1968 - San Bernardino

My buddy Merle was usually a cool-head when it came to crisis. Very cool.
...Sometimes it's surprising. the people you meet and then, sometime later, find out who they are. Sometimes they haven't even become that person yet...

1968 – San Bernardino

“Dismissed.” Chief let us go for the weekend early at 2:00. Time to head to Berdo! Party!

Merle and I headed for our birthing compartment to find Rick and Ladd already there grabbing enough clothes for the weekend. We proceeded to the parking lot where Merle’s Gran Turismo waited for our weekly trip to San Bernardino. We hit the locker-club running to change into “civvies” so we could look like sailors in civvies on weekend liberty. Cool! That was exactly what we were! It was a lovely summer day and we were ready for some good times with friends with whom we partied almost every weekend!

Leaving the locker-club and tossing our changes of clothes, and several bottles of Boones Farm Strawberry wine, into the trunk of Merle’s Studebaker, we climbed back in to spend our weekend at the USO in Berdo where we were well liked and appreciated. Although it was a military town, the service in question was the Air Force so sailors were well accepted as representatives from another service. Normally we stayed at Rick’s parent’s house in Colton but, as we were friends with a few of the Airmen, we often spent our nights on the Airbase, using the beds of roommates who, like us, were out-of-town for the weekend. The Airbase also had a bowling alley and a restaurant as well as a few amenities that, as military personnel, we could readily take advantage. This weekend we would be staying with Rick.

Leaving the locker club we started up Broadway for 11th street where we would find the beginning of the 163 freeway, which would take us to the 395 and north to our destination. Ladd sat shotgun while Merle drove as we paused for the traffic light. I sat directly behind Merle while Rick sat forward talking to Ladd as we the light changed and Merle hit the gas.

“Whoo-hoo! Alright! San Berdo here we come!”
“Hit it! Go, go, gogogogo!”
“Yippie-ki-yay, were on our way.” Rick was slammed back into this seat as I sat forward looking over Merles shoulder as we accelerated onto the highway. Rick sat back up cheering. A summer wind was blowing through the windows, making for another lovely Southern California weekend. The wind was blowing loud and it took some volume to be heard so everybody was in full voice as we egged Merle on. He aggressively double-clutched and dropped the car into 2nd gear. The car lurched forward, quickly gaining speed as we outdistanced the other vehicles that had sat at the light with us. He began shouting to us about the young lady he had met the previous weekend, telling us how he hoped she would be around this weekend. Deloris was his new love and he was infatuated. Merle hit the clutch for the last gear and dropped it into place. There was another lurch as the hood flipped up and folded itself over the windshield! Merle immediately propped his arm on the window ledge and stuck his head through the window. He continued to drive until he could find a good spot to pull over. He never stopped talking…he didn’t change the subject…he simply went on talking like this hood-folding thing happened every day. Eventually he found a spot to pull over and we all got out to inspect the damage.

What a mess! The hood was buckled in the middle, folded neatly over the front window and onto the roof. Ladd and I pulled on the panel forcing it forward until Rick and Merle could get a firm grip on the front end. The hood protested with the sound of tortured metal. Pushing the hood down as much as possible still left a good 9-inch gap. This would never do. Merle climbed up on top of the car standing on the fender and launching himself onto the front end of the hood and stomped down hard. A couple more of these succeeded in bending the front end down until an old metal coat hanger could be twisted around and through any opening that could help secure the hood so it would not fly back up. We proceeded to San Bernardino without any further incident and spent a great weekend at Rick’s, meeting his cousin, Roseanne who had been dropped for the weekend to stay with her Uncle, Rick’s dad.

Her dad, Johnny, was in town for the weekend playing a concert and his ex-wife was invited to spend the weekend with him in San Bernardino. As she would be busy for the entire time and needed someone to watch her daughter, she dropped Roseanne off for the weekend with her ex’s relatives. Sadly there were no free tickets. At 12, Roseanne was a few years younger than me. Despite this she wasn’t so young that she wasn’t attracted to boys and, in fact, she immediately decided I was desirable and soon was stuck to me like glue. Eventually the guys retired to the basement to have a couple of beers and a few hits from a hash-pipe and to listen to Rick’s new Gary Puckett and the Union Gap record. We managed to convince Roseanne that the basement was off-limits so I was secure, content and not fending off what I saw as a “little girl.” Every moment not in the basement I had my little shadow, Roseanne. The weekend proceeded until it was Sunday evening and it was time to leave. As we left I shook Rick’s dad’s hand and thanked his mom. Roseanne grabbed me and hugged me hard then, reaching up, removed my dog tags from around my neck and asked for them as a remembrance. I resisted for a few seconds until I reluctantly gave in as I realized a lot of sailors had either lost or discarded their dog-tags long before. I realize now this was not a good idea but, at the time…

Everyone in a while I see Roseanne on TV or hear of her doing a concert somewhere as she was able to become a professional using her family connections to get started in the business until she could clearly hold her own. Every time I think of her I wonder…

…Does Ms. Cash still have my dog tags?

1999 - Too Many Choices

In this country we enjoy the opportunity to pick and choose from a wide range of varied products. In most of our memories that's how things have always been or have evolved to become...but what if you went from few choices to a multitude of choices overnight... would the effect be a surplus of joy at your good fortune or frustration at not being able to choose the one you desire TODAY in lieu of all the rest.

1999 – Too Many Choices

“Ok, Lairry, ve go get drink after verk, ok?”

“Sure, Alex,” I replied. Alex was a fairly new employee and the Maintenance Manager in charge of a good sized building and 8 employees. His office was immediately next to mine and, as there was a quarter wall of glass between each office we saw each other and spoke frequently. His heavy Russian accent was apparent but he had a fairly good command of the English language even though his syntax and enunciation was not perfect. We had spoken earlier in the week during our morning break and touched on his emigration to this country. “How long have you been here, then?” I inquired.

“4-Yearrs,” he rolled his R’s in a distinctly Russian manner, “My vife, tshe decide to moof to be close to tsizter. So we moof to US.” He paused, considering his next statement, “Yez, I vould be happier in Russia but after vife’s mother die tshe decide tshe vant to be close to tsizter.” He shrugged.

“Sounds like my house,” I said, “When my wife and I got married we decided right away that I would make the big decisions and she could make all of the little ones. So she decides if we buy a car or where we live and I decide if we go to war with Canada. So far war hasn’t become an issue. She says I'm doing a great job.” Alex looked at me wondering if he should smile...he finally decided I was joking and joined me in the joke. Fascinated by Alex’s statement regarding is desire to have stayed in Russia, and as break was ending I said, “We should get together some time for a drink after work, Alex. I’d like to know more about Russia and your story.”

“Yes, our vifes tsould tsimilar, Lairry. Tsure, ve tshould geet drrrink tsometime, Lairry.” We parted for our separate responsibilities.

That had been a few days ago, now he was confirming the current day as a good time to have a short get-together. We agreed to meet at the neighborhood bar at 4:00.

* * * * *

“Vood you like 'nother gin, Lairry?” I had bought the last round. Alex signaled the table girl and we continued our conversation.

“So you didn’t really want to leave home, huh? Do you like it here in the US?”

“Eess nice here but everything eez too different. Tings are mush tsempler in Russia.” He leaned forward. “I giff you example: Een Russia we haff two kinds of tsausage. Ve haff de regular tsausage dot efferevon eat for normal meals. Then we haff tsausage dot ees for tspecial occasions. Iz cozt more,” he shrugged, “but eez tspecial.” Alex paused. “Problem eez, in US eez tsimply too many choice uff tsausage. The other day I come home from tstore and my vife ask 'vhy you take tso long to tshop today?' I tell her I look for tsausage! I go to tsausage department! I see many, many tsausages! I tell her ‘After half-hour I am tstill trying to decide which tsausage!!’ Een US – eez too many choices! Eez much eazier in Russia!” Alex shook his head.

I had recently read articles about this. It seems too-many choices can serve to simply slow everything down because an overabundance of choices can make the decision less clear. For someone used to only limited choices an overabundance of selections can offer choices that look so desirable...or undesirable... that "this looks so good, but that looks so good and so does that, but that one over there is bigger where the smaller ones are more tender..." can make any choice at-all a challenge beyond the talents of some individuals. I hadn’t expected to hear such a vivid example so soon after reading about this condition.

I asked Alex, “What other things do you find different in this country…what things are the same?”

“Ahh,” said Alex, “Many things tstill tsame but maybe juzt little difference.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Ve have vize tsayings from, I think you tsay, old-vives advice.” I noticed this was a slightly sideways way of identifying the source of old-standard sayings and cliches we all have all heard. “Een US, for instance you tsay ‘Don’t count chickens before hatch.’ Een Russia we haff tsimilar advize but juzt little differrent. In Russia ve tsay ‘Don’t try on coat while you are tstill hunting bear.’ Eez tsame but different.” Alex (t)smiled.

It didn’t take long to find Alex and I had much more in common than we had different.

From my observations and experiences: day-by-day people are pretty much the same…around the round world.

1981 - I Shall Overcome

Some things scare you because they are unexpected...a surprise. Some things scare you because they are simply unknown. Either can be overcome with a cool head and determination...the cool head is often the hard part.

1981 - “I Shall Overcome”

I found a copy of my high school Drivers Ed report card the other day. It told me a lot about myself and an attitude I wasn’t sure I eventually cultivated or if it was an attitude that was innate. It was evidence that my habit of tackling self-imposed shortcomings and overcoming the problem had been around for quite awhile. Nurture or nature…does it really matter? In this case the card reported I needed considerable practice backing up and my use of a standard-shift was deplorable. Seeing this I realized this was evidence that this attitude of overcoming difficulty pre-dated the new found confidence I found while in the USN. To this day I only own standard-shift cars – I love the whole clutching/shifting thing – love those curvy mountain roads – and I almost always pull backwards into my parking spaces. I had no idea until I saw this document that I had EVER had problems with either of these maneuvers. And I thought this entire “can-do” attitude came from the NAV – maybe not.

