was caught by 2 of the deck-crew who held him on the ship as he hung off the outside of the deck railings.

After retrieving and calming Bob we completed the tie-up and proceeded to unload the ammo as planned. Within a few hours we were underway for the final leg of the trip to Long Beach and “The Yards” where we would spend the next few months in dry-dock. The first project was the replacement of the nose of the ship which was manufactured complete in the yards and moved into place with a huge crane which held it in place for the 2-days while welders secured it in place.

A month later, as the Document Control Petty Officer, I made an official change to the charts indicating that, when the tide is coming in, the current in Seal Beach runs quickly through the channel and forward, under the pier, north and out. We had been caught in what could be called a ship-sized rip-tide.

Two weeks after we were safely ensconced in dry dock I was giving the task of climbing the main mast in order to do routine maintenance on the radar antenna. As I was one of the few sailors in my division that was willing to climb the mast I often got this task to perform. The climb up this 2-foot thick spar, although a little scary, was worth the climb for the view. From a vantage point far above most of the shipyard allowed me to easily see the entire port of Long Beach as well as significant parts of LA. I settled on the yardarm in preparation to scoot out a couple of feet to make my way around back of the antenna and antenna-motor to loosen a fitting and insert the grease gun when…”HEY, SAILOR!! GET THAT SAFETY BELT ON!!”

We were required to wear a thick leather belt that was secured to my waist like a too-big belt. Attached were big brass rings on opposite sides of the waist. To these were attached long ropes with hardware attached intended to secure the wearer to whatever handy structural point to which they could be attached. I yelled back, “THIS THING ALMOST TRIPPED ME UP HERE ONCE!! IT JUST GETS IN THE WAY!!”

“I DON’T CARE!! GET THAT BELT SECURED!!” I grumbled as I hooked the lines to a small diameter pipe that ran along the side of the yardarm and began scooting out the couple of feet it would require to get around to the rear of the antenna. I glanced down. My safety-watch, a seaman who’s only job was to watch my progress and keep me safe was being chewed out by our Chief Petty Officer who was giving him “what-for” with full voice. I assumed the conversation had hit on the subject of my safety-belt at least once…possibly more…probably a lot more. I ignored them and scooted forward reaching out for the support on the rear of the motor unit that drove the antenna. Unseen to me, grease had oozed from the fitting on the rear of this unit and made the fitting I usually used for support extremely slippery. As my hand grasped the unseen fitting I placed my weight on my outside leg and pulled myself forward putting the majority of my weight on the one foot assuming security by the fitting which I had to grasp. I put weight on the foot and transferred my momentum to swing myself to the rear of the motor. This was normally done in one smooth motion. As I grasped and transferred my weight the unexpectedly greasy fitting slid from my grasp and I found myself overbalanced on the one foot with no other purchase available. My hands reached out for anything available but were met with empty air. I felt myself pitch forward and noticed somewhere inside my head that the sky was incredibly blue and clear. The next view I remember was the bottom of the dry-dock – the concrete floor of which was around 120 or so feet below. I came to a hard stop dangling like a spider at the end of a web. I was only a foot or so from the mast but stopped facing away from that structure. I froze. I was afraid to move a finger until my slow spin brought the mast into view upon which I franticly reached out with both arms and gripped the structure with all my strength. The whole incident: slip, fall, dangle and grasping probably took less than 3-seconds but every moment seemed endless. When my foot touched the ladder during the wrapping of my arms and legs around the mast, I thrust it through the rung and pulled myself into a more secure feeling position on the ladder. For a few seconds I held on like I’d found a new lover. As I was only a few feet from the platform upon which the antenna & mechanics were located I quickly scrambled onto the platform and lay flat on my stomach gripping the edges of the platform with what can only be termed a “death-grip.” I took a couple of very deep breaths. Looking over the edge I saw the two sailors still in conversation about my safety belt. Shaking off the fear that controlled my limbs I grabbed one of the rags that had been brought aloft to clean any dirty or greasy fittings. Knowing that a report of the incident would be investigated, and I would undoubtedly be found responsible as deserved, I said nothing. Pulling myself to my knees I reached around the motor housing and wiped off the fitting upon which I had counted for support and balance. I would never forget to wipe-down that fitting in the future trips aloft.

I proceeded to complete the job and climb down the ladder to the waiting safety-watch. A short conversation confirmed that neither he nor our superior had noticed my fall. He got rather excited when I related my story and dispite being of a lower rank, proceeded to chew me out noting that he, too, would be in trouble if something bad had happened. He was preaching to the choir.

For some reason neither of us mentioned what this “something bad” could have been.

A year later I was enrolled in a Damage Control School in preparation for my advancement to 2nd Class or E-5. This was a 2-week class including a week of firefighting and disaster preparedness while the second week consisted of learning to weld and cut with a torch as well as learn how to make and use plugs and shore-up bulkheads.

