Making the Best of a Bad Situation

Making the Best of a Bad Situation

When I knew Jack he was a CTM2 in the Navy, in Washington, D.C.  The following story is one of which he told me.  I have no reason to doubt it, for as I have stated before, Jack was a died in the wool nut.  If you wanted to have fun, there was no one better to have around.  I never understood it, but somehow, whenever he screwed up so bad, you knew the hammer would have to come down, he always came out fairly unscathed.

Jack started out his Navy life, as a CTO.  He came into the service in the mid seventies.  His first duty assignment was aboard ship.  Soon after arriving he started his first WestPac.

As a fresh seaman he had little influence over his schedule and duty sections, so for the first two months at sea he did not leave the ship.  His duty section would change, someone would be sick or hurt and he would have to cover, the ship had to leave port earlier than planned, or any number of factors occurred to ensure he did not receive liberty.

Finally after about ten weeks, the ship pulled into Subic Bay, P.I.  Jack's chief came up to him and said, "I know that you have not hit shore since we left San Diego.  We are in port for five days.  You have been exempted from duty.  Go out and have fun, just make sure you are back and ready to go, when the ship leaves in five days."

Jack was ecstatic.  Five days in which he had to do nothing but drink and chase girls.  Man, nothing could beat this!

Jack grabbed some civilian clothes and left the ship as quickly as possible.  He went to a local hotel and got a room for four nights.  He was like a kid in a candy store, until the wee hours of his fourth night.  When he returned to his hotel in the early morning hours of his last day, he stopped at the front desk, and put in a wake up call for six o'clock.  The ship was due to sail at eight.  He stumbled to his room and fell back on the bed for a few hours sleep.

He awoke to the sun streaming in the window.  The sun was pretty bright for this early.  He looked at his watch, 7:45.  Holy Crap!

He jumped up, still dressed from the night before, grabbed his bags and raced outside.  Once outside, he flagged down a trike (Philippine motorcycle with a sidecar) and told him to take him to the Navy base as quickly as possible.

The trike zipped through traffic, cutting off other vehicles, dodging in front of oncoming Jeepnies and trucks, until they arrived at the base.  Jack threw a handful of  money to the driver and ran to the gates.  He showed his ID then ran to where his ship had anchored.

He stood looking at the empty space where his ship used to be.  Then, there, way out on the far horizon he could see a ship disappearing in distance.  Oh, well.  He had missed his ship.  There was nothing he could do about it, either.

Jack tossed his bag over his shoulder and walked back to the gates of Subic Bay.  He flagged another trike and went back to his hotel.  Jack walked up to front desk and said, "I would like a room for twenty-eight nights.

Jack continued to have a great time for almost a month, as his money slowly dwindled away.  After the twenty-eight day, hiatus, he went back to the base and walked into the Shore Patrol office.  "I would like to report that I missed ships movement."

The Petty Officer behind the counter never blinked.  He just asked the name of the ship.  When Jack answered, he checked his list.  Looking up, the Petty Officer stated, with in confusion, "That ship isn't listed."

Nonchalantly, Jack said "No, it sailed twenty-nine days ago."

"And you are just now coming in?" he was asked.  Jack just shrugged.

They put Jack on a helicopter and sent him out to join his ship.  As it landed Jack could see his chief, arms folded, tapping his foot.  He looked ready to bite nails in half.

As Jack left the helicopter the chief motioned him into the building.  "Well, young man you know your in a world of shit."

"Yes, Chief."

"What the hell happened?"

Jack thought for a second, then started to explain.  "Well, Chief, I over slept and ...."

At this point the chief screamed, "OVER SLEPT!  Who are you Rip F---en Van Winkl!"

Trying not to laugh Jack finished the tale of his missing movement.  The chief started enumerating all of the punishments Jack could expect.

As the man finished, Jack looked at him and said "Just tell me one thing.  Am I in any more trouble, now, than I would have been. if I had turned myself in the first day?"

The chief looked at him a little puzzled, at his lack of trepidation.  "Well, .......no."

Jack grinned, and said "Then it was worth it!"

Big Surprises

Big Surprises

I was stationed in Hanza Okinawa for one and a half years. I was young, twenty-two, and used to go to a lot of clubs with my friends. Sometimes we went to clubs at Kadena Circle, to meet local girls who liked to dance. I had been on the island for about a year, when I met a very cute Okinawan girl, named Yuki.

Yuki spoke no English, and I supplemented the little Japanese I knew with a language dictionary. Whenever you met a local girl you had to be careful. The local age of consent was nineteen, and the penalty was twenty years in an Okinawan prison, the prisoners subsisted on fish heads and rice.

I sat with her, and we talked in my limited Japanese with the help of my dictionary. She was twenty and attended the local college. We hit it off fine, and for the rest of my time in Okinawa, would meet at the same club, then go to other clubs, or back to my place. She never stayed the night, always insisting on taking a taxi home, before it got too late.

We were never serious, but enjoyed each others company. I had known her for about six months when my rotation time came. My friends decided to throw me a going away party at the club, in Kadena Circle, where we always met.

I was seated at a table with many friends, and some friends of friends, that I did not know well. After a couple of hours Yuki came in with some of her friends. She saw me at our table and came over. We talked for a while then she left with her friends.

An Okinawan I knew slightly was at the table. He looked at me quizzically, and said “Do you know Yuki?” I said, of course I knew Yuki.

He asked “How well do you know Yuki?” I told him pretty well, and I guessed he knew her too. He said yes, she went to school with his brother. I said “Oh, so your brother goes to college in Naha.” He answered “No, my brothers in high school.”