After the Navy and I departed ways I was resolved to take my limited musical background and become a professional. After growing tired of trying to live, once again, under mom’s roof with mom’s rules – which were great for her but not for a 22 year-old partier – I left Iowa City for Dad’s house in Southern Illinois. The story there was about the same and, after about 5-weeks, I was again on the road for northern Illinois and some of the other stories I’ve repeated previously. During those 5-weeks I decided to take music lessons and learn to become a better bass-player. During my second lesson my teacher told me I’d “never be a decent bass-player” as my “hands are too small.” This, of course, pissed me off. After all, I had already been a musician for some years and had enough live experience to know I was already better than many others in the same position. This just made me work harder sometimes practicing 6 or more hour’s a-day. (And if you’re familiar with the bass you know how absolutely boring this must have been.) I spent the next few years consciously proving that teacher wrong by becoming a relatively successful musician although I’m aware that the accuracy of his analysis ultimately may have been one of the reasons for a career that was somewhat less than aimed for, but this same analysis was one of the reasons for any success I did have.

Perhaps this attitude was why I persisted in taking German classes in high school despite the fact I kept failing horribly at it. Flunked German I my soph-year (great enunciation, good at getting the desired point across, terrible syntax and an absolute failure to memorize the “conversations) so I retook it as a junior. Passed with a D. Took German II as a senior. Flunked that one, too. If there had been another year I would have taken it again – I loved the class! I just couldn’t pass the class.

Later in life this attitude has continued to serve me well. My greatest example of this is my former fear of public speaking. This became painfully apparent around 1989 when I attended a symposium and discussion about “Space Station Freedom” at San Diego’s Aerospace Museum. Space Station Freedom eventually became Skylab but in ’87 the unit was still a well developed twinkle in the eye of NASA. Near the end of the open discussion the panel began discussing the kinds of replenishment that should be considered during flights into orbit. There was passionate discussion regarding guitars, tapes and books. This discussion pre-dated CDs & the I-Pod. A short discussion determined LP records would not be advisable as the “penny would just float off the tone arm.” This remark was made ½ a-second before the speaker realized there might also be a problem with the entire tone-arm. Duhh. As the discussion continued the shuttle bay was completely filled with “games and toys” which I noticed had forced a couple of big pre-determined items out of the bay or reduced their size. Realizing these containers were filled with water and air I wanted to say something that, evidently, no one else had noticed: they REALLY needed this stuff. Knowing I would be nervous I began to rehearse 2 sentences in my mind. Over and over I practiced, although not raising my hand to volunteer my comment. Finally the event was about to wrap up and the moderator mentioned they would take “only a couple more questions or comments.” Simply to be true to myself I raised my hand hoping upon hope that I would NOT be called upon. No such luck. The moderator immediately pointed at me and asked me to stand and speak clearly.

I stood. I opened my mouth, the lower jaw of which was beginning to shake with nervousness as was my right leg. I steadied my leg. Repeating my two lines in my head I opened my mouth and said “I-I-I-I-I b-b-b-b-b-b-b-guh-guh-guh-guh-bub-bub-bub-bub-bub-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah.” Then I turned bright red and fell back into my seat, devastated. Even knowing there would be a problem, even with several minutes of rehearsal, I was still unable to deliver. This was an extremely low point in my days. I looked like an idiot! An utter fool! How could I have been so naïve? I wrestled with this opinion of myself for the next few months until…

I was asked to become one of the members of the first implementation group for our companies TQM (Total Quality Manufacturing) project. I was honored to be asked but even more honored when I attended the initial kick-off and found myself in the company of 13 additional members…all upper management – V.P.s & Directors…while I was a lowly member of middle management – the Divisional Materials Manager. Everyone else in the room was 2-3 levels above me. Initially I was sure I was in the wrong room but the VP Operations assured me I was n the right place. Following the meeting I inquired as to why I was chosen over many other managers, most of whom had been with the company much longer. It seems my re-organization of the Materials Planning, Procurement and control had improved and noticed but the thing that convinced management I was a good candidate was an incident wherein I re-organized the physical layout of the shipping/receiving department. Although given an 8-hour day to complete this I was done in 3-hours which the Ops manager considered impossible until I explained how I planned the movement of the furniture and held a short rehearsal just before the crew left the previous afternoon. That got his attention but it was the ultimate saving of $82K+ annually in these 2 small departments that convinced him, and eventually, the CEO and CFO that I was a good candidate. Both of these gentlemen were co-members and, I must say, inside those meeting room wall we really were all equal.

One of the tasks we were assigned was breaking the implementation process into 14 discrete functions, or steps, as they were called. One of these steps was “Education.” As we discussed the various functions and execution of same we determined each step would be chaired by a team-member and backed up by another member so we all had a primary and secondary responsibility besides steering the whole process as a group. When we began discussing the Education Step I quickly realized that this person, whomever it ultimately turned out to be, would be the lead-teacher for this new discipline and would be teaching classes that were delivered over a 10-week series of classes and workshops to all of management and influential employees as well as a 1-hour introductory session that every employee – from the janitor to the department manager would attend. The responsible person would be responsible for writing the classes, adapted from the Philip B. Crosby Quality College curriculum, training any additional instructors and presenting the majority of the classes to upper, middle and lower management. This person would be responsible for setting up classroom facilities and scheduling classes as well as coordinating these classes with other events that were ongoing as a part of the implementation cycle. Immediately seeing these requirements, and knowing my absolute fear of public speaking and, again, to be true to myself I raised my hand hoping someone else…anyone else…would be called upon. As I looked around the room I saw only one hand raised – mine. I was stuck – it was time to overcome my public speaking fear.

As I began the process of planning and preparation, of writing and re-writing lessons and locating required resources I enrolled in Southwester Colleges class for Public Speaking. Attending the class I was terrified throughout most of it, determined to overcome my lack of confidence in my public persona despite my surety that my fear was insurmountable. I spoke in front of the class frequently, as required, but hated every second and always sat down after completing a presentation absolutely convinced I looked like a total idiot. Two weeks before completion of the class I was convinced I was going to have to bow out of the responsibility for which I had volunteered as I prepared for my final speech in front of the class. We were to speak about an incident in our life, it was to be exactly 3-minutes long and it would be videotaped. I read and rehearsed my 3-minutes over and over in my head to help reinforce the rehearsals I had held in front of the bathroom mirror all week. I had absolutely no confidence in my ability to get through the evening.

When I was called upon I rose and walked to the front of the room. In my head I was resisting with every fiber of my being but eventually I stood there and began as rehearsed. I began telling my story about my meeting with a bear in Canada (see: 1966 – The Bear). At one point I “lost” my word. I had a perfect word chosen and rehearsed all week but lost the word I wanted to use! In my head I was a chicken-with-it’s-head-cut-off. In my head I ran in circles and shouted “Oh-no! Oh-no! Oh-no! I look like an idiot! Whoo-who-whoo-who-who!” Gibberish ran around in my head as I frantically searched for the missing word or something equivalent! Eventually I gave up, finding a word that was not perfect but almost acceptable and I finished my talk completely deflated and convinced I would never be able to talk in front of people. This weakness had plagued me much of my professional life as I was easily bush-wacked at meetings and failed miserably to defend my decisions when challenged. As mush as I wanted to overcome this it wasn’t looking good…then they showed the videotape!

I saw my self at the front of the room speaking calmly, relating the story with more animation than I expected because, although I rehearsed enthusiasm I had failed to convince myself while I was doing the presentation, yet…There I stood calmly relating my story. At one point I paused as though waiting for my comments to sink in. I calmly surveyed the room and the faces of my classmates then I proceeded to complete the talk coming in 2 seconds over.

I was blown away!! All the panic, all the noise in my head. All of the screaming and self-flagellation I had done during my “moment” was completely unseen! I looked perfectly calm! Perfectly confident! I smiled at the class and proceeded to finish with every bit of self-control I had hoped for in vain…now there it was !! Wow! I actually looked good! No one had any idea of my desperation. No one had been able to hear the blood pounding in my ears. No one could see the deflation of spirit or the complete depression that was trying to force itself upon me! Alright!

Within a very few weeks I began teaching classes. During my first session my palms, that sweat profusely when I’m nervous, were soaked with flop-sweat. Twice during the lesson they actually slipped off the podium as I attempted to control my fear. Upon completion of the class I asked the CFO to stay behind as Bob and I had bonded pretty good as we worked together on this project. “How did I do, Bob? I was shaking like a leaf. Was it too apparent?”

“Couldn’t even tell you were nervous.,” he replied. “It looked like you had been doing this your whole life. We you really nervous?” I confirmed my state-of-mind when Bob said, “None of us could tell, Lar. You looked like you knew your subject inside and outside and just before we finished John had mentioned to me how confident you actually looked! I think we’re going to enjoy these sessions.”

My nervousness was gone.

My fear of public speaking rarely raises it’s head anymore and when it does I’m well aware that I can probably fake confidence long enough to get through whatever situation I have found myself. Also…I now absolutely LOVE teaching and would do it for free if I could make a living from it.

I’m still learning how to overcome my shortcomings and, of course, struggle regularly with issues that still remain in the back of my psyche but there is nothing like the feeling of successfully succeeding at something which you are absolutely convinced you could never pull off.

YES!! I LOVE a good challenge!!!

1968 - My Chance To See The World

Like so many young people many experiences were the result of on-the-spot decisions. Little things can become so important...little things...like joining the Navy.