Fire-fighting was very educational as it taught the basic requirements of a fire (heat, oxygen, fuel) in the classroom and, in practice, how to fight almost any fire, except electrical, with salt-water. We learned the value of smothering the oxygen and removing the heat by using a fine mist of water. That week we also experienced what it was like to walk around in a room full…FULL…of tear-gas. We did this both with and without gas masks. Whew! It was an exciting week!

Damage Control School was scheduled for the next week where we spent a day learning the principles behind and how to use a cutting torch and a welding rig. The following day we learned about different kinds of holes and how to plug them. The methods were a bit different, of course, if the damage was above or below the waterline. The next couple of days were spent studying and creating braces and structural supports that would serve to keep water out or maintain the structural integrity of the vessel. Friday was graduation.

Friday morning we arrived to find our 2-deck practice area ready for the exam. Our task would be to, acting as a team, repair damage, shore up damaged bulkheads and escape from our compartment into the flooded compartment directly above us. The first couple of hours we repaired the damage as previously instructed and formed specialized teams to handle the individual problems as they occurred. Finally it was time for the final graduation exercise – the escape through a flooded compartment. We were unsure of the amount of water but that was expected as in a real emergency we would only know the room was flooded, not necessarily how deeply.

We lined up with the tallest and strongest sailors at the front of the line. When the order was given the hatch was un-dogged and we prepared to enter the flooded compartment. I bent over at the waist placing my head firmly against the buttocks of the sailor directly in front of me. Everyone was in a long line leading up the ladder to the hatch where the lead-sailors awaited “the word.” We were all similarly posed in preparation for our great escape.

Upon command the men on the ladder pushed upward against the weight of the water in the flooded compartment above. As soon as a crack appeared water began to pour down and, with the help of a compartment-sized bubble, the hatch burst open and what appeared to be a solid column of water shot towards the deck. The water began to slowly fill the compartment as I shuffled forward, my head firmly placed against the butt of the sailor directly ahead of me and my hands were hanging onto his belt. The sailor behind me shuffled along poised in a similar position. As I reached the ladder and stepped into the column of water I found it was actually somewhat clear inside as the column was broken by the presence of the bodies above me. I put my foot on the first rung and felt myself flung upwards with the pressure of several sailors pushing and the sailor, now above me, pulling. As I reached the top of the ladder the belt I was holding onto was ripped from my hands and I felt hands under my armpits. The first two men out were standing one on either side of the hatch. In unison they were ducking down to grab an upcoming sailor by the armpits and flinging him across the room. I flew to their left and turned to see them flinging the next sailor in line to the right. I scrambled out of the way as the next sailor flew in my general direction. In no time at all the last sailor had arrived and the hatch was forced shut and dogged to: 1) create a buoyant “void” to assist in the buoyancy of the entire vessel and 2) so, after this exercise, we could visually see exactly how much water had flooded the lower compartment. The amount of water that had gotten through was impressive but much less than I had expected.

Early afternoon we were released back to our barracks to change and proceed back to our individual ships or shore-commands. We were wet, we were happy and we were ready for whatever the future may bring.

1967 - Surfing Through Court

Ahh, the years before GPS, when we just followed the signs. This throw of the dice didn't aways work out when you are young and don't take time to look at the map first. WooHoo another adventure! "No!" "Stop!!" "Not there!!!"

1967 – Surfing Through The Chicago Court System

“Look!! State Street!” John yelled from the back seat. I whipped onto the freeway exit and headed toward what we assumed was downtown Chicago…it was not.

As I descended into the neighborhood at the end of the exit I looked around vaguely concerned that this obviously was not downtown as the buildings were dirty brown brick, 2-3 stories tall and unpainted. The street was full of litter and an abandoned burned-out Buick sat across the street with flat tires, broken windows and the back seat halfway through the door. What upholstery not burned, was slashed and torn from abuse. Following the sign to State Street, I made an immediate turn-right under the freeway and spotted the red stoplight directly ahead. I slowed to a stop still under the lip of the freeway above and curious as to our exact location. We looked around. “Where are we?” asked Kevin. It suddenly occurred to me that we were somewhere on the south side of Chicago, generally accepted in my world at the time as “The Ghetto” and where a mere 2-weeks ago race riots had hurt several people. There were also deaths. Directly across the street, leaning on a broken-down rusty chain-link fence, were 3 youngsters of an indeterminate teen-age. Just as I saw them – they saw me. The tallest yelled “Hey!” as one of his companions bent over at the waist. As he straightened up I could see the brick in his hand and the obvious intent to do something with it displayed clearly on his face.

I may not have anything against him but he sure appeared to have a problem with my appearance. Our appearance was quite obvious. A car full of white kids with surf boards mounted on the top of the car. We were in my dad’s big white station wagon. I glanced into the rear-view mirror. No cars behind me, no cars in front of me and none to the left or right, in fact, not one other car in sight. I floored the Buick and accelerated through the light. As I sped away I saw a brick flying in my direction. It fell well short of us as I slid around a corner following the signs to get back on the highway. My heart pounded in my chest as I settled down and calmed my other passengers. We consisted of 6 teens on our way back from a surfing contest in Grand Haven, Michigan. Mom & dad had allowed me to use the car for the extended weekend to drive my companions and myself 300 miles around the lake to the contest we had looked forward to for weeks. It had been a great success and we enjoyed meeting and partying with our fellow Great Lakes Surfing Association members. Our local organization, The Dunes Beach Surf Club, was a supporter of the bigger organization and had been intimately involved with helping RC and his buddies put on a successful event.