I was stunned. “High school, she told me she was twenty.” “No, she’s seventeen.” In Japan seventeen will get you twenty. I just sat there, frozen, not knowing what to say.

He looks at me, grins, and says “That’s not the worse part.” “What is worse than her being underage?” I demanded. “Her father hates Americans.” He answered with glee.

Still stunned I just looked at him “Crap.”

You could tell he was really enjoying this. He smiles and says “That’s not the worst.” “What is worse than being with an underage girl, whose father hates Americans?”

“Her father, very important, Okinawa Yakuza.” He stated. I looked at him, realizing that he was stringing me along. “I don’t believe you.” I said with a relieved grin.

He called another Okinawan over from another table. “What does Yuki’s father do?” he asked the other local. “Oh, he very big in Yakuza.” The other answered.

I don’t think I slept a minute, from that moment, until my plane took off for the states.

Blindsided by Life

Blindsided by Life

Boot camp was physically challenging, but if you were in halfway decent shape, the physical part wasn’t as challenging as I expected. The part that got most of the recruits was the mental aspect. When I went through, the Navy’s main objective was to break you in boot camp, rather than risk it happening while on a mission.

The Friday of our sixth week, we had two inspections in one day, a barracks inspection, and a close order drill inspection. The close order drill was to be held in the morning, and the barracks was would be inspected after lunch. We were up until three o’clock getting ready for the barracks inspection. Then everyone had to get up at five, to begin the day.

We started the drill, and I zoned out. I literally fell asleep while marching. I remember hearing “and HALT!” During this drill we had to make several turns, both ninety and forty-five degree, while marching. After we halted, and as we stood at attention, the Company Commander (CC) addressed us. He informed us that, as a company, we had passed the inspection, but two recruits had made blunders, and would be dealt with that evening.

Oh, crap. I knew I had to be one of the two, I was sleep marching! He then named the deficient individuals. I was not among them. I still don’t know how I passed, but I did.

Later we went inside for the barracks inspection. As I stood at attention in front of my locker, the CC stood in front of me, and read my name tag. “Choate? How long have you been in this company, Choate?” Recruits with problems, were often sent from one company back to another, there-by increasing their time spent in boot camp.

I answered, “Six weeks, sir!” He looked at me, a little puzzled, “You have been with this company since the beginning?” “Yes, sir!” He gave a little grin, slapped me on the shoulder, and said “Good job!” They learn your name very quickly, when you get into trouble.

We were all dead tired, and just waiting for lights out, when we heard three very loud thumps, followed by the most eerie wailing, I have ever heard. If you can imagine a lifetime of sorrow and pain, put to sound, then you know what I mean.

I jumped up and ran to the head, where the sound was coming from. Three other recruits, out of the eighty in the barracks, followed. One of our fellow recruits was sitting on the floor, with his head on his knees, and his arms on his head, sobbing uncontrollably.

I walked over and sat next to him, waiting until he either stopped crying, or wanted to talk. After a while he raised his head, and I saw the blood streaming down his face, where he had beat his head against the metal door. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. I was nervous. When you are next to someone that you believe may be mentally unbalanced, it is a scary experience. I don’t recall what I said to him, but gradually he began to tell his story.

Two years before, while he was at a friend’s house, his parents both died in a house fire. Soon after he met a girl, who helped him cope with his loss. He fell in love, only to lose her the following year, in an automobile accident. Both of these incidents had been in an April, over the previous two years. He had wanted the Navy to be a new family, but the pressures of boot camp, combined with his memories, were tearing him apart.

Soon after this, the base police and the two corpsmen arrived. I was asked to accompany him, with the corpsmen, to the hospital. They thought a familiar face would help keep him calm.

The next day he was returned from the hospital to carryon with boot camp. I was shocked, but a lowly recruit has no say in such matters. That night the scene was repeated, with him beating his head against the doors, and those ungodly wails. I will never forget the sound of his screams. I again sat and talked to him, and again the corpsmen arrived, and we took him to the hospital. This time he did not return.

Near the end of boot camp we had to gather our records, and check out, from various places at the recruit center. As I was walking around the base, gathering the material, I ran across the recruit who had been in our company. He was standing on the sidewalk, staring blankly into space. A female lieutenant was screaming into his face, that he was outside without his cover (hat), and he could NOT be outside without his cover.

I walked up, saluted and said “Permission to speak ma’am.” She glared at me and said, “Can’t you see I am busy?” I replied “Yes ma’am, but this is very important.” “Well what is it?” she demanded. “May I speak to you privately, ma’am?” “Oh, alright!” she said in exasperation, as we walked away from the recruit.

“Ma’am, the recruit you were just speaking to, was in my company. He has had a nervous breakdown, and is in the process of getting discharged.” She looked stunned, and asked “Is he dangerous?” I answered “I don’t know for sure, ma’am, but I would sure be nice to him.” She nodded and said “Thank you.”

She walked to the recruit and said “Carry on, son.” He then walked away, glassy eyed and moving like a robot.

There is no moral to this story. I just woke early this morning and could not go back to sleep. I kept thinking of that poor kid, and wondering what happened to him. Hopefully he found peace.

The Dream

The Dream

Dad was looking into the mirror shaving when Mom came up behind him, hugging him tight.  She said, “Ken, will you make me a promise?”

“What promise, honey?”

“That you will be extra careful, driving to work.”

“Ok, but why”

“I had a dream that you were in a bad accident.”

“Don’t be silly.  It was just a dream.”

“I know, but will you be careful?”

“Sure, but don’t worry.  I’ll be alright.”

Mom didn’t say anything else.  She just hugged him then went to make breakfast.

It had been storming all night, and rain was still coming pouring down.  Dad put his jacket over his head and ran out to the car.  Mom yelled, “Remember, be careful!” as he got into the car.