1968 – Navy Day

We had been playing the same game of Monopoly for 3-days. We had already seen every movie in town. “Alfie”, Georgie Girl”, “The Graduate” and “I Am Curious Yellow” had all been on the agenda. We had window shopped and hung out at the beach which was an indication of how desperate we were to find something to do that was NOT Monopoly. It was the beginning of February in Northern Illinois with a big dump of freshly fallen snow. The beach was interesting but with the lake shore frozen over and nothing to see it didn’t take long to write that entertainment off the list of desperate activities. It was now morning of the third day of Monopoly when I awoke. “W9GYP, W9GYP Calling CQ, W9GYP calling CQ.” I could hear Kerry’s dad in the lower level of the house on his ham-radio trying to make contact with…just about anyone. He repeated, “W9GYP, W9GYP Calling CQ, W9GYP calling CQ.” I rose and put pants and shirt on. Opening the door I could hear Kerry’s dad even clearer. Stepping down the short stairway to the ground level I found Kerry in the kitchen fixing breakfast. I joined him at the Monopoly board with my bowl of cereal. Kerry sat absently mindedly chewing breakfast and eyeing the game with suspicion.

Noticing his expression I spoke, “I’m not sure I’m ready for another day stuck in the house.”

Kerry answered, “Me either. What do you want to do today?”

We sat in conversation until I suggested, “We’ve been talking about going to a recruiter. Do ya’ want to do that today?” For a few years I had looked forward to joining the Marines just like Bobby’s dad. Bobby had been my best boyhood friend who moved to Upper Wisconsin a couple of years before. We had seen all of the John Wayne movies and knew all about (we thought) the war in Viet Nam. We had talked about joining the Marines and could barely wait until we were old enough. As I had turned 18 the previous September I was the proper age but with Bobby moved away I hadn’t seriously considered joining for awhile. Even so I just KNEW that one of these days I would be a Marine hero, so when I suggested talking to a recruiter it was mostly for something to kill the boredom but the possibility was always there, that a quick talking recruiter could sign me up on the spot.

“Sounds ok to me.” Kerry answered. “Let me get the keys from my mom.”

We cruised downtown Waukegan for a little while but with no action on the cold, snowy streets we quickly reached the conclusion that we were going to have to get out of the car to do anything interesting. As we passed the recruiter for the second time Kerry spotted a parking place and pulled in. As it was only half a block from the recruiting office we had a very short instance to walk before arriving at the front door. During the drive down I had spoken to Kerry about the Marines. His dad had been the Commander of the 9th Navel District when he retired in Zion. Kerry was convinced the Navy was the way to go although conversation revealed a little doubt stemming from the fact his dad was so often gone for long periods during the early part of his career. Kerry’s dad started as a Radioman and moved into the officers corps by way of Warrant Officer and was one of the first “mustangs” that moved from the enlistment side to the officer side. By the time we arrived at the storefront I had Kerry convinced we should at least talk to the Marine Recruiter first.

We walked into the store front downtown Waukegan to find the Army, Marine, Air Force and Coast Guard recruiters busy with interested young men. The Naval Recruiter sat reading the newspaper with his feet up on the desk. He glanced up as we entered but went back to his paper when we showed interest in waiting for the Marine Recruiter. As we killed time waiting we started reading the articles taped to the wall about local heroes. Most were Marines with a few Army guys and 1 each Air Force flyer and 1 Navy sailor having won chests full of medals including a Congressional Medal of Honor and plenty of Purple Hearts. By the time we got to the end of the wall we were well impressed by all of the local heroes and were discussing among ourselves the possibility of joining the Marines when we turned to the Navy recruiter asking, “We see all of these heroes here getting medals and there’s a lot of different medals probably depending upon the service but they all got this one here. What’s the posthumous medal?”

“Those guys are all dead. That’s what that word means – awarded after death.”

We stood frozen in place…”You mean ALL of those guys are dead?”

“Yep.”

We looked the length of the wall. There were a lot of articles taped up. “We want to talk to you.” Suddenly the Navy guy was busy.

He sold us on the Navy with very little problem. We were willing and without direction. I imagine we were easy pickin’s. We were designated as on the Buddy-System which assured we could spend at least boot camp together and increased the possibility we would get similar training and, if we were lucky, we increased our chances of going to our ultimate assignment together. We filled out all of the paperwork and found out we could go get our physicals in Chicago the following Wednesday. He gave us a time to meet the train and directions to find the bus to the Selective Service Center where we would take our pre-enlistment physicals.

The experience of wandering around all day in my underwear with hundreds of other boys is something I have managed to erasw from my mind althrough the draft-board scenes in the movie "Alice's Resturant" seems to draw a sympathatic note in my memory with hundreds of skivvy-clad lads shuffling from line to line ("Comeon! Nuts to butts, boys nuts-to-butts! Close up that line!) being poked and prodded, filling out forms and answering questions.

We completed our physicals and were shuffled back into a line taking us to the bus that would deliver us back to the train station. As we approached the bus we asked one of the enlisted men directing us, “Where do we go to sign up? We were supposed to join today. No one expects us at home.” In fact that morning when we left we said goodbye to Kerry’s mom and casually told her we’d see her soon. Dressed in thin dress pants, a t-shirt and my CPO jacket – somewhat thinner than a Pea Coat – with slip-on deck shoes, in the middle of a blowing snow-storm in February – Brilliant!! I froze my tail off for 3-days until we were issued uniforms and Pea Coats. My frozen feet were only matched by the wind blowing through the hole in my pants leg where I tore it dismounting from the bus. As we were only 10-miles from home you’d think I was smarter…but NOOO.

The soldier we asked for directions told us “You better get going. They’re giving the oath right now. It’s a small room at the back of the building.” He gave us directions to the place we were to take our oath and officially become sailor recruits. We ran like the wind, cutting in and out of the crowd and lines and barely getting there in time to hear “I, state your name…” we ran into the room and took our place alongside the other young men desiring to change their status. Out of breath we were unable to repeat the oath until the last couple of sentences but they took us anyway directing the various groups to the assorted departure points. We were headed for boot camp. Most everything was a blur after that but I do remember as we got on the bus to take us to boot camp at Great lakes Kerry turned to me and said "Here we go! Atleast we're going through this together!"

Took them 2-days to separate us – so much for the Buddy-System.

1966 - Lessons Learned - Inventory & Material Control

As I review my experiences I realize my inate ability to fortell the future when it comes to manufacturing material and production planning has served me not only in the last few years but, indeed, throughout much of my personal, as well as professional, life.


1966 - Lessons Learned – Inventory Control – Material Planning

Mom had told me “If you really want a specific job focus on it and make sure they know you’re interested. Reinforce that interest until they have an opening and you will be on top of the list.” I had decided I really wanted a job at National Tea as a stock-boy. Taking mom’s advice subsequent to filing my application, I had walked to the store every Tuesday and Thursday after school for the last 6-weeks to let them know I was still interested. It was still a couple of weeks before my birthday on Labor Day but I wanted to start as soon as I was available. After the third week Percy, the store manager, would wait for my entry through the door. Without pause he would shout over to me, “Not today,” and I would turn in my tracks and exit out the other door and continue my walk home, by then having missed the school bus. Often mom would pick me up.

Then one day, two weeks before my 16th birthday Percy called me over to the office and asked, “Ok, when will you turn 16?”

“The day before Labor Day!” I replied.

“Ok, come see me the Tuesday after the holiday. You’ve got a job. Now, get out of here! I don’t expect to see you in here again until then unless you are shopping with your mother.”

“Yessir!” I answered and ran out into the parking lot with a big “Whoopee!” I ran halfway home before mom passed me on the road.

Tuesday morning Percy gave me my duties: Bag-boy and general stock-boy, stocking and helping whomever needed the help, with special responsibilities for flour, sugar, and other baking supplies as well as Jello and condiments, which were stocked to the immediate right of the baking supplies. I was also assigned the bread Saturday mornings and was evening assistant to the dairy manager. As time passed responsibilities changed and eventually I found myself the main guy in charge of the dairy and, eventually, frozen foods. This increase of responsibilities came just a few weeks before the Thanksgiving Holiday.

Frozen foods were fairly easy to maintain, as all I needed to do was keep the bin filled to the top and assure I had enough back-up product in the freezer to satisfy customer needs. A weekly inventory of display case and freezer-stock was enough to keep this department well supplied. When Thanksgiving arrived I had already heard how the previous guy had run out of frozen turkeys and Swanson TV-Turkey Dinners, the inventory of which all sold out in quick order leaving the store with no inventory in these items for the 2-days before the holiday. The previous frozen-foods guy had done this two-years in a row but was still quite upset when he was informed just a couple of weeks before the holiday that he would be moved to canned goods and cereals. His complaints were long and repetitive and we got to hear them every day during our breaks. Two days after his change of responsibility I was informed I would be in charge of the frozen foods from that day onward. According to Jim, the previous guy, he was chewed out for running out of product but was similarly chewed out for carrying too much stock. He said he was caught in the middle of a problem that was impossible to satisfy. I listened and sympathized with his plight in order to get any information I could that would help me out, although after my re-assignment this was nearly impossible as he resented my movement to what was, formerly, his area of responsibility. What I did know was there were records of purchases and sales from the previous year. When Percy found me digging through dusty old inventory and sales records he was somewhat skeptical that these old records would do me any good, as “They will only tell you how to do it wrong.” Analysis informed me that about 3-weeks before the holiday sales had increased daily until inventory ran out. The first week had obviously been ignored, as the increase was subtitle. This resulted in too little the second week and impacted the third week when increased ordering was only done to relieve the increase from the previous week. It appeared that when the sales in these items had gone up, most noticeably, the week before the holiday, the previous manager had taken those numbers and used them to plan his re-supply for the pre-holiday week. He also assumed that by the day before the holiday, like his own family, sales would begin dropping as, in his words “anyone buying turkeys has already got one.” His opinion was also “Anyone waiting that long is too stupid anyway. They deserve to have a problem getting everything they need this late.” I didn’t agree.