This is not to say it had not been challenging and, at times, less fun then I had anticipated as 3 parents had called me to ask that I watch out for their kids…2 of those kids were a year or so older than me. I valued and was honored by their trust but I definitely was NOT their kids’ keeper. More than once I, too, had made a less than smart decision that weekend. An example happened our first night in town.

We arrived in Grand Haven around midnight and immediately began looking for an open gas station. I was regaled from everyone in the car about the urgency of their need to empty their bladders. As we continued our fruitless search their pleas became louder and louder until they all suddenly shouted in unison “There!” We were stopped at a red light at an unlit intersection, which appeared to be a sharp turn onto a narrow road and a short ½ block trip to a point where we could cross the access road and into the service station. Confusion reigned inside the car as I began the turn “Hurry!” “Not there!-There!!” “Over here!!” “No, too far!!” “Come-on I gotta go!!!” “Hurry-up!!!” “Yes!!!” “No!!!” The chaos inside the car was reaching a new crescendo as I pulled into the right-hand side of the near lane realizing instantly that I was in the oncoming traffic lane. Although there was no traffic at that hour I didn’t want to continue down the wrong side and immediately whipped into a u-turn that rounded the light-post and took us back to the corner. As the noise level grew I again made my turn…and duplicated the last error by listening to various shouts of “No!” “Not there!” “Over there!” “Yes! Here” mixed with more pleas to voice the continuing urgency of the situation.

Back into another u-turn and finally through the light and into the correct lane. The red-light bubblegum machine on top of the police car came on immediately and pulled out behind us about 10 car-lengths back. He had sat unseen on the corner next to a closed restaurant and had observed the entire fiasco. As we were considerably ahead of the patrol car when I pulled into the gas station and came to a sliding stop in front of the restrooms. Everyone instantly piled out of the car in a rush and ran desperately towards the restrooms. I danced in place as the officer pulled up wanting to relieve myself as well. He quickly recognized the symptom and told me to go ahead and go, “I’ll wait.” he said quickly hiding a smile with a faux-serious look.

Upon my return he listened to my explanation regarding the stress level inside the car but halfway through interrupted me with another laugh as he held up his hand, palm facing me. “I’ve got three kids and almost the same thing happened to me last week.” He continued to laugh, “Get out of here.” We left. “And don’t wait so long next time before stopping!” he shouted at our retreating backs.

3-Days later we were returning from this visit to Grand Haven when someone suggested we cruise downtown Chicago. After all, we had recently been highlighted in a 3-page article in a recent Sunday-News Magazine-insert and we were feeling famous. This led to the incident on the South-Side but even this did not sway or desire to “cruise the loop.” After avoiding getting bricked and finding our way back onto the freeway we remained determined to show-off our status as Great-Lakes-Surfers. Again a sign indicating State Street attracted us and we exited onto city streets. Obviously, still not downtown. We were in a residential area consisting of high-rise apartments and cars parked all the way to the corners, sometimes with bumpers inches away from each other at a corner where they were parked 90-degrees to each other. As I approached one of these corners I stopped completely. There was no stop sign in either direction but I was unable to see beyond the corner due to the parked vehicles blocking my vision. I crept slowly forward, several times coming to a complete and cautious stop in an attempt to see any oncoming cross-traffic.

I crept slowly forward into the cross street when WHAM! A Yellow Cab came out of nowhere traveling slightly faster than residential speed and definitely faster than advised when traveling through several blocks of blind corners. As we were barely moving when we met, with my stationary front-right fender greeting his traveling left-front-fender, he slid into place in front of my car caving in the entire side of his vehicle where my car only sustained a small scratch. We jumped out of the car to be greeted by the cab driver who was cussing up a storm in our direction. After a few words and questions, on my part, like “Why didn’t you even TRY to avoid me?” and answers like “I was going in that direction why should I worry about you?” I decided only a police officer would do. The “safety” from Yellow Cab showed up, took information and told me I could be on my way to which I replied, “No, I’m waiting for a policeman.”

“The police don’t show up at little accidents like this one. I’ve got all of the information we need. I’ll take care of everything.”

“No. My dad taught me to never leave the scene of an accident until I’ve spoken to an officer. I’m not going anywhere.” After a few minutes of this the Safety made a call and, in a few minutes, a policeman showed up.