He waved at her as he got into the car.  He laughed to himself, she sure worried a lot.  Mom watched as he pulled into the road, and drove around the nearby curve.

Even though he gave no credence to Mom’s dream, he drove with more caution than normal.  The rain was really coming down.

About two miles out of town, he was rounding a sharp turn when he hit an area of standing water.  At once there was no traction, the car could not make the turn.  It continued straight ahead, through the guard rail, knocking over trees, and down the cliff hill side.

He woke up at the bottom of the hill, lying on the seat, the car a few feet from the rushing river.  It was hard to see, so he put his hand to his head.  His face was covered in blood and his scalp partially covered one eye.  He pushed the hair and skin back on his head and looked around.  He saw his jacket in the floor board.  He grabbed it and tied it around his head, like a scarf.  The make-shift bandage held his scalp in place, and slowed the bleeding.

The car was a mangled wreck.  When he tried first the driver’s and then the passenger’s door, he found they would not open.  He put his legs up and kicked out the broken windshield. 

He crawled out through the opening and onto the hood.  As he surveyed the area, he realized no one would be likely to find him for hours, if not days.  If he were to live, he must seek help, rather than wait.

He slid off of the hood and walked to the edge of the hillside.  He was sick and weak, and the rain was pouring down.  The area was very wet and slick, but life had never been easy; so he didn’t bemoan his situation but started pulling himself up the hill, using every tree and bush in his path.  Several times he lost his grip and slid partially back down, but each time he started again, and just kept trying until he reached the top.

There, next to the guard rail he had driven through, he waited for traffic.  After a short time, a pickup truck drove up.  Dad flagged the man down.  The driver gave dad a ride back into town, but didn’t want blood all over the inside of the truck, so Dad lay in the bed until they got to the hospital.

By the time they arrived Dad was in shock.  He was laughing as people screamed and ran at the sight of him.  He quickly saw a doctor and who started a transfusion, before putting close to two hundred stitches in his scalp. 

The doctor stated he had never seen a man lose so much blood and still live.  The police interviewed him several times wanting to know who else was in the car with him.  When Dad told them nobody, they didn’t believe him; they said one man could not bleed that much.  He healed, though he still carries the scars on his head. 

We can all learn a lesson from this.  No matter how bad things seem, just keep trying.  You are not finished until you give up.  Oh, and if your wife has a bad dream, LISTEN. 

Big Brother Does Not Have a Sense of Humor

Big Brother Does Not Have a Sense of Humor

My main job in Okinawa was working on teletype machines.  These machines carried very important, classified messages back to United States.  The folks on the other end rarely had a sense of humor.

One night I received a call from the Operations Center.  They had a broken teletype and it was imperative that this unit be fixed as soon as possible.  I went to the area and asked that the unit be taken off line, for troubleshooting. 

When my contact told me it had been taken care of, I started testing and adjusting the unit.  This was an unusual type of teletype and it was trickier than most to work on.  I would make adjustments and then do tests, such as "The quick brown fox ..." or "Now is the time ...."

While I worked on the unit another problem come up.  Another technician, Les, arrived and offered to work on the teletype, while I worked on the other problem.  He asked if I had had the unit taken offline, and I answered "Of Course." 

Once the other item was taken care of I went back to relieve Les.  When I walked up he was typing some rather interesting test messages.  I laughed and asked what he was doing.  He said he got bored with the regular tests and decided to have some fun.  I soon finished the unit and headed back to the shop, to wait for our relief.

When I arrived the next day, Chief Pulaski, called me into his office.  He asked "Did you and Les work on the Ops Center unit last night?" 

"Yes, Chief." 

"Did you type anything unusual?" 

I laughed "No, Chief" 

"Did Les?" 

"You would have to ask him, Chief."

The Chief called Les in, and he admitted to it all.  Instead of taking the unit out of the loop, all the operator had done was send a message stating that it was being worked on. 

It appears that at about 2:00 in the morning, a tired, and irritable, Lt. Peterson at the distant end was reading traffic, when he saw "If you are reading this you are a dumbass."  He didn't see the humor.

The Chief put out a memo stating that we could only use approved test messages after that.

Howard's Ride

Howard's Ride

When Howard Long was about twelve he had an old, rusty bicycle.  He used to take it on the hill road outside of Liberty, Kentucky and ride it down hill.  It was in bad shape and hard to peddle, so he took the chain off.  He told Dad that it reduced the drag.  Howard would walk the bike to the top of the hill and coast all the way down, with no way to slow down or stop, until gravity slowed him going up the other side.

One day at while riding down the hill he mistimed the speed of a car in front of him.  A man in a Packard had almost reached the bottom of the hill as Howard took off.  As the car was going up the hill toward town Howard came speeding up behind him.  As I stated, since the bike had no chain, he could not slow it down.

Howard slammed into the round rear of the car at God knows what speed.  The bike went completely over the car and crashed in the road ahead.  The shocked driver slammed on the brakes.

As the car came to a stop Howard jumped up and hobbled to the drivers door.  Peering, bug eyed, in the window at the driver, he exclaimed "Are you alright, Mr. Edwards?"

After a shocked moment the driver laughed, then took Howard into town, and bought him a new bike.  One WITH a chain.

LIVE Your Life

Recently I have read some very sad dispirited posts from some facebook friends and posts by others stating they just wanted to be happier next year. Many people feel apathetic, especially around this time of year. They feel their life is not where it should be, or they are lonely and dejected due to abandonment, or maybe they are suffering the heartache of a loved ones loss.

Life is a constant roller coaster, it may not always be high, but if you give it a chance it will not stay low either. I like the old Jimmy Stewart movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life”, where the Clarence shows him how much worse everyone would be without him. The same is true for most of us.