It turned out I only got this job because frozen foods were near the dairy & because my sales in dairy was at an all-time high and scrap was at an all-time low. The key was understanding the weekly requirements, the seasonal requirements and having enough on-hand to support the forecast. This all seemed very easy. Once I learned I also needed to keep discards low, or those items that had to be thrown away due to expiration dates, I simply tightened my planned requirements by narrowing my forecast. I had learned this forecasting method from the previous dairy guy who trained me after finding out he was drafted into the Army. I found he was the only one in the store to do this type of clipboard analysis and our department continued this level of efficiency after he left. It was this analysis that saved me when applied to the frozen-foods area.

After a couple of minor adjustments to his method I was able to increase this effectively. It was all a very natural process for me as family discussions around the supper-table were often about whichever business dad was saving this week and what his methods were. His secret was mostly cleaning, organizing and communicating when there was any down time. He also stressed careful analysis of customer desires. As dad often said: “If you’re not on your break then you need to be working.” Another of his favorites was, “When there are no customers around there is always something to clean.” He also often mentioned, “If you’re working without knowing your customer’s needs you are wasting your time and the company’s money.” These three philosophical gems have served me well.

In the 1980’s I joined a manufacturing company, which had not shipped anything but repairs over the previous 6-months. Soon after joining the organization I found I was the 5th Materials Manager they’d had in the prior 2-years. It quickly became apparent to me the last few had not survived as they had too much inventory of the wrong type and not enough inventory of the right kind. On hand inventory value was $1.6-million…and we couldn’t ship product. When a little investigation revealed the company’s cash-flow problems had defeated the last 2-managers, I quickly came to a conclusion we needed to free up some of the cash we had tied up in inventory to purchase the items we needed to get back aboard our schedule. I found that 85% of the booked orders were past due. This also affected cash flow, as we had no invoices coming in with checks. What to do?

As a side note I also quickly identified severe communications problems that divided departments making them opponents in a company that seriously needed common goals. This would need attention if any progress were to be sustainable.

First we separated, on paper, those items that made up our repairs inventory, items that made up our current requirements, excess inventory and obsolete inventory. Obsolete inventory consisted of parts, which no longer fit an existing product and was not required for any current repairs and had no history of usage for repairs. Most of these parts were several years old and many were tucked away in a semi-truck trailer sitting in the back of our parking lot and used as a storage area. We also found parts in corners or in the loge where overstock and really old inventory and ancient financial records were stashed. Despite protest we received approval from upper management with the statement “If the unit is over 10-years old it is out of warranty and we should try to either sell them a repair at a reasonable profit by applying the cost of making obsolete components or, even better, we should try to sell them a new more modern replacement.” This took a great deal of negotiating as the Engineering Department felt we should offer repairs and the Sales Department wanted to sell new units. The strength of an upper management team that was derived almost completely from Engineering was challenged but common sense and charts showing the profit difference between stores, repairs and new sales convinced brilliant minds they couldn’t deny the obvious profit vs. loss. After agreement we discovered a large stash in a back room in the engineering area where multitudes of old, unaccounted for samples and first-article components were haphazardly set on shelves and pallets. A few of these were saved for a history display in the lobby – all else – gone.

Obsolete material comprised a surprisingly large pile, which we managed to sell to metal re-claimers and electronics re-sellers. This cash went immediately into the company coffers and we used some to begin buying the components we needed to start shipping orders. The obsolete PC Boards and custom electronic components we donated to a Tijuana orphanage training school and received a tax benefit for our donation. We shipped our first completed production unit that was not a repair 3-weeks after my arrival.

When we began buying components I discovered a new “rule” that had been in place for approximately 6-months before my arrival. The rule was “Buy only what is needed and no more.” I found this rule had been applied to all components, including some electronic components that were only sold in specific lots. An example was resisters that were only sold in small bags of 100 at $.15 each or a bag of 100 for $15. The “rule” was applied strictly so that, if a single resistor was required, a purchase of 100 would be made and, upon receipt, the single resister was removed from the bag & the remainder was trashed.

We found one employee taking advantage of this practice by raiding our dumpster nightly for additional income. Although he was threatened with firing, witnesses confirmed the previous Materials Manager had given him permission to do this. This practice did not continue.

I identified several instances where purchases of identical components were made weeks or days apart, in some cases the parts were expedited at an elevated cost. I changed this rule despite upper management’s protests as this cost-inflation practice made $.15 parts worth $15.

We identified a small number of components that were stocked as two different part numbers. All of these various components came to over $85K in on-hand value and ultimately most were designated as excess inventory, the next category of items to identify.

We identified our excess inventory by examining current orders and the history of sales and repairs for the components we had identified as excess. We identified fairly new products that were on an increasing sales curve. We kept these separate and set up a tickler to re-examine these parts in 3-months. We kept a reasonable amount of the remainder in stock and sequestered an average years-worth in an off-site locked bonded storage area so we could write it off of our inventory but easily obtain it by “buying it from ourselves” at full price if urgently need. The remainder we discarded using the same methods used on our obsolete inventory.

We impressed upon both buyers and our machine shop management that buying or making extra parts was not necessarily desired. The machine shop knew that if they were asked for 10 of a specific machined component, they could decrease costs on the individual part and they just might save an additional order a week or a month later, by making 20. Problem was sometimes, if they were easy parts to make, they might make 100 extra to really get the costs of the individual part down but, of course, this actually resulted in using productive time to make parts that we didn’t need so we could take up storage space we didn’t have to store parts that would be trashed in a few years without ever realizing the profit from the extra units. It also didn’t make sense to take a purchasing price-break on an item of which the extras would eventually become scrap. Buying 5 at $3 is not necessarily better than buying 2 at $5 if the remaining 3 get scrapped as excess. The result of this is extra cost of $5 for buying scrap on top of the cost to maintain and store unwanted material.

We found, over a period of 4-months we had removed $1M from our inventory, leaving only $600K of components and parts that were all valid. The exchange of parts for cash was, of course, not 1-to-1, our-value vs. re-cycling value. But this reduction realized a new available $390K+ for our procurement of components we actually needed plus a reasonable tax-break at the end of our fiscal year. As we realized the ability to tap our newly found funds we began to ship more and more product decreasing our backlog daily.

Despite less stress due to better availability of parts our communications problems continued to make satisfactory on-time shipments difficult with constant bickering and mistrust between departments that reflected itself in the attitudes and constant picking between individuals. This was next on my to-do list.

Increasing attendees at my planning meetings by 1) inviting both engineering and sales personnel to take part and 2) seriously nipping public displays of disagreement and calmly moving them to the conference room. This had the greatest effect on morale and directly affected the communication problems created when not understanding limitations and the ongoing challenges encountered during the procurement and manufacturing processes. They began to better understand the cost of casual change. We established regular reviews of scheduled shipments and identified opportunities to improve. We learned to work together to meet established goals. We started talking to…and trusting each other.

Life was good.

2004 - Jury Duty

My last jury duty, so far, wasn't so bad. I got to use all of my jury skills declaring this fool guilty of stupidity.

2004 – Jury Duty

The jury members were 100% certain we were witnessing the prosecution of a sexual pervert…and we were prepared to do what we needed to do – convict. Of course I didn’t know this until we had all been retired to the jury room for deliberations.

A couple of days before, we had all survived jury selection and were now safely ensconced in our jury box. The first witness was called whom I will refer to as April. She was a young girl, around 14 years old. She appeared somewhat intelligent but the arrogance of a 14-year old was clearly present. Her testimony revealed that almost daily, after school, she rode her bicycle to a bus stop where a copse of bushes and small trees across the street from the bus stop allowed her to hide her bicycle until later in the evening when her grandfather would drop her off to ride her bike home. The bus ride to her grandparents’ house took about 10 minutes.

On the day in question she stepped into the bushes and out of sight of the road or sidewalk. In the spot she usually stashed her bicycle sat a young man in his early 20’s. His pants were half off and he had his arm deeply down one of the legs. He had no underwear on so his naked butt sat on the undergrowth and fallen leaves and debris that made up the surface of this tiny hidden clearing.

“He told me to get out of there.” She testified.

“And what did you do?” Asked the prosecution.

“I grabbed my bike and left.”

“What happened then?”

“I waited a few minutes so he could get dressed and went back to stash my bike.”

“And what did you find when you went back to hide your bicycle?”

“He was still there but now his pants were completely off and his head and arm were inside his pants. When I walked up he pulled his head out and he told me to get out again.”

“And what did he do then?”

“He stood up and took a step towards me.”

“And what was your reaction?”

“I threw my bike at him and ran. Then I jumped on the bus and when I told my grandpa what happened he called the police. I guess that’s how he got arrested.”

“Thank-you.” He turned toward the defensive table, “Your witness.”

“Thank-you. Now, April, the first time the defendant spoke to you exactly did he say?”

“Exactly?” April looked at the prosecutor and then the judge, “Really?”

“Yes, April.” She looked back at the defensive lawyer. “What were the exact words the defendant used when he told you to get out?”

“He told me to…” she paused, “He told me to ‘get the fuck out of here!’”

“Thank-you, April. And what did he say to you the second time, when he took a step towards you?”

“He said ‘What part of get the fuck outa here don’t you understand?’”

“Then he took a step towards you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he threaten you or touch you?”

“Well I felt threatened! He was walking towards me! He was a naked pervert!”

The judge instructed us to ignore the witnesses’ final sentence saying “The statement of the defendants intentions or April’s opinion of the defendant will be disregarded. His intent and mental status is the subject at hand. It is up to you to determine the state of the defendant’s mind and not this witness.”