He greeted the Safety with “Charlie! How you doin’? How’s your mother?” It took no time to find out the officer was the Safety’s cousin. I had already discovered the cab driver was the Safety’s step-brother and the passenger was the grandfather of both the brothers and the police officer. It was old-home week in South-Central Chicago with myself and my small cadre of white middle-class rural kids standing around with a crowd of very dark black men, most of whom spent a significant time joking about arrests, courtrooms and discussing their courtroom testimony. Someone drove by in a big white car and shouted “Charlie! What happened here? Yo! Ah see!” He waved and laughed shouting, “Ah saw the whole thing! The white-kid did it!” They all laughed. I just looked worried.

The officer soon wrote me a ticket for causing a traffic accident. Despite my protests about my stationary position and the fact that he slid into me the officer noted that I “obviously” ran into the side of the cab and I would, indeed, be appearing in court. Secondary and tertiary arguments had no impact.

We departed for home – any thought of “scooping the loop” forgotten. I arrived home and related the incident, including the ticket and the behavior of the gentlemen involved. Mom said she would go with me to court but that I should plead “guilty” to avoid return after return to Chicago for a trial and extensions.

The next month we showed up in court as scheduled. When the judge entered I was devastated. The judge was not only black but her last name was the same as the cab drivers. I was sure my boat was sunk. I whispered to mom “I think I’m in for a long sentence.”

We sat and watched as several other traffic violations were dealt with until, eventually, it was my turn. My name was called and I moved to the podium as I had seen others do. The violations were read and the judge spoke up in a bored voice, “How do you plead?”

“Guilty, Your Honor.”

“$25. Pay the bailiff.” Relieved by the small fine I moved to my left digging around in my pocket looking for the money mom had given me for this purpose. The judge paused and looked down, obviously reading something in front of her. “Is Larry’s father here?” She asked.

“No,” mom stood and answered, “but I’m his mother. I’m here with him.”

“May I ask if Larry lost his driving privileges pending his court appearance?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“May I ask why? Don’t you think Larry deserved to be punished in some way due to his causing this accident?”

“No, Your Honor. We didn’t feel Larry was responsible for the accident so punishment was not called for.”

“Wait a minute.” The judge replied, “You didn’t think he was guilty? Madame, please step forward.” It was mom’s turn to step to the podium. The judge turned in my direction addressing the bailiff, “Give Larry his money back.’ She looked at me. “Now wait a minute, son. Stay right there.” She turned back to mom. “Now Mrs. Wasion, why wasn’t Larry allowed to plead “Not Guilty” as he deserved?”

“Truthfully, Your Honor, we have heard about the Chicago court system and we can’t afford to keep showing up to repeated appearances and continuances.”

The judge sat up straight. “So for YOUR COMFORT you have allowed this boy to smear his record with this, as you feel, unfounded accusation. Hmmm. Get yourself back over here Mr. Wasion.” I made the six steps back to the podium. “Now, sir, when I ask how you plead I want you to say ‘not guilty.’ Can you do that?”

A very shaky, “Y-y-yyess?”

“Alright, Mr. Wasion, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty.” I said, still uncertain what would happen from this point forward.

At this point the judge sat back although still straight and rigid and, tapping a finger lightly against her cheek at the jaw-line, nodded twice to herself and sat forward again. She reached out to the front of her desk and, gripping the edge, she pulled herself up and forward so she looked directly down at me. She looked straight into my eyes, “Oh…” She paused. “…Not guilty, huh?”

My heart rose into my throat making it difficult to talk or even breathe. My right leg began to shake. Placing my weight evenly on both legs stopped the shaking but now my hands appeared to be palsied. I gripped the podium with both hands. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down the middle of my back. My heart beat so loud I was sure everyone in the room could hear.

“Is the ticketing officer here?” She asked.

“Here, Your Honor.”

“Is the Taxi-driver present in the court-room?” She looked around awaiting an answer. She repeated the question then said, “Officer, was the driver informed of this court date?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Alright. The plea is uncontested. Case dismissed. Mr. Wasion you can go. Mrs. Wasion I would like you to stay exactly where you are.” Mom looked up, nervous and uncertain about what was coming next. “WOMAN!” Said the judge quite forcefully, “This is an extremely poor example to set for your child. Expecting him to confess to something he feels he did not do sends a message of disrespect for both this court and our system of law. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THIS?”

“Y-y-yess, ma’am.” Mom looked at her feet wishing they were in the parking lot.

“The only thing that makes our system work is the honesty of participants in the system. The message you send to this boy will stay with him the rest of his life. Right now that opinion is cynical, untrusting and shows a lack of respect for both his rights and the rights of others. Is this the message you intend to send?” Mom opened her mouth but no sound came out. The judge continued, “Is this clear?” She didn’t pause for an answer. “Now I don’t expect you will try this tactic again, will you?”

“No ma’am. I’m sorry ma’am. I was only…”

“The court is aware of what you were trying to do. A little more consideration will be appreciated in the future.” A lengthy pause ensued with the judge sitting back and waiting for several seconds. She rapped her gavel once. “You may go.”

I guess you could say mom was understandably embarrassed after a lesson hard-learned. I guess you could also say we departed with all due dispatch.