A few years ago, I was deployed to the Persian Gulf. At the time this happened, my wife Bonnie, had an accident and could not work for six months. Between my not being able to work a second job, and her injury, we lost two thirds of our income. We lost a house and had to file bankruptcy. Soon after this, my step-daughter took her life. I was thousands of miles from home and my wife was going through deep depression. I was worried she would harm herself. In short I felt my world was falling apart.

Feeling I was about to explode, I talked to my Master Chief. He suggested I talk to the ships Chaplain. When I went to the Chaplain’s office and told him of my worries, his response was “Oh, wow. Uh, wow. I don’t know what to say, I’ll pray for you.” While appreciating that he would pray for me, it didn’t help me feel any better. Things kept building up until I had a heart attack.

I was stabilized in the hospital ward on the ship, and since we were due to arrive at the port of Bahrain in two days, they planned to take me to the Emir’s hospital upon arrival. As you can imagine, I felt that things couldn't get any worse, then the Cole was blown up and all ships in the Persian Gulf were ordered to set sail and leave all ports.

After a few days the ship sent me to Bahrain, via helicopter. After I was released from the hospital and awaiting transfer to the states, the base gave me the task of helping the survivors of the Cole, as they were transferred, from the ship and sent to Bahrain, before travelling to Germany. I showed them were everything was located on base. Most of these young men and women were a mess, and I spent many hours lending a sympathetic ear, or a shoulder to cry on. I hope I helped them, and by trying to, I helped myself from the apathy I had fallen into.

After getting back to the states, I started working a second job again, and our financial lot improved greatly. My wife got better, and life got happier. My ship returned from its tour and things got back to normal.

The ship went out on maneuvers and we stopped in San Francisco. I got bored, while bar hopping with some friends, and decided just to walk around the city. It was about 2:00 am. I came across some street people all sitting together. With them was a young girl, about 19, who reminded me of my lost step-daughter. It struck me as especially sad to see someone, so young, there. I stopped and talked to them.

After talking awhile, the girl told me she had fought with her mother and left home. Now she was out of money, couldn’t pay for her room any more, and a man was trying to push her into prostitution. She was afraid to go back to her room where he would be.

I had a phone card, this was before I had a cell, and talked her into calling her mother. Her mother had been worried sick, and wanted her back home. I then took her to her room, not so politely told the wanna-a-be pimp what I thought of him, and got her things. I then took her to the bus station, and saw her on her way home. I don’t know what happened after she arrived home, but at least she had a chance to straighten out her life.

For a few years after, I was a CPR and First Aid instructor, so I stopped to help people whenever I happened on bad accidents. I only stopped when help had not arrived, so I was usually the first one to help with the trama.

What I am trying to get at is two fold:

1. When you are at your lowest, remember, life will get better, if you help it. It may take awhile, but it will.

2. When you have the opportunity to help others, do. It not only helps them, but makes you feel better about your life.

When life was at its worse, I contemplated jumping overboard. At that time it seemed easier to die, than to keep going on, but I have never been a quitter and too many people depended on me. Looking back, if I had taken that leap, I would have missed out on many blessings, and several people I did not even know at that time, would probably be worse off.

Live, love, and cry when you must, but don’t give up on life. It IS worth living.

Lost In Space

Lost In Space

While in the military I was part of the Naval Security Group. My second tour I was stationed at the Naval Security Group Headquarters (NSGH).  My supervisor, CTM2 Jack N., was a dyed in the wool nut. How he got his clearance, and kept it, I will never know.  We worked a modified swing shift, two 12 hour days. 24 hours off, then two 12 hour nights, followed by 96 hours off. The shifts were seven to seven. Whenever the weather permitted, Jack rode his Harley to work.

We completed our first shift and left at 7 pm. The next day Jack did not show up or call in. The following night Jack still did not appear. By now I was getting worried, so I called his house. His wife had not seen him. The next night was the same. When we returned from our four day break Jack came riding in on his Harley, with a shaved head. This was 1985 and shaved heads on white men had not become popular.

I wanted to find out what happened, but before I could talk to him, our chief called Jack into his office. I could here the chief yelling “Where the hell have you been?” (He didn’t say hell, but I don’t want to offend anyone.) Jack replied “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

The chief says “If you don’t tell me, I will have to write you up, and you will probably be busted.” (Busted was reduced in rank, was usually accompanied be a fine, and gets very expensive, quickly.)

There was a pause then Jack goes “OK, but like I said, you won’t believe it. Last week I was riding my bike home, and about half way there, my bike just stopped and a bright light surrounded me. I heard a humming, then nothing. The next thing I remember, was this morning, I was on my bike heading into work. I have no memory of the last week, my head was shaved, and I feel like I was violated. I was picked up by a UFO!”

I was trying not to laugh out loud, and give away that I could here everything, when I heard the chief spluttering, He cussed, he cajoled, he threatened, but Jack would not budge on his story.

Jack was one of those people who could fall in a pile of manure and come out smelling like a rose. He didn’t change his story and nothing happened. A year later, Jack and I had become good friends. I asked him “Last year when you went UA for a week, what really happened, anyway?”

He looked me straight in the eye and said “I was picked up by a UFO. That’s what I told the Chief, that’s what I told the Captain, and that’s what I told my wife. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!” That was classic Jack.

Life's Surprises

October 11, 2000

We were a few days out of Phuket, Thailand, sailing in the Persian Gulf heading toward Bahrain. I was holding morning quarters with my crew as usual. As I gave out the morning work assignments, I felt a tightness in my chest, my left arm was a little numb and my jaw ached. I felt a little nauseous and week. One of my guys looked at me and asked, “Are you ok? You’re not looking too good.” Well I didn’t feel well, but didn’t want to make a deal out of it either. “I’m ok, thanks.”