“Thank-you, Your Honor. April, did he make any other advances? Did he try to get you to come to him or was he…um…manipulating himself in any way?”

“No, but he was naked and he was threatening me when he tried to get me. The only reason he didn’t get to me was because I threw my bike at him.”

“One last question, April, was your bicycle still there when you returned?”

“Yes.”

“Thank-you. No more questions.” The judge told April she could step down.

The next witness was the grandfather who repeated his part of the story. It was reflective of April’s story. Following his testimony the prosecution rested and the defense was ready to begin. First we broke for lunch.

As we would find out later, at that point we were all pretty well convinced Gregory, the defendant, was guilty of both counts. One was a felony, attempted sexual advances to a minor, and the other count was a misdemeanor of public exposure. Although we didn’t discuss the evidence or even discuss the case we did talk about past jury experiences. Our conversation with the few of us that ate together at lunch revealed that more experienced jurors told us we would probably not hear from the witness as most defendants did not testify as their own testimony might sink the case. The last words were “I don’t think the defense is going to want us to hear from the defendant.”

We were understandably surprised when the defendant was called to the stand. I glanced over toward the juror that had suggested we would not be hearing from the defendant but he didn’t look back. I wondered what tactic could the defense possibly use in defense of this event. I didn’t think there was much that could be said in defense of his actions. After all he had readily admitted to being naked in the bushes and the defense had objected to almost none of the witness statements to this point.

Gregory took the stand.

Our opinion immediately changed. What we had previously seen as an act of perversion was starting to look like an act of possible stupidly. Gregory was asked his full name. He seemed to have trouble with that for just a minute. “My name?”

“Yessir.”

“Umm…Greg.”

“Your full name, sir.”

“I don’t go by my full name. Everyone just calls me Greg.”

“For the record, sir, we need your full name.” Gregory…Greg gave his name correctly.

“Now, Greg, would you please explain, in your own words, what happened that day? First of all, why were you hiding in the bushes?”

“Well…it’s like this.” Greg related. “I had gone to see this guy I knew about buying some weed…”

“Just a minute, Greg, did you say you were buying drugs?”

“Just some weed.”

“Ok, Greg, you were going to buy some ‘weed’. This isn’t what you told the police.”

“Well of course not! They’re the police!”

“So what has changed?”

“I’m in a lot of trouble and…uhh…buying weed didn’t have nothing to do with the charge…besides,” his eyes opened wider, “I swore on the bible.”

“Ok, Greg. So you were buying some marijuana. What happened next?”

“Well…uhhh…the guy I was buying from wouldn’t let me wait in his house when he went to get the weed so I figured I’d wait down the street on the wall that ran into those bushes. I was sitting on the wall when I figured I’d buy me a beer with the $20 I had left over!” Greg began to get excited. “So I looked in my shirt but – no money! So I looked in the pockets of my sweats and…” Greg was getting agitated as he spoke. His hands became more animated and the frustration at not finding the money was plainly etched upon his face. “…When I couldn’t find my money I figured I might have been down the leg of my sweats ‘cause sometimes that where it put it! But when I looked there…no money!” At this point Greg was so animated it was like we was searching for the money that very minute. I was sure; if being in court had not restricted him he would have jumped to his feet before continuing. Greg was almost shouting at this point blinking hard at every other word. “Well, I knew I had the money so I went into the bushes to better look inside my sweats! Nothing! So I looked around and no one could see me so I went to take a better look in my sweats so I sat down to be completely outa view and slid my sweats halfway down when this stupid girl comes into the bushes and says ‘Hey, what’re you doin’?’ So I told her to get the fuck outa here and she ran away! Then I kept lookin’ in my sweats ‘cause I knew the money was there but I couldn’t find it so, finally, I took the pants off ‘cause I knew my $20 was in there! About then the same stupid girl comes back and says what are you doin’ but I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but lookin’ for my money so I said ‘What part of get the fuck outa here don’t you understand...and she just stood there lookin’ at me so I said ‘Hey, get the fuck outa here’ and I jumped to my feet to chase her away! Geez…I was naked, almost, but she was just standing there! She needed to go! So then she pushed her bike over and ran away I figured I was ok!” Greg calmed a bit and sat for a few seconds breathing heavily. The defensive attorney opened her mouth to speak but Greg continued before she could speak. “I thought everything was ok but the next thing I know the cops have me and they put me in handcuffs and took me downtown to jail! I was just tryin’ to buy some beer!”

“So, Greg…calm down a bit…here.” She handed him a glass of water that he drank completely dry. “Ok, Greg, did you intend to threaten the little girl or make sexual suggestions in any way?”

“Hell no! She was a little girl! What kinda perv do you think I am?” He stopped as though he suddenly realized that was exactly why he was here. He looked down and said softly, “I’m not weird like that. That’s just wrong!”

We soon retired to the jury room to deliberate but within about 15 minutes we were released for the evening and instructed to be back the next morning to continue our deliberations. The next morning it took less than an hour to determine Greg’s worst crime was stupidity – which isn’t a crime at all. We let Greg go on the felony, he didn’t intend to hurt or threaten anyone, he was just being stupid. We convicted him on the misdemeanor for which he was destined to do naught but get a severe warning from the judge and a fine of under $100.

Stupidity is NOT a crime. But, sometimes, don’t you wish stupid hurt a little so you knew when you were doing it?

Greg could’ve certainly used some pain to tell him: Stupid, dude, stupid.

1972 - When I Was In The Mental Hospital

In ’72 I gave up driving a cab to take a Nursing Aide position at Downey Hospital which I was told was the largest mental health facility in the US. There were a few stories from that year but one of the first things I learned to say when I prefaced any story was “When I worked at the mental hospital...” instead of...


1972 – When I Was In The Mental Hospital

“No!! Get away!!” Mr. Harris shouted, waving his arms around his head as though he was being attacked by a flock of birds. “No!!” He leaned back and closed his eyes, striking out with a wild right-handed roundhouse. He was a slight, tiny man about 5’2” with snow-white hair and dressed in his usual too-big pants held up by suspenders with his slippers peeking out from under his dragging cuffs. Likewise the shirt was just a little too big but Mr. Harris usually wore these ill-fitting clothes with dignity that reflected a completely different life before he took up residence in the hospital. Although, normally, he could barely shuffle down the hallway to the ward cafeteria he was now showing more energy and mobility than I had seen him display previously. “Stop!!” He shouted to the air.

There was no one there.

Approaching from behind I gently took Mr. Harris by the shoulders, being careful to keep my eye out for any wild swings. “We’ve got soup today, Mr. Harris.” I moved around so he could clearly see me. His wild eyes focused on my face and he immediately calmed.

“Ohh…G’soup t’day.” He said, his recent hallucination already forgotten. He sat and Mrs. Turner, the dietician served him a bowl of broth.

“Here ‘yago Mr. Harris! I have a nice bowl of soup for you today!” She looked lovingly at Mr. Harris. She looked up at me and smiled. She had known Mr. Harris for several years now and cared for each and every one of her patients. “G’soup t’day?”

Mr. Harris looked down at his bowl, “G’soup t’day!” said Mr. Harris.

Mrs. Turner was a very round and very dark woman with a boundless smile and a caring personality topped by a professional attitude and a lifetime of experience. She bustled her hardy 5’5” inch frame around the room assuring every special diet was accounted for and assured no one was stealing from a table-mates’ plate where the food may have been solid instead of creamed (yuck) or include bread or potatoes or something else which would be restricted from some diets. She supervised her kitchen staff well, demanding service, accuracy and quality with a gentle but firm hand. The aides stood off to the side at various places in the cafeteria. We stayed out-of-the-way while still remaining available if an event occurred that required our assistance. I glanced over at Anita, engrossed in conversation with Anne. Marty stood near the door primping his hair and straightening his creases.

Marty, had shown up that morning in a nurses uniform and had just gotten back from going home to change. I guess management didn’t have the same sense of humor the rest of us did when it came to Marty…but then you had to know Marty.

I believe Marty was the darkest person I have ever known. There was almost a void in space where his body resided…man, he was black…and as big and bright as the Las Vegas Strip. He had a bright orange/blond shock of hair that was straightened and cut short with the intent that it should lie down but his hair fought against this condition as soon as Marty left the mirror, spiking out in random places all over his head. Marty wasn’t just flaming – Marty was the sun…Marty was a welders spark…Marty was the core of a Nova. Marty was just a little gay – which is like saying the sun is a little warm as Marty was OUT THERE…and a great friend. Marty wouldn’t hesitate to tell anyone that “When I was a Marine I got more tail than anyone else.” I didn’t ask for details. Marty and I started the same day and went through all of our training together. When we were finally assigned to a ward we wound up on the same floor of the same building.

Anne and ‘Nita were also black Americans and wonderful people with huge hearts truly caring for the patients like they were their own. Anne was the “old hand” on the ward although she was only in her early 40’s, but she had worked a Downey for most of her adult life and had known most of her patients for a large part of that time. Anne was the “mother” to us all and led the aides with humor and a fierce determination to do what was best for her patients.

Our ward was a Geriatrics ward where residence was not determined by age but condition and the doubt that they would ever return home – they would not. Bob was the youngest patient on the ward and was barely 40-years old. Bob, like everyone else in the building would not be returning home for any length of time. He had been in a auto accident in Germany while he was in the Army and sustained brain damage that made him extremely simple but extremely lovable – kinda like a big puppy-dog. And he was a big guy. He was the 2nd tallest person on the ward and only surpassed by Mr. Vannich who was hospitalized with Tourettes Disease who wandered up and down the ward all day holding his cancerous throat groaning out obscenities and nonsensical utterances. Where Bob was like a puppy-dog Mr. Vannich was more like an unfriendly giant. Although he didn’t fight when he was physically directed toward which ever activity the ward was involved in, whether Swimming Therapy or Occupational Therapy, he also didn’t bend over backwards to cooperate. On one occasion he became very resistant and I was forced to “pull rank” on him.