I’d say we got the hell outa’ there.

1965 - Hayrides

The Hayride is a familiar midwestern tradition that I am sure started in Europe as some kind of harvest celebration. In America's heartland of the '60's it was still one of our many traditions and as American as Apple Cider or S'mores...


1965 – Hayrides

Elaine snuggled close to me feeling the warmth of our huddled bodies. She giggled and fell across my lap. I looked over at Merle and Dolores. Merle winked. I glanced at Ladd and Elsa…they were too self-involved to see me. Elaine and I had met a previous occasion when Merle and I made contact with her and her close friend, Pam, as they watched us bowl at the on-base bowling lanes. We had a late supper that evening with Elaine and Pam in tow. Now, several months later Merle had met Dolores and fallen head-over-heels. She and Elsa were best friends. I had run into Elaine just before we left the San Bernardino USO for the hayride. This would be the third hayride of my life. As I thought about this Elaine reached up from her place lying on her back and pulled me toward her. I could smell the distinct odor of cough syrup. This is what the Sloe Gin she had been drinking smelled like…it was not a pleasing odor to me. As she tried to pull me toward her she gave a squeal and disappeared.

I next saw her 5-feet behind the rack struggling to her feet. She was decidedly tipsy as she rocked slightly crouched and on her feet but still bent at the waist and supported by her hands which were helping push her up. As she struggled to her feet it reminded me of another fall off a hayrack some years back, right around '65. I shook the thought off as I jumped off to help her back aboard the slow-moving wagon. Climbing back aboard I remembered the two hayrides I had gone on in high school:


“I’m Hen-er-y the Eighth I am,
Hen-er-y the Eighth I am, I am.
I got married to the widow next door.
She’s been married seven times before…”

We all sang together at the top of our lungs.

There was a crisp bite in the air when we went on our 1965 MYF Autumn Hayride. We had rented a hayrack full of hay & someone’s dad was driving the tractor. We had a keg of apple-cider and a generous rack-load of hay densely covered by more than a dozen close friends. I had known most of these people since grade school and had fallen into and out of close friendships with many of them. All else aside, were all relatively close during these days. Bundled up against the chill we were still invigorated by the cold and the companionship. There were still patches of snow on the ground from an early storm but it was mostly melted away leaving patches of wet where the snow had recently been piled. I huddled up against friends with Wynola on one side and Ron on the other; we were laughing, singing, telling jokes and goofing with each other. Kelly threw a handful of hay at Wynola and the fight was on! Handfuls of hay flew everywhere until a councilor reminded us we were still on city streets. We sat barely contained for the next block until we entered the Smith Estate. As the tractor pulled the hayrack off the road and into the bordering fields Kelly stood to deliver another handful of hay only to have his feet swept away as Jack cut him off at the knees. They both laughed aloud as Kelly fell down, closely missing Jack who rolled out of the way continuing right to the edge of the wagon. At the last second Jack tried arresting his fall by spreading his arms and legs out to prevent another roll. Unfortunately momentum carried one leg as it whipped off the wagon and pulled Jack off the rest of the way. He landed heavily but jumped right up and ran back to the slowly moving hayrack laughing as he jumped back on, missing once but landing squarely on board with his second try. Robin immediately fell off the rear of the rack as people jostled each other to give Jack room to remount.

The MYF or Methodist Youth Fellowship group, affiliated with our local Methodist Church often had fundraisers like bake-sales and car washes to finance our little outings – this hayride was one of those little outings.

We had purchased some hot dogs & buns, marshmallows, graham-crackers & chocolate (for the S’mores) a half-keg of apple cider (in a real wooden keg) and we had arranged to have a little area prepped with a camp-fire and a circle of logs and boulders around the fire for ease of socialization. We arrived and began drinking cider, singing church songs and performing general horseplay and joking with our close friends. The grass was still a bit wet and slippery but we were all well bundled and the chill and wet was barely noticed. A hint of the early snow was still in the air but, so far, this season early snow had not, yet, been significant. We were a young, happy and innocent group of teens in the Midwestern Illinois village of Winthrop Harbor.

We prayed, we sang, we played and, eventually, we went home.

As we had only consumed about half of the apple-cider we stashed it out back of the church under the stairs that lead to the back door of the church.

It snowed…it melted. The winter passed. The world froze…it defrosted. It did this several times. It was unseasonably warm. Then it froze again. Blinding snowstorms became a light sprinkling of powder. Piles of light powder became solid mountains of firm, wet, icy, heavy snow. Eventually little sprigs of green appeared on the trees. It snowed again…and melted. The snow became less and less frequent and warmer days were increasing in number. Spring was full upon us.