As the time went by I continued to feel worse. The same guy asked “Are you sure you don’t want to go to medical?” At this point I thought it was a good idea, and said so.  I went down four decks, and through half the ship, to reach the Medical Department.

The Medical Department was full, all chairs were taken, and about twenty people were standing around.  I walked to the reception desk. A Corpsman asked if he could help me. “Well, I am feeling nauseous, and I’m having chest pains.” He didn’t even look up, “Grab a seat and we will be with you as soon as we can.”

You never want to admit that there could be something serious wrong with yourself, so I just said ok and found a spot on the deck to wait. About an hour later the same crew member who had asked about me came down to check. I told him I was still waiting, not wanting to admit anything was wrong.

As we were talking the head Medical Officer walked by. My guy called to him, and told him I had come down because of chest pains. The doctor looked at me and said “Did you tell them you had chest pains?” I said “Yes, and that I was nauseous.  They told me to have a seat, and they would get to me when they could,”

“Come on back to one of the rooms and let me check you out.” I got off of the floor and followed him back. He had me lie back, gave me oxygen, and hooked up the EKG machine. After a couple of minutes he said “Sit tight, I’ll be right back.”

Everyone liked Doc Javery, he was always friendly and nice to everyone. Soon after he left the room I hear him yell, “Which one of you stupid morons told a man having a heart attack, to sit down, and we would see him when we could?”  I cleaned the language up a little,

Heart attack? Oh crap, he meant me! No, he can’t mean me, I’m only 41.

Well he did mean me. Since our ship had a hospital, they admitted me and arranged to have me admitted to the Emir’s Hospital, in Bahrain.  We were due to pull into that port in two days.

The following day was October 12, 2000. The USS Cole and several other ships had pulled into Yemen. The Cole was attacked by a suicide bomber and all US ships in the Persian Gulf left port, and all private ship to shore communication, phone and email, was halted.

I had not told my wife of the heart attack. I did not want to worry her. Now I could not let her know what was going on. While underway, when any of our accompanying ships had problems with their encryption communications equipment, that their technicians could not fix, they flew me over to repair it. I had been on several other ships during the tour and my wife knew it. Now she did not know if I was on the Cole, and there was no way we could communicate. She was worried sick.

Two days later, October 14, they took me via helicopter to Bahrain. They admitted me and performed a heart catherization.  Once I was left the hospital, I was kept in Bahrain, for observation, and to arrange orders back to San Diego.  After about a week the base moved all temporary personnel from the barracks, to hotels out in town.  The Cole was finally sending its members back to the States, via Bahrain and Germany.  They wanted to keep the ship’s members in the barracks, and away from the press.

While awaiting orders back to the States, I was given a new duty, to take the members of the Cole around the base, and help them with anything they needed. This turned into the most heartbreaking job I have ever had. After a few days several of the members opened up to me about their experiences. They had been left on the ship for two weeks after the explosion. All of the remains weren’t recovered and the whole ship smelt like an open tomb. This alone mentally tore at some of them.

I remember one young sailor in particular telling me about how he and his buddy from home had enlisted together, in the Buddy Program. After four years, they were still stationed together and due to get out in less than a month. They were together, heading for the Mess Decks, when they came across their chief. The chief asked his buddy to run up to the work space to get his briefcase, as he had to meet with the Mess Chief in a few minutes. The young man I met told his friend to go on to the Mess Deck, and he would get the briefcase for the chief. After he went to the work space, his friend and chief went into the Mess area, and were killed in the explosion.

All I could do was talk to the kids and give them a shoulder to cry on, while trying not to cry myself. I hope it helped.

How to Chase a Guy Away

How to Chase a Guy Away

Upon arriving in Washington, I started looking for a place to live. A good friend from Okinawa, Billy Cox, offered to let me stay with him, while I looked for a place. At his urging I temporarily moved to Gaithersburg, Md.

About two weeks after arriving, I decided to go bar hopping. I stopped in a little club and met a fun, kind of nutty, young lady. I had drunk quite a bit, so when she invited me back to her place, I told her I didn’t think I should drive. She offered to drive, so I thought everything was great. The next day she drove me back to my car, and I drove back to Billy’s place.

Two days after meeting the girl, I walked out to the parking lot, and she was standing next to my car. She smiled and said “Hi.” I said hello, then asked how she had found me. She replied “You told me where you lived.” The apartment complex where I stayed was huge, and had over one hundred buildings, with several units to each building. While talking to the girl, I had told her the name of the apartments, but not the building number. Luckily, this was before “Fatal Attraction” was released, or I would have started looking for my pet rabbit.

She offered to take me to lunch and, not able to think of a tactful way out, I agreed. When she brought me back, I went inside the doors and stood against the wall. The front of the building was glass, and I did not want her to see which apartment I went in. I waited a little over thirty minutes, confirmed by my watch, then went up to the third floor, to the apartment.

The following afternoon there was a knock at the door. Yes, she was there, wanting to take me to dinner. Now I was really getting nervous. I had been searching for an apartment with a friend, and at this point I decided it was better to mover as soon as possible.

The following Saturday I went to the Gaithersburg Mall. When I went to my car there was a note, under the wiper, saying she missed me and to call her. Now I had been shy most of my life, and was no expert on women, but I knew this was wrong. I was scared.

I called my buddy, told him I wanted to take the apartment we had looked at in Reston, Va (the farthest from Gaithersburg, MD) as soon as possible. I told Billy that I thought the girl was crazy and I was moving. He just laughed, and asked where I was moving to. I refused to tell him, because I did not want there to be any way for her to find out. He thought this was hilarious.