Pulling Rank was actually very easy as we aides were graphically set apart from the patients as the patients dressed in street clothes – aides dressed in a white uniform with a big set of keys at the end of a long chain. The guy with the key had the power – they all knew it and our advantages, both physical and mental was illustrated by this uniform.

On the day in question Mr. Vannich was directed, along with the rest of the patients, to the day-room where they would all get shaven with one of the electric shavers kept on the ward for this purpose. Mr. Vannich didn’t want to go and resisted by doing nothing. He stood next to the door to the dayroom, staring and holding his throat refusing to enter. Eventually he was the last to be shorn and Anne asked me to help move him. Guys in the ward always wielded more power than any of the women which was a result of most patients being from a generation where women didn’t give orders and the fact that most of them could overpower the women easier than the guys, who would fight back. I walked up to Mr. Vannich who towered over my 5’5” by at least a foot and probably much more as he was around 6’9”, and poked my finger into his chest. I looked up and boldly said, “Mr. Vannich it’s time to get a shave! Comeon! Lets go!” He looked over my head, held his neck and said “Why-o God-damn cock-breath mother-er-e-o damn whee-o-why,” and whipped his right arm around toward me. I ducked & heard a violent “SLAM” as his hand contacted the thermostat mounted on the concrete block wall. I looked up from my position crouched just underneath the height of his swing. I saw the thermostat had been pounded into a hole in the concrete block with the single blow of his fist.

There wasn’t even a scratch on his hand.

Mr. Vannich didn’t get a shave that day.

Anita was not much older than me but single with a young son. Anita was a lot of fun and, like almost everyone else on staff, a caring, wonderful person. I met Anita the day I interviewed as I was returning to the same building I had left following my interview 15-minutes before. She and another aide were searching for a patient that had wondered off and were searching along the fence line the hospital shared with Great Lakes Boot Camp. Patients frequently climbed the fence in an effort to escape. They were escaping from a place that had a gate which was never closed or locked and had access to a main road. If they escaped over the fence and into boot camp, there was a gate and guards who were experienced in returning our patients to us. Usually the escape was obvious as the patient often was clothed in pajamas as well as being much older than a Naval Recruit. After leaving my job interview I was walking along the road when I noticed I was overtaking a slow-moving gentleman in pajamas who didn’t really seem to have any purpose or intent…he was just walking. As I came up alongside I gave a cheery “Hello!” and looked into his face. There was no recognition or acknowledgement I was even there. This was, evidently, a patient who had simply walked out the front gate. I slipped my arm into his and, as I stood in place, he pivoted around me until we were headed in the opposite direction. We quietly walked the two-blocks back to the hospital where I met Anita coming around the corner of the building. She thanked me for waking her patient back not knowing I would be working on her ward, in her building and with her within the next couple of weeks.

After just a couple of months I found myself dropping right into the 7/24 life of a Nursing Aide, including my participation with the usual activity every day at 1:00 – Watching the soap opera General Hospital. I had been watching on a regular basis for a couple of weeks when on my day off I heard myself utter these words of terror: “I have to get home for my story.” I could barely grasp the fact that I was hooked on daytime soap opera TV. This had to be dealt with which I did my next work day by retiring to the day-room at the opposite end of the ward. One day-room had 2-TVs and they were turned everyday to the soaps which was where all of the aides and most of the patients hung out. The other dayroom had a TV but it was rarely on. This was where I headed. With 2 pool-tables I figured I would knock some balls around until the soaps were over. During my second day of this Mr. Johnson asked me if he could play with me. He began bragging about how he used to play for a living but it sounded like any one of a dozen stories these guys had that were often more wishful thinking than personal history. Now Mr. Johnson…he had the palsy. He shook violently with every step but managed to still get around although with difficulty. He ambled over to the rack of cues shaking like a wet dog all the way over and while he choose a stick. He pulled one of the sticks off the rack and looked down the shaft although his shaking was so violent I figured this was more of a habit than an actual evaluation of the straightness of the stick. Mr. Johnson shook and vibrated over to the table and asked me if I wanted to break. I took a long draw on my stick and hit the balls dead center. They moved a few inches apart and rolled slowly to a stop. Mr. Johnson shook and vibrated around the table making almost a complete circuit before he stopped and, waving a shaky, jerking finger at the table he said “3-ball corner-pocket.” As he lifted the point of the cue it shook like a flag in the wind…but as the cue descended towards the table all tremors disappeared and his arms became steady as rocks. He pulled back and BANG – 3-ball corner pocket. He continued his trip around the table still shaking like a high-speed car with a flat tire. 7-ball, 2-cushions, side-pocket. Again the vibrating stick pointed towards the heavens but descended solid as granite – BANG – 7-ball, 2-cushions, side-pocket – AMAZING!!

Mr. Johnson and I played on a regular basis thereafter until he was transferred off ward for a medical problem. We had several months of pleasure before he was taken with an illness and transferred to the medical building.

Ok, this is the hard part – the stuff I don’t often admit – as much as I like people in general and believe myself to be kind in my heart and in my actions…but a year working here changed me. See, there was this directive that an aide might hear on occasion: “It seems he needs some motivational therapy.” This statement often came from a doctor or nurse. No one told us what to do but I was trained by other male aides that this statement meant we had a patient who was refusing to care for themselves. The patients in our ward were long-term patients and many had already been there for decades. These gentlemen knew very well how to work the system. They knew if they didn’t want to feed themselves, we would. They knew if they didn’t want to go to the bathroom in the actual bathroom one of us would clean-up both them and the chair or bed. Then they would get a personal hand-shower and then re-dressing if required. This was not a desirable scenario, not because we didn’t want to work but because the patents were so old and in such bad physical conditions that failure to use their legs, or arms or whatever, that they could soon lose the ability to walk, carry or reach if the muscles weren’t used. We were told the patient needed motivation to help themselves for their own good. This was true, without a doubt, but…

Often motivational therapy meant wrapping our hands in towels and going 3-rounds in the shower room with the old guy in question. This was our way of saying, “You WILL get up and walk to the bathroom when you have to go.” In the beginning I felt really bad about this but soon came to realize this really was a valid method of motivation although something less confrontational could be better, this method was fast and gave the results we needed: get up off of your dead ass and move it or you’ll lose it! I rationalized this behavior and reluctantly participated in a couple of these “training sessions” and eventually became inured to the violence of the act. I realized that the technique was quick and it worked and, although it was not preferred, it was effective and efficient. This motivational therapy was probably the biggest reason for leaving the employ of the hospital when I realized, as I was rolling around on the floor with a 67-year old that had gotten his arms around me: I was looking forward to this kind of confrontation.

I was only 22-years old – something was wrong. I saw the change in myself…I didn’t like the change…I did something about it.

I quit.

Next stop...California.

1998 - Jury Duty II

This was my second opportunity to serve on a jury. Hopefully my argument to overcome our single holdout gave her continued room for thought.

1998 – Jury Duty

“Ok, let’s take another vote.” The jury foreman looked up at us. “We seem to be in the same place we were 2-days ago – but let’s try again.” We each selected a piece of paper from the pile in the middle of the table. I wrote my decision on the page “Not Guilty.” We took a count.

“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty”
“Not Guilty. We still have one holdout.” He continued to look down as he continued, “ I imagine this is the same person who voted guilty 2 ½ days ago.” He looked up. “I know this is a secret ballot but if you reveal yourself we may be able to clear up any reservations you have. Everyone else here believes the defendant to be innocent of the crime.” The crime in question was murder.

We had been selected on Monday from a pool of available jurors. By Wednesday afternoon testimony was over and we were ensconced in the jury room. The case seemed open-and-shut from the start but as the testimony and evidence was presented we expected the prosecution to offer us a surprise that showed firm evidence of the crime. When we retired to the jury room we were still waiting. No one answered the foreman’s appeal so we began, again, to review the evidence we had.

The crime:
A sailor had been partying at the Enlisted-Men’s Club on base until around 10 PM. As he left the club for a cigarette another sailor who was called “Smiley” by one of his acquaintances accosted him and his two friends. One thing led to another, words were exchanged and a fistfight broke out. In very little time the sailor who had been originally accosted punched out his assailant. Thereupon he picked up his attacker and tossed him over the hood of a parked car, leaving him there as he turned and walked back into the club. An hour later when he was leaving for the night he was again met in the parking lot by Smiley who exchanged words and pulled a pistol. As the victim began to argue with Smiley, Smiley pistol-whipped him on the side of the head knocking him to the ground whereupon Smiley stood over him and put 3 bullets into his chest. Smiley took off running and disappeared into the dark of the Naval Base.

The investigation:
The Shore Patrol began investigating the crime that evening by speaking to witnesses who all agreed they had heard the attacker called Smiley by his acquaintances. Each witness also confirmed the above crime by telling the investigative agents as much as they had witnessed. They testified that both the victim and his assaulter were black. Investigators spoke to non-witnesses who were present in the bar but had not seen the confrontation in the parking lot. They obtained one name of a sailor named Smiley but when they went to his ship they found he had been released 2-weeks before. Speaking to his friends they discovered he had fathered a baby in San Diego out of wedlock and had been seen once visiting, since his release, in San Diego. He had told his friends he was there to visit his child and girlfriend intending to propose. They were sure he had left town by the time of the crime but no had seen him get on the plane. The Shore Patrol was positive they had their man so they proceeded to investigate his location in preparation for an arrest. Eventually they found Smiley in Chicago where he lived with his mother while he looked for work. The arrest was made using personnel from the Great Lakes Naval Base and he was eventually escorted back to San Diego for trial.