At the weekly MYF meeting we agreed the winter had held us all prisoners for too long and a celebration was in order. Wynola mentioned we still had half-a-keg of cider out-back and added “How about another hay-ride?” After a short discussion with our treasurer we unanimously agreed another hayride would be perfect. The new spring weather would be prefect for this. The hayrack was fairly inexpensive if it cost anything at all to borrow and we already had half of the refreshments. It was agreed the next weekend we would hold another hayride. We were cautioned against too much horseplay by a councilor who reminded us of the mess we had made the previous autumn. We were to conduct ourselves like the young ladies and gentlemen we were…or that we were supposed to be.

The following Saturday we all met at the church around 3:00 in the afternoon. As the ride to the Smith Estate was only a few blocks we mounted the rack as the orderly, quiet young people we were supposed to be…NOT! The guys jumped up right away ready to play King-Of-The-Mountain until one of the male-half’s of one of the “couples” decided chivalry was a better course of action and calmed the guys so the well-behaved young ladies of our group could mount as well. JoAnn popped up out of the hay right about then and plastered Kelly with a double handful of straw. In surprise Kelly stepped backwards only to have his way blocked by Ron. They both fell across the back of the hayrack narrowly missing Linda who was trying to mount with Ron’s help. The girls jumped aboard and the straw-war was on until a councilor insisted we behave and clean up some of the mounds of hay now decorating the parking area in front of the church. We quickly threw handfuls of hay back on the rack and got underway.

Beatles’ tunes bounce around in my head as I think of this incident and knowing this group we probably started joking and singing pop songs of the day at a volume comfortable to us – meaning – probably way-too-loud for the neighbors. In 20-30 minutes we arrived at our campfire and began setting up refreshments and organizing games.

The leftover cider was propped up and other refreshments prepared for ease of use. Jack and Ron started the fire while others organized the area for our use. Little by little the afternoon wore on and more and more of us gathered by the fire consuming hot-dogs, S’mores and cider. The cider had a funny after-taste but it wasn’t unpleasant so we freely refreshed ourselves when called for. Pamela ran in from a game of some sort panting and thirsty. A big gulp of cider was followed quickly by a second. ‘Whew! That’s good!” She exclaimed before heading back out for more fun. A few minutes later she was back with Jack and Wynola out-of-breath. They filled their cups and found a place near the fire. The sun had already gone down and dusk was fully upon us. In very few minutes it would be completely dark except for the light of the fire.

We began to play a game of Concentration fortified by hot-dogs and cider. Little by little we began to sing a little louder, often forgetting words but usually reminded by other members. There was dancing the Twist and we all did “The Freddy” and shouted Beatles tunes in an awful harmony. The cider was almost gone when Ron sidled up to me and said “I think there’s something wrong with the cider. I’ve been too busy to drink more than a couple and I think I’m starting to feel funny…in fact check Pamela.” I turned toward Pamela’s voice, who was singing Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore along with the rest of the group although she was hanging on Kelly who looked confused about the whole situation. His eyes seemed slightly out-of-focus as he looked back at me and smiled, blinking big and opening his eyes to maximum before they descended to half-mast. Pamela patted his shoulder and looked up at him with a look that said “Oh, hi. When did you get here?” She turned back towards the fire. Ron said, “Lar, I think we’ve got us some apple-jack here.” I looked across the fire at Robin. The smile plastered across is face can only be described as…goofy. Eyebrow’s raised, eyes at half-mast, a smirk on the left side of his mouth with the accompanying half twisted up into grimace that I’m sure he thought was a big smile. Yep, goofy.

The games and songs got progressively louder and less organized as the evening continued. Although we had planned on staying until later in the evening the more sober members quickly reached consensus when Kelly fell asleep and off the log. We all re-mounted the hayrack for our trip back to the church. As we mounted Pamela stood on the right front side next to the rack holding on for balance. She was singing quietly to herself but looking down with brows furrowed looking like she was examining some important question on her mind. Her eyes slowly closed but her expression didn’t change. “Pamela!” She opened her eyes and looked up at Linda. “Time to go.” Linda said and reached down to help her friend aboard. As Pamela climbed aboard, helped by Ron, she tipped forward and fell full-face aboard the hayrack. She sat up, hair full of straw, and laughed. The concern and deep thought she had been involved in seconds ago completely forgotten. As she brushed hay off her front she started giggling and fell backwards. Something was evidently hilarious! As I had been slightly attracted to Pamela since early grade school I paid a bit more attention to her than most of the rest of the group, more than a couple of whom had fallen asleep. I had noticed she had REALLY liked the cider. If there’d been a contest she might have been the winner. Robin was a close second. All the sleepers? – Third. After a second or two she sat back up and started climbing unsteadily to her feet.