The next week he wasn’t laughing when he told me she had been to the apartment everyday looking for me. When he told her I had moved, and he did not know where, she cussed him, threw furniture, and went ballistic.

I apologized for her, but did not tell him where I lived, for about six months.

That was how learned to be careful. A woman who is crazy fun, may turn out to be just plain crazy.

Trophies

My grandmother’s sister, Mossy Stafford, lived just down the road from her.  When staying with my grandparents, I would often walk down the road to visit.  My great-uncle John Stafford once told me an interesting story.

He went out one morning to milk the cows.  Since he needed to weed the corn patch, afterword, he carried a hoe with him.  As he walked along, his mind occupied by the looming daily chores, something made him lurch to a stop.

Directly in front of him was a rattlesnake.  It was huge, maybe four or five feet long, tail buzzing like crazy, coiled with its head back, ready to strike.  With an exclamation he leaped back swinging the hoe as he fell.

When he did not feel a bite, he looked down the path, as he lay on the ground.  The snake writhed on the ground, headless, across the path.  Shaken John got to his feet and watched the snake, until it stopped thrashing.  He took a few minutes, composed himself, and continued down the path to the barn. 

That night John lay in bed remembering how big that snake had been, and how large the buttons had seemed on its tail.  No one would believe him, unless he had the rattles.  The longer he thought of it the more he wanted them as trophies.  Finally, he through back the covers, dressed, and went back out.

It was a spooky night, the moon out, and a light fog.  He walked down the path until he saw the snake laying across the path.  Wanting to get back to the house, and bed, he put one foot on the snakes body as he ripped the buttons off of its tail.  He turned and hurried back to the house.

The next morning Uncle John admired the snake’s rattles before eating his breakfast.  After the meal, he once more went down the path, to the barn, to mild his cows.  As he walked along, he suddenly stopped, and looked at the path in disbelief.

In front of him, across the path, lay the body of the headless snake.  With the rattles still attached.

Island Adventure

Island Adventure

NSGA Hanza, Okinawa was my first duty station, and even after serving twenty years, I believe it was one of the best.  The many friends I made there will never be forgotten, though some of the experiences probably should be.

Two friends there, Randy Ridgeway and Tom Maguire, were nearly inseparable.  They were always doing crazy things that came close to getting them hurt if not killed. 

One day they decided to go hiking in one of the jungle areas.  They were walking along when Randy saw a habu hanging from a limb above Tom.  He suddenly stopped, turned white, and stammered habba, habba, habba. 

Tom took off running as fast as he could, with Randy on his heels.  Finally they both stopped, exhausted.  Randy looked at Tom and panted, "Thank God, you understood!"

Tom panted back "I didn't understand anything.  Whatever had you that scared, I didn't want any part of. "

Another time a storm with a tidal wave was coming in.  They decided it was a once in a lifetime photographic opportunity.  They went to the cliffs over looking the ocean to get a picture of the incoming tidal wave.

As Randy was clicking away, Tom was shaking his shoulder, saying "Randy, we should go!  Randy, come on." 

Randy kept taking pictures until the viewfinder was nothing but an image of the wave.  He lowered the camera, and saw the huge wave towering over them and making land fast.  He dropped the camera and they turned and ran.  They made several yards when the wave crashed into the cliff.

The incoming water knocked them down and surrounded them.  As the receding water began pulling them to the edge of the cliff, they grabbed bushes and held on tight.

After the water drained away, they picked themselves up, and went back to their car.  They never attempted to film another tidal wave.

Crazy Childhood Memories

Crazy Childhood Memories

As a child I used to spend several weeks every summer in Casey County, Kentucky with both sets of grandparents.  Time at the Choate farm was spent helping my grandpa build things in his woodworking shop, fishing with him, or just roaming the surrounding forested hills.  Time at the Miller farm was spent playing with my uncles, Mike and Terry, or tormenting my aunt Kay. 

Terry was only six months older; Mike two years; and Kay three years, so we were more like cousins growing up.  We shouldn’t have given her so much grief, but when Kay got mad, she went berserk.  She was a pretty, small girl, with a heart of gold, but when angry, look out.  I remember we got her mad and kept her locked outside until she calmed down.

In the early seventies my grandfather’s brother, John Miller, lost both of his legs to frostbite.  My grandmother was a poor widow, with four children, but she still took him into her home after the amputation, until he could care for himself.  I realize now that it had to have been a great burden, but she took it on, without complaint.  It was a time when family and honor meant something, and that’s what families did, whether convenient or not.

Uncle John started off with a red wagon, in which he sat, and we pulled him around the house in it.  Later he was able to get a wheelchair, and eventually he received prosthetic legs.  When he received the chair and legs, he gave the wagon to my uncles.

We would take the wagon to a pastured area, at the top of the hill, in back of the house.  We would take the wagon down the steep path that led to the woods.  That wagon would fly!  There was an area where the path jogged across a natural ditch.  The only way to make the job was to lean very far to the side when making the turn.  The wagon would go up on the two side wheels, then you lurched to the other side so that the wagon would slam back down and continue to gain speed. 

At the end of the pasture, before entering the woods, we would jump out of the wagon.  It would crash into a tree, then we would take it back up for the next kid to ride down.  Looking back it is amazing we didn’t hit our head on a rock, or break a bone.  I guess it is as they say, “God looks after fools and children.”  It was dangerous and stupid, but man was it fun!