The defendant:
“Smiley” sat at the table along side his single lawyer. Smiley’s defense team consisted of a prosecutor and 2-assistants. Smiley’s head was shaved bald and he sat in prison blues, which looks a lot like medical scrubs but with a big SD JAIL printed on the back. He was only around 5’6”, and of a slight build, but he strode into the courtroom with a swagger. Looking into his eyes his swagger seemed to be at opposition with his thoughts. His eyes revealed that inside he felt a bit uncertain as to what was happening to his life. I go the sense that much of the swagger was an act for the court and that he was essentially a frightened lad that had done something stupid which resulted in his life spiraling out of control.

The testimony:
One of the first witnesses was the friend of the dead sailor and one of the sailors that had gone to the parking lot for a cigarette with the victim. He thought the defendant looked a lot like the assailant but due to the shadowed parking lot could not be 100% sure. The next 2-witnesses offered similar testimony.

The Shore Patrol was up next. The chief had served as a Shore Patrol Officer for several years and was preparing to retire. He told us this would probably be his last case and he had managed to wrangle a delayed release so he could close this, his last case, before retiring. He told the story we had all heard giving us the information he had from his investigation. He told us no one was able to positively identify the defendant as the perpetrator but from all of the evidence he had gathered, and by dint of his superior experience, he was certain they had their man. The prosecution rested and the defense took over.

There was a series of character endorsements, the first from his mother who had accompanied her son from Chicago. Also there were shipmates, his boss from the job he held before his enlistment as well as the pastor of Smiley’s church. Mom was up first and she wept softly as she testified about the character of her son. “He has always been the one who stood up for the little kids in the neighborhood,” She testified, “there is no way my son could have done this. He is one of the most peaceful people I know.” We were doubtful.

There was next a series of short testimonies from his ex-shipmates, all of whom liked Smiley and found this crime far beyond the behavior of which they believed him capable. They told us Smiley had earned his nickname because he was always happy and had a tendency to always look for the positive side of any person or event. As they were all his buddies, we found this testimony questionable.

Next up was his ex-boss, a plumber, who told us Nelson, Smiley’s real name, had been one of his best employees until he joined the Navy. “He was a quiet lad when I hired him but I soon found out he really worked hard for me when I needed it. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a gentler person with more character than Nelson. He was always steady and sure during stressful times when we were on a deadline and worked his tail off to make any repairs on time. I eventually had to lay him off for a few weeks and he mentioned he would soon be joining the Navy and since I didn’t want to hire a worker who would just have to be replaced in the near future I didn’t ask him back. But he was a hard and loyal worker. I’ve been hoping for an opening soon so I can hire him back.” The character of the witness seemed above reproach and we tended to believe he had found a good employee but didn’t really know “Nelson” as well as he thought. We also began to wonder about a person who could fool so many people into thinking he was a pacifist who preferred the quiet role of peacemaker and negotiator to that of an in-your-face advocate. Either most of his acquaintances were easy to fool or this Smiley was the wrong guy. We figured he might just be an amateur actor.

The pastor of Smiley church was up next. He said he had been one of the first people Smiley had visited upon arrival in his hometown on the Southside of Chicago. The minister testified that Smiley had been volunteering at the church most evenings and weekends and then he dropped the bomb…he had brought along his records of progress on the rebuilding of the Fellowship Hall, a meeting room attached to the church and where receptions, potlucks, neighborhood watch meeting and other neighborhood events were held. These records included volunteers and the time they spent so he could thank them at Sunday services. His records showed that Smiley had left the church only 1-hour before the murder. It was fairly easy for the defense to prove it was logistically impossible for Smiley to have even been in town.

The prosecution had no answer to this presentation and the case rested.

We retired to the jury room in early afternoon and had returned the next day…and the next...to argue the case with one unidentified juror that felt the defendant was guilty. We were going on our third day of deliberations and some members were getting very frustrated at the inability to move the one recalcitrant member. The foreman made his appeal again, “Please, whoever you are, please reveal yourself. We have no way of resolving this unless we know what concerns you about the case. You may have seen something that we missed. Help us.” He looked at each one of individually and said each of our names as his gaze rested upon the individual. We were aligned at the table with 5 jurors along each side with the last 2-mombers distributed one at each end. At this point we all suspected who the holdout was but were still uncertain. As the foreman’s eyes rested on the person at the opposite end of the table we all looked in that direction expectantly. The woman who sat in that seat was a fairly new citizen from a middle-eastern country and had said many times how pleased she was having the opportunity to participate in the justice system of her new country. She was, we suspected, the holdout. Her eyes remained on the table for a few seconds but when the foreman didn’t get a reaction he paused awaiting some sign he had been heard she quickly glanced up and back down. In the split-second she had looked up she saw every eye on her. She mumbled something quietly. We sat silent in pregnant anticipation.

She looked up, “It was me.” She said.

“What are your questions about this case?” The foreman took the lead. “What are your reservations?”

“What if he’s guilty?” She said. “What if he did it? What if he murdered that poor man?”

“But we’re all confident he is not guilty of the crime. What convinces you he might be guilty?”

“In this country the police don’t just arrest somebody because they disagree with a powerful person or because they said the wrong thing to the wrong person. In this country the police only arrest criminals. Why did the police arrest this man if he did not commit the crime? The police here are very good.”

“But they’re not perfect.” The gentleman to my right said. “They make mistakes all the time. Mostly any screw-up is legitimate but sometimes they have an agenda as well. Our police may be better than the ones you’re used to but they are far from perfect.”

“But what if he’s guilty?” She repeated.

The foreman replied, “But no one here, except you, thinks he is guilty!”

“But what if he is?” The room burst into a cacophony of protesting voices.

“Wait,” I said, “You can’t ask that question.” The room quieted.

“What do you mean?” the holdout asked.

“I mean, this is America and in America we can’t ask that question. Here the only question we can ask is “What if he innocent?” In this country the burden of proof is on the prosecution. They have to prove the guilt of the accused beyond any reasonable doubt. In this country if he is not absolutely proven to be guilty it is incumbent upon us to declare him Not Guilty.”

“But what if he’s guilty?”

“You can not ask that question. You must ask ‘but what if he innocent?’”

“Alright. I’m very nervous about this but if this is true then I must change my vote…I vote not guilty.”

“I should also explain just to assure clarity that we have not voted him innocent." I continued, "We have voted him not guilty. These are two different things.” She nodded her head absent-mindedly and smiled. We informed the officer outside our door that we had reached a decision.

2-hours later we were on our way home.

1923 - Jessie

During the reception following my wedding Uncle Willie related most of the following story. Grandma told me about her first trip to Chicago from Alabama but I didn’t have many of these details or understand why the trip was so special until I realized Uncle Willie’s story and her train-trip story were one and the same. She told me about her best friend although I had to supply a name. She also told me about the movie she saw the evening before her trip from the farm and onto Chicago and how her brothers cured her stubbed toe. Ebbie was a real person but I made up the name. Many of the quotes are actual words.

1923 – Jessie (Grandma’s Story)

“Jessie,” said Willie, “come-own ta the picture-show with us.” Jessie wondered why her brothers, usually so mean, were suddenly so nice. “Come-own, I got a extra nickel for ya.” She was suspicious.

She recalled when she was a little girl and had stubbed her toe so hard! Willie and Hosey, her younger brothers, told her the best thing for a stubbed toe was a warm cow-patty and lead her to a fresh one. Her foot hurt so much but she didn’t want to put her foot in it. “Come-own, Jessie, come-own.” She plunged her foot in. She’d never forget how they laughed at her…and the smell! She never forgot that smell. The warm patty did feel good but the sensation was not worth the cost. But today they really had her attention with the offer of a picture-show! She had only seen a very few of them in her 21 years on the farm so a trip to town and the offer of a picture-show was too much to resist. When they were younger Willie was the little brother that she cared for the most. A bit sickly as a baby, he needed a lot of attention but as he grew older and stronger those roles seemed to reverse. Now, even though he was 18 and she was newly 22 Willie was her protector. Of all of her brothers Willie was the one who watched out for her. He was 4 years younger and, even though he was usually as mean as the rest of her siblings, when she needed a protector he had always been there. As they grew older, and after Willie came back from his “adventures traveling,” Willie seemed less mean, but life on the family farm was always full of jibs and jabs and Willie was as active as anyone when it came to jokes and foolishness. Willie had left at 16 to find his fortune but arrived back on the farm 11-months later full of stories of his adventures, some of which took enough out of him to send him back home for a rest.

The tanned face and arms revealed that Jessie had spent most of her life in the fields growing up with the pickaninnys one of whom, Ebbie, was her best friend. Ebbie grew into a fine woman and married 4-years ago and now lived 2-farms over with her husband and 2-little girls. For this reason she rarely saw Ebbie anymore but whenever possible they would steal some time alone if one had excuse to visit. Once when she asked about Ebbie’s husband daddy joked “Ebbie found herseff a good ‘un. He's a fine nigra-man.” Then, as usual, he added, “Jessie is so dang homely we gonna have to buy a man fer her.” This always hurt her feelings but, as her brothers all repeated the same thing she was often glad she spent most of her time in the fields. She was afraid this was true. Jessie had never had a date with a boy and had never been kissed or even held a boy's hand – no one in this town seemed interested in her and she didn’t never go nowhere else. She had very little interest in kitchen work anyway and loved being outdoors.

She agreed to go to the picture-show with her brothers who were nice to her all evening, even buying her a small folded paper of liquorice-twists, her favorite candy. Willie let her ride in the front seat of the wagon all the way home. They, of course, took the horse and wagon to town as the truck was reserved for longer trips to the city. She saw 2-pictures. The pi-ano player was energetic and seemed to be able to anticipate every scene. One picture was about the Great War which was very interesting but also very scary. The second picture was about a young girl who lived in the big-city and her date with a boy her age. They sat at dinner polite and proper. She had very little on her plate and cut each pea in half before spearing it and chewing it. She smiled at the boy and they twittered back and forth about this and that. When she excused herself to the kitchen to check on the next part of the meal, Jessie laughed aloud when she grabbed a big spoon and began shoveling mounds of beans and chicken into her mouth! Then the boy saw her! Oh what fun! Jessie was just so tickled! This was probably just how life in the city was.