The rack jerked forward starting its trip back to the church. “Oops!” Pamela sat back down heavily and twisted to her right, evidently thinking there was more wagon there. She was right on the edge as she tipped forward and began wind milling her arms backwards. She immediately smacked her hand on Kelly’s sleeping head. She stopped wind milling and her hand shot toward her mouth ostensibly to suck the pain off but instead, still off-balance, she slid forward and off the ride and to her knees on the wet grass. She struggled to her feet. Decidedly tipsy, she rocked slightly crouched and on her feet but still bent at the waist and supported by her hands which were helping push her up. It was that act that had reminded me of this hayride some years later. Wynola shouted, “Run, Pamela, run!” but Pamela stood wavering and not inclined to even try this athletic feat. Jack jumped off to help. He wasn’t navigating much better than she was but they soon caught up. We helped a laughing Pamela back aboard. She soon quieted before we arrived at the church and glancing in her direction I could see she was clearly asleep. Head on Jack’s lap who sat nodding off and on, her mouth was agape and little snoring sounds issued from the orifice. Her mouth closed and she smiled in her sleep.

At the end of the evening of each of these distinctly different hayrides I assisted the ladies in question home. I believe Jack and I left Pamela standing at her front door rocking back and forth on her heels. Until recently I wondered why I didn’t see Pamela at any more MYF meetings. Evidently this was a decision made more by parents (understandably) then her.

Now, a few years later, the trip to Elaine’s house was a bit rougher as she was completely unable to stand. As she had hung on me all evening, much to my dismay, I still felt more responsible than anyone else for her welfare. I helped her into the car and drove her home but soon after getting in the car she passed completely out. Upon arriving at her house she remained unconscious despite vigorous attempts to awaken her. As I had my own bed to head for, I picked her up in my arms. MAN, SHE WAS HEAVY! Hey! I’m a little guy, ok? She immediately emptied the contents of her stomach all over my white uniform. Evidently sometime during the evening she had managed to eat a small amount of spaghetti. It, too, was a lovely Sloe-Gin-RED. Unhappy with the new decoration and the ungodly odor I deposited her in a shopping cart handily abandoned next to the road. I wheeled her up to the bottom step leading to the front door and tried again to awaken her. She was absolutely gone. Not wanting to leave her here and not really wanting to meet her parents I stepped onto the porch. Surely at 1:30 AM everyone was sound asleep and there wasn’t a single light on in the house but…well…I didn’t see much recourse… I rang the bell and ran.

To my relief I never saw Elaine again. To my greater relief, having recently seen Pamela, she seems completely unaffected by the adventure. She remains the lovely person we all knew and is as charming as ever.

Run, Pamela, run!

1961 - Lessons In Physics

Curiosity killed the cat...a bit of foolish overconfidence could have had something to do with it, too.

1961 – Discovering Some of the Laws of Nature

Yep! Did it again!

2-days ago my inquisitive mind got the better of me. Seeing the discarded bottle of Tide sitting on top of the garbage can, right next to the 3-foot high ceramic backyard fountain, I thought, “I wonder if a couple of drops of soap would help clean this scum?” I had been contemplating exchanging the water in the fountain for something fresher but that would mean a slimy-mess to clean before adding new water. Perhaps a couple of drops of soap would help. I had emptied the last of the soap into the new bottle so there couldn’t be more than a few drops left. I grabbed the “empty” bottle and unscrewed the cap.

Ever heard the saying that more people are accidentally shot with “empty” guns than any other kind? Well, this was an “empty” bottle of soap which when turned down delivered a huge dollop of nice blue soap. I’m afraid a four-letter word escaped before I could prevent it. Let’s pretend it was “damn.”

Immediately suds began to fill the fountain like some runaway Laundromat washing machine in a slapstick comedy. They began to spill over the side and I knew there was no way I was going to clean this up before my lovely wife returned home from spending her weekly allotment of thousands-and-thousands of dollars…at Wal-Mart.

I was immediately reminded of the “experiment” I tried at the age of 11 while alone at home. This felt surprisingly like that experience although the “experiments” were not exactly the same. I had been digging around in the kitchen drawers when I came upon mom’s meat thermometer. It was long and filled with red-spirit which was plain to see. The temperature went all the way up to around 600-degrees – wow!

I first measured the temperature of the water in the sink. It got pretty hot but nowhere near the top of the thermometer. I put a pan of water on to boil. As it began bubbling and spitting water over the edge of the little pan, filled way-to-full for boiling water, I stuck the thermometer in but was immediately splashed by hot water. Grabbing a hot pad I moved the water to the sink and inserted the thermometer. Hmmm…212-degrees. Still not very high…I turned back towards the stove to turn off the burner when I wondered, “Just how hot is that fire?” I tentatively inserted the thermometer into the fire. BAM!! The top of the thermometer exploded in a dramatic spewing of hot red-spirit.

Did you know thermometer-spirit is indelible? It is…yep.

I looked up to see various sizes of bright-red spots all over the wall…the refrigerator, the toaster, the few pans hanging on the wall and the stove were similarly decorated. Come-to-think-of-it I probably had a few red-spots on me, too. Looking up I saw a smattering of little red spots all over the ceiling. I cringed and looked away – towards the floor - and the old yellowed linoleum, now freshly decorated with a multitude of little red spots. I got a rag and some cleaner out. They didn’t wipe-off…in fact they didn’t even smear. They looked pretty permanent and mom was due home any minute. There was going to be no getting out of this. That was a good lesson in physics and the power of expanding steam now reminds me of a story which I believe was told years ago by a classmate, Gary Burns, about a back-yard camp-out he had with Jeff Endicott. They, too, had a lesson to learn about the power of steam.