Have Fun Will Travel

Have Fun Will Travel

While stationed in Okinawa, my friends and I used to take leave in the Philippines. The Philippines, or PI, was a great place to vacation back then. Hotels were about ten dollars per day, during happy hours a beer was seven cents, they had club bands that did very good imitations of the popular seventies and early eighties groups. There were also many pretty girls, which made it even more popular as a military vacation spot.

Tom Maguire was a good friend of mine, and one of the first to invite me along on a trip to the PI. I found that most of what you purchased you dickered for. This went for many things, including souvenirs, bbq pork on a stick, or a trike ride.

A trike was a motorcycle with a side car. The side car was egg shaped with a metal roof, and the front was covered with a wire mesh. Since the side car had a wheel, the total wheels of the motorcycle equaled three, hence trike, like tricycle. A trike ride was very inexpensive and was quicker than waiting for the local equivalent of mass transit, the jeepney. When you took a trike you negotiated on the price. The driver usually started by asking for the equivalent of a dollar, countered by the customer offering a quarter. You usually spent about five minutes negotiating to save fifty cents, but it was entertaining. After you agreed to a price he would take you were you wanted to go, often at speeds you never contemplated. He did not make much on each fair, so he traveled as fast as possible, in order to get as many fares as possible.

The first time I went to the PI six or seven of us were in the group. The second evening there we were waiting in the hotel bar for Tom to arrive before we hit the clubs. He came weaving through the doors, bloody from his head to his toes.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“I was taking a trike back to the hotel. We were doing about 40, weaving in and out of traffic, when we hit a pot hole. The front wheel came off and the driver bailed. I was stuck in the trike as it flipped down the road.”

“My God, are you all right? Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“No, no, I’m Ok. On the bright side the driver came running up after the trike stopped rolling. He was yelling ‘No charge, free ride, no charge.’ So, I still have my fifty cents!”

That was typical Tom Maguire. Heart of gold, head of stone.

A couple of nights later, we were bar hopping and two of the guys decided they wanted to stay in one of the clubs, after we decided to leave. They agreed to meet us back at the hotel bar in an hour or so.

We were waiting at the hotel when the first guy showed up. “You aren’t going to believe what happened to me.” We asked the obligatory “What?”

“As I was leaving the club, a Benny Boy came up and asked me for a light.” A Benny Boy is what the Philippinos called transvestites. “As I gave him a light he grabbed me.” Use your imagination where he was grabbed.

“What did you do?” we asked.

“I knocked him on his butt and ran like hell!” We all laughed, but did not really believe him.

About twenty minutes later the second guy showed up. He was beat up and bloody. We asked “What happened to you?”

“It was the strangest thing. As I left the club, this Benny Boy came up and asked me for a light.” We started to chuckle. “When I gave him a light he grabbed me!” We were having trouble breathing at this point. “What did you do?” We wheezed out.

“I knocked the s—t out of him, and five of his buddies jumped out of the bushes and beat the hell out of me!” At this point I fell out of my chair I was laughing so hard.

Crazy Days of Youth

Crazy Days of Youth

I lived in Okinawa from 1982 to 1984. The Okinawa people were fiercely independent. They are a melting pot of cultures and their history lists multiple invasions by Korea, China, and Japan. We gave Okinawa back to the Japanese during my tenure there, but the Okinawans did not consider themselves Japanese. They were very vocal on the matter if you referred to them as such.

The Army base I lived near changed from a Signals Acquisition site to a Green Beret Base. The base encompassed thousands of acres of farm land that the US had acquired after WWII, but had not used. This land had been left available for locals to farm for nearly forty years.

The new base command decided to stop allowing the local farmers to use this land, and instead use it for jump practice. As you can imagine this did not sit well with the local population, many of which derived their total livelihood from these farms. The results were demonstrations and riots around the base, by local citizens.

One night, during this period, a buddy and I were bar hopping in an area called Kadena Circle, near the Kadena Air Force Base. At about 3:00 a.m., after several hours of partying, we were walking to a new club, On the way we were accosted in an alley by ten to twelve locals. They surrounded us, and one individual got in my face screaming “Yankee go home! We don’t want you in Japan!” As I said we had been drinking for several hours, and my judgment may have been impaired. I leaned forward and yelled back at him “I’m not in Japan! I’m in Okinawa!”

He looked shocked, stepped back and slapped me on the shoulder. He laughed and said “You OK Joe!” He then waved to his buddies and they walked away still laughing. My friend looked shaken, and said “I thought you were going to get us killed.” I just laughed and we went to the next bar. The next day I woke up dead sober, remembering the night before. I thought “What the hell did I do?” I guess I must have a guardian angel.

Sticks and Stones

Sticks and Stones

Every summer I worked painting new custom homes with my father. One year we were working on a house, out in the middle of nowhere, near the Ohio border. The home owner would arrive every afternoon, about five o’clock, after he left work. He would drive all of the contractors crazy.

One day he noticed a broken window. The window had been broken by a drywall worker and the superintendent knew it. Another window had been ordered and we were going to finish it when it arrived. As soon as the owner saw the window, he ran to my father and said, “I saw that window you broke.” My father simply told him, that we did not break his window. The man accused my father of lying. That is not something anyone who knew my father would contemplate doing.

I watched dad controlling his temper, with effort. He finally said, “Well, if you think we broke it, call the super and tell him, if you want.” The home owner stomped off to his car and left to make the call.

The home owner returned and was hiding around the corner of the house, eavesdropping on what we were saying. Dad knew he was there, so while one of his guys painted a window, he said “Be careful Ricky, that’s how you broke that other window.” At this point the man ran to his car to go tell the super that he knew we broke the window, because he heard my father say so.

The following day my father told us we were going to have some fun. There was another house, of the same model, under construction, about two miles away. Someone had shot all of the windows with bbs and they had been replaced. We took all of those windows back the original house and replaced its windows. We then waited for the owner to arrive.