They didn’t even get home until the rest of the house was asleep. It was already past 9:30 when they got back to the farm. She fell asleep that night with a smile on her face dreaming of silly boyfriends and the city and cars with big tires, a city with no cows and no cotton fields. Maybe, just maybe, someday she might meet a young man who could love her, too.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Wake-up, Jessie.” We have a train to catch!”

She rubbed her eyes and sat up. “What about the train?” she sleepily asked yawning big after sleeping so hard after her late night out.

“Ah say-id we have a train to catch! Tom to git up and throw some of yer things in a wrap you kin carry along. Here. Mamma gave me daddys ole bag for ya. It’s yers naow.” Jessie sat up, blinking hard. Had she heard right? Were we taking a train trip? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned this to her?

“Were’r we going?” She asked.

“Were not goin’ ene-were, Jessie. It’s your trip to take alone all the way to Chicaga. Take everthang ya need. Ya won’t be back for awhile”

Jessie stopped dressing for a moment, “Why am Ah going all alone…and why Chicaga? That’s way up north.” Jessie had ridden a train only once before to visit the city with daddy when he went all the way to Montgomery for feed-supplies. She often rode the old horse-wagon to pick up supplies from town but only saw the big city once with it’s crowds of people, horses and latest automobiles.

“Jes get yur thangs together,” Willie paused as though he had something to say but, instead turned and said as he left her to dress, “I’ll till you waa on the why.”

She finished packing, throwing enough clothes for almost a week into the carpet-bag Willie had brought. She was thrilled to be riding the train but a bit apprehensive in taking this trip all alone. Jessie was 22-years old and would soon be 23 but, having spent most of her time on the farm and in the fields she didn’t have many reasons to take a trip and had no experience taking a trip like this on her own.

In a few minutes she had packed everything she could fit into the oversized bag and walked to the truck with Willie and Hosey, both of her younger brothers. Willie turned the crank as she held the button that advanced the spark – or that’s what Willie said she was doing. The truck started up with a big cloud of smoke and began the cacophony of noise that told everyone anywhere around that the truck was running…and running good. She had told everyone in the family goodbye, expecting to be back as soon as the errand, she still didn’t understand, was completed. Mamma cried and daddy looked down at his boots, none of her brothers said anything except goodbye. No one seemed to want to look her in the eye. She bit her lip wanting to ask what the trip was about but until the old truck was well underway it would rattle and shake most of the way to town so any thought of conversation was lost to the wind. As they got closer to town the road was better maintained and smoothed out to the point she and Willie could talk. She asked why she was going to Chicago. Her brother replied, “Well, Jessie, ya know a few weeks ago me and yer brothers was a-talkin’ with daddy and ya know you never had no boyfriend. We figgered as shy as you are and as homely as a dawg you probably wasn’t gonna fin’ a husban’ so we got one fer ya.” Willie turned to her and grinned, “We foun’ a husban’ fer ya, Jessie.” She didn’t smile back. Willie tried to keep a good face but his big smile soon gave away to a frown as he noticed Jessie had not reacted as well as he had hoped…she had reacted more as he had expected. Jessie began to cry quietly. She thought of her dreams last night, and then she thought of Ebbie.

“I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Ebbie.” Ebalene had been her best friend since they were girls together. Ebbie was a dark as the day was long but when she was born in one of the breezy old shacks out back Jessie had seen the birth herself. She was only 4-years old but when momma was called to help with what had become a difficult birth. Jessie had gone along. Mamma said she would have to know these things one day and “There weren’t no time lik the pres-i-dent.” Ebbie was a difficult birth and often Jessie couldn’t get the terrifying memories out of her mind, but as she got older Jessie started to help with watching Ebbie when Ebbie’s mamma was working in the fields like all of the other nigras. They just got to be closer and closer until Jessie couldn’t do anything without wondering if Ebbie would like it, too. Sometimes, as little girls they would play all day until Ebbie turned 7 and started to work with her Aunt Patsy in the house. Jessie went to school by then as she was already 11 years old, but she already worked most of her summer as well as planting and harvest right alongside Ebbie’s mamma. She left school half-way through her 6th year to spend more time in the fields where she really loved to be anyway. She missed her classmates but no girls went to school much past 10 so she wasn’t surprised when it was announced she would no longer be schooled as “There was plen’y of work rot here.”

Her daddy sometimes talked about how different it was today compared to when all of the nigras were his granddaddy’s property. When he inherited the farm from his daddy the field hands stayed, each owning their own little plot of land for a garden out-back of one of the shacks in which many of the older hands had lived when they were very little. Ole John even remembered when slavery still existed. Because of this the farm wasn’t as large as it had been when her daddy was a-growing up but as daddy said “That’s juss haow laf is. It ain’t always what yew wish it was.”

Jessie didn’t really understand exactly what slavery was but she knew Ebbie thought not being a slave was important so Jessie thought it was, too. Jessie would never see Ebbie again and would continue to think of her often throughout her life. She thought of Ebbie and mamma and daddy. “Why would daddy do this to me?” She choked back the words as she asked, “Don’t he love me no more?” She sobbed to herself, putting her head down and covering her face with her hands. “Why?”

“Well ya know, Jessie, you caan’t live on the farm fer-ever. You spend all yer time in the fields working and you don’t even like the kitchen work…how’er ya ever gonna find a main? Don’t cry, Jessie. We foun’ you a good main. He has a passel of childrens that just lost their mamma and he needs a good wife to help raise ‘em. His name is Herman and he’s a profess’nl carpenter and a good God-Fearing man.” Jessie sat crying in silence until they arrived at the train station.

Willie bought the one-way ticket to Chicago with the money daddy had given him for this and sat down on a bench next to Jessie. Jessie sat staring at her shoes, crying gently. Willie put his arms around her. “Jess, you know we all love you. You’ll be my big sister forev’r, but sometimes laaf just has to change. Ahm gonna miss you most of all but I promise when I can I’ll come to visit. Bertie-Ann and me is thinking of getting married and we been thinkin’ of moving somewhere away from here anyway.” Willie had met Bertie-Ann while he was on the road and after a visit to Florida had drawn him to stay in that state for a few months where he met his wife-to-be. A letter from daddy had drawn him back to Alabama and the farm but he wrote Bertie almost every day and he knew he wasn’t destined to live the farm life. “Maybe we’ll jus move to Ill-i-noise someday.” She didn’t know it now but one day Willie would keep his promise and move just a few miles away from her new home in Northen Illinois.

Jessie put her forehead against the cool window waving a long goodbye to Willie until after he was out of sight. She sat alone on the bench-seat in a car with very few other passengers. After a while she softly began to cry which continued until she cried herself to sleep.

Jessie arrived in Chicago. Her new husband waited with 2 of his eldest children, Charles and Aaron were there to greet her at platform of the huge train station. The buildings and the crowds were like nothing she had experienced or even imagined before. This city was much bigger than Montgomery. Herman looked a foot taller than her but, then, she was a slight woman and he didn’t seem any bigger than anyone else except in her mind where she watched him, wondering what her life was to become. He was a burley built man with wide shoulders and crystal clear eyes that seemed to see beyond the horizon. He was self-confident and well dressed but was almost as old as daddy and more than twice her age. They departed in a relatively new automobile and drove the 3-hours to their new home in Zion. They married in just a couple of days and she moved her few things into Herman's house. Although he was putting the finishing touches on a lovely little house it was sometime before they settled into their life together in the home she would live in for much of the rest of her life and where her only daughter was born. Eventually, at the age of 67 Herman added a second story, the income from upstairs boarders helped pay the bills as Herman aged more and worked less.

As mentioned, they were married within a couple of days by one of the ministers, and officers of the church, in which Herman was a deacon and a well respected professional. Although she was surrounded by friends and acquaintances of her new husband she was slightly uncomfortable being surrounded by this many people, many of them important people in this small town and none of whom she knew. Jessie withdrew for awhile until she made friends with some of her neighbors and managed to find a church in which she felt the closeness to God that she required. Having been raised in the Southern Baptist tradition it was awhile before she found a church that felt right to her and, although it wasn’t quite Southern Baptist the Pentecostal energy she felt when she attended these services brought her closer to God and offered her the comfort of familiarity.

She found Zion to be a small town of small businesses with a couple of them showing the potential of becoming big operations. Although she didn’t begin working until after the children were grown, eventually she would work as a seamstress at one of those businesses: the curtain factory, retiring only a few years before it burned to the ground along with much of Zion’s business district. She learned her husband had been instrumental in building one of the largest buildings she had ever seen: The Zion Hotel. Slowly Jessie began to make friends and acquaintances through both Herman’s friends and with those sympathetic souls at church.

Some time after she moved into Herman’s and her home she received a letter from Willie saying he would soon be joining her soon with Bertie-Ann. Willie and Herman became as close as brothers. Willie and his new wife moved to Zion but soon moved to a small community, Kenosha, which was several miles away, in Wisconsin, but close enough to comfort her as she still saw her big-brother almost weekly at church and grew quickly to know and love Bertie. Although she only visited daddy and momma twice in the coming years the closeness of Willie and Bertie was great comfort for the rest of her life.

Eventually Jessie gave birth to Darlene, her only child. Darlene was, for awhile, a young wife but in 1949 she began her life as a young mother when she gave birth to the 1st of 5 boys, of which, I am the eldest.

The grandson of a mail-order bride.