As the story went, after a couple of hours of running through the neighborhood late at night during a backyard camp-out they were worn out from playing and wanted a snack. Jeff snuck into the kitchen and quietly looking through the canned food found a can of pork n’ beans. He proceeded back to the campfire and put the can near the fire. Then he and Gary kicked their shoes off and retired to the tent. They sat inside with a flashlight talking and joking when…BAM!!

Something had exploded right outside the tent! They rolled out in a rush and as soon as their heads broke cover they could see little spots of fire embers spread out for about 10 feet around the fire. Avoiding the glowing spots they jumped out of the tent and immediately began a different kind of jumping in a desperate attempt to get the boiling-hot beans unstuck from the bottoms of their feet where they stuck with unbelievable tenacity. Eventually finding themselves outside the ring of damage they dropped to the ground and scrapped the hot beans from their feet. They sat about 6’ apart and as the urgency of the burning feet faded they noticed that right there halfway between them was what used to be a can of pork n’ beans. It was opened up along the seam and had one lonely bean stuck to the inside otherwise appearing as clean as the day it was manufactured.

They learned about the power of steam that night. I should have listened.

These aren’t the only times I had to learn about the forces of nature like steam…and gravity. This was a lesson I had to learn at least twice. I learned it once from the top of a tall tree in our backyard and again diving between two objects that were farther apart than they looked.

Our tree was a fairly thin but strong tree in which we had built our “tree-houses”, rarely more than a board hammered into place, and where we could survey most of our part of our little village. I had climbed to the very top where the only part of the tree that was higher were little branches that wouldn’t hold me…or would they? I was now higher than our 2-story house which I figure was about 30-40 feet off the ground. As I never had much fear of heights I was willing to attempt to increase my elevation to see the school-yard down the block. Suddenly a branch gave way, not the first time something like this had happened, but this time when I grabbed for a branch to restore my balance and it, too, broke off cleanly. I fell backwards and began plummeting towards the ground. I grabbed at passing branches and twigs as I bounced from limb to limb, sometimes getting a good grip only to have the momentum rip it from my hands and toss me on a new trajectory with new twigs and branches. After plummeting what seemed like a few feet I managed to grab a branch upon which I had fallen full-force full-body. Wrapping my arms and legs around the fairly substantial limb I bounced up and down for a few seconds before I looked towards the ground. I had fallen farther than anticipated. Holding on to the limb with my hands I dropped down so I was hanging on freely. Letting go I dropped the remaining couple of feet to the ground. I had caught the last limb before hitting the hard, hard surface. No problem.

My real lesson on the force of gravity came when I attempted to jump from the chicken-coop in the neighbors’ back-yard and into his cherry-tree. The distance didn’t appear to be too far so I couched in preparation for the jump, ignoring the pile of discarded and broken canning jars immediately below me. The pile of broken glass was over 2-feet high and spread out over a few square feet. I launched myself into the air aiming for the closest and most substantial branch. Missing completely I smacked into a higher branch and fell towards the ground. Landing lightly on my feet I dropped into a slight crouch to take the impact which set me up perfectly for the depressed branch to whip back up and slightly to the left where I stood still recovering from the jump. Pushing me off-balance I fell towards the pile of glass. Seeing the on-coming shards and points I rolled my body to the right towards the edge of the pile. Using my left hand and arm as a lever I thrust it into the edge of the pile and pushed my body away from the shards of blued glass. I grimaced as I landed on my back expecting multiple points of glass to thrust themselves through my clothing and into my back. Nothing! No pain! Alright! I jumped to my feet and felt something warm running down my hand. Lifting my left arm to look I was squirted in the eye with warm spurting blood coming from a wound in my wrist. I ran through the hedge that separated the two houses and headed into the kitchen…and mom.

Despite initial excitement and panic which lasted about 5 seconds mom grabbed a dish towel and held it tightly to my wrist. It immediately filled with red blood and began dripping on the floor. Grabbing a second towel she threw the first into the sink and wrapped the second around my wrist telling me to hold it tightly. “No! Tight! Try to make your arm numb. Don’t let ANY blood through!” She ran to the telephone and called the Winthrop Harbor Police Department. They showed up within a very few minutes and I was carried by the officer into his patrol car.

I remember the trip very well from my vantage lying on the back seat as we sped towards the Zion hospital, siren screaming and weaving in and out of traffic. I started to sit up for a better view of our ride but immediately got dizzy and fell back onto my back. Eventually we arrived at the hospital and I guess they took care of me because I’m still here and I have a nice scar on my wrist from the event but I have no memory at all of the hospital.

I’d like to say I’ve learned my lessons and my problems with the laws of physics had cured my reckless streak but they, evidently, didn’t completely take.

If they had…I might not have a fountain to clean.