The owner came right about five, as usual. As soon as he got close, we picked up rocks and began throwing them through every window in the house. He locked the car up, did a U-turn and took off. He returned about an hour later with the builder. By that time we had cleaned up all of the glass, replaced the widows, and were diligently working. The owner got out of his car, shaking his head. “I swear all of the windows were broken out. I swear it!” The builder just gave him an exasperated look and shook his head. The owner, head hanging, got back in his car and drove away.

The builder looked at my father, grinned, and said “I don’t know how you did it, but it was a good one. But please, don’t do it again.” Dad laughed also and just said “I don’t know what you mean.”

Sailors Just Want to Have Fun

Sailors Just Want to Have Fun

I had been on leave in the Philippines (PI) for about a week. A couple of buddies and I walked into the Barbary Coast bar. We had been to a couple of bars earlier and were well lubricated. As we were looking for a table, I recognized a girl I had met a few nights earlier, sitting with some friends and man.

I excused myself from my friends and walked over to the table. I said hello to the girl, made pleasantries with the Australian man she was sitting with, and went back to join my friends, at the table they had found.

We had been to several bars earlier, and after about an hour at this one, everyone was well lubricated and having fun. At about midnight, the Australian came over to our table, drunk and mean. He stands over me and accuses me of taking his wallet. He said it had to be me, because he did not talk to anyone else.

As I said, we were all in a good mood, and not looking for trouble. I looked at him and said “I’m sorry if someone took your wallet, but it wasn’t me. I am here on vacation, with plenty of money, and besides, I don’t steal. Have a seat and I will be glad to buy your drinks.”

He picked my San Miguel beer up and poured it into the popcorn I was eating. I was still not upset. I just said “That’s a waste of a good beer.” I then called the waitress for another. I believe they were fifteen cents each, at the time.

The man growled something and reached down, grabbed me by the front of my shirt, and jerked up. When he grabbed me, that’s when I got angry. As he jerked, I came up, and hit him under the chin with the heel of my palm. He fell back, knocking several bottles over.

He came up with a broken bottle and stabbed up with it. I swung my leg away, and the glass caught in the levis leg, making a shallow but bloody cut on my thigh. A friend of mine jumped from behind, grabbing him, while another got the bottle. By this time I had lost all reason, and was going after the guy, while two other friends where holding me back.

A bouncer came walking up to the table. The PI is one of those places where a man can be 5’4” and still be effective at crowd control; he was carrying a sawed off shotgun. My friends let go of me, as he walked up. He said “Is there a problem?” The Australian and my friends all said “No, no problem!”

I was still about to explode, so I stepped up and with every word poked the Aussie in the chest, as he backed across the floor. “You’re damn right there’s a problem! This A-H comes up to our table, starts a fight, and cuts me with a bottle!”

Tom Maguire and Randy Ridgeway grabbed me again. Tom Anderson was close to me going “Ken, he’s got a gun!” I went “I’m not mad at him, I’m mad at this A-H!” as I poked him in the chest again.

Tom Anderson jumped in again and goes “Ken, he’s got a gun. He’s got a BIG gun, and IT’S PROBABLY LOADED!” Sanity came over me, and I told the bouncer everything was fine.

The Aussie went back to his table and we sat down at ours. Thirty minutes went by and the Aussie came back over. He said “I would like to apologize. One of the girl’s found my wallet on the floor. Let me buy you a beer.”

I couldn’t believe it. I probably should have accepted his apology, but I guess I am just not that big a man. I looked down at my leg, with the bandage around the cut. I told him to keep his beer, and just go back to his table. I have too many scars, which originated in bars, after midnight. Thank God I lived long enough to get past that stage.

Every once in a while I still chuckle when I remember Tom’s face and the words “He’s got a gun. He’s got a BIG gun, and IT’S PROBABLY LOADED!”

Living Life

Living Life

Back in the mid 1960's and through the 1970's, while spending summers visiting my family in Kentucky, thunderstorms would often hit.  My Grandpa, Kit Choate, had a root cellar that many neighbors would go to.  What is funny, is that many of the visitors had cellars of their own.  But it was the camaraderie that existed at Grandpa's that drew the others.

I was never afraid of storms, in fact I looked forward to them, because whenever they hit many people gathered and everyone told the stories of their life.  Many of the guests were born in the early 1900's and it was almost like going back in time to listen to them.  These people were mostly poor but they had lived rich lives.  Theirs was not a daily grind of getting up and going to work, coming home, only to repeat the same the next day.  It was usually about fighting daily to survive. 

At that time, several farmers in rural Kentucky still farmed with mules, and many had horses that they rode daily.  One story I remember was about Dillard Stafford and his son, Jack.  They were out in the woods when a storm struck, followed quickly by a flash flood.  They had one mule with them that they had brought to pull logs from the woods, to take back to the farm. 

The rushing, quickly rising water of a creek, trapped them in spot that was fast disappearing.  The father put his son on the mule, so he could go through the water and escape.  Jack swam the flood water and raced to the nearest farm.  He ran the mule up onto the porch and he and the mule stuck their heads through the front door, the boy screaming at the top of his lungs "Pap's water bound!  Pap's water bound!"

After the shock of the door bursting open, and the sight of Jack and the mule in the front door, the family and several neighbors ran to save the stranded man with ropes and horses.  They rescued him just as the knoll he was on was washed over by the rushing water.

Growing up I loved to read, but the stories told by those old simple folk is what truly developed my love of adventure.  That is what probably led me to join the Navy and travel the world.  We often get caught up in our day to day lives, earning a paycheck to support ourselves in comfort, but life has to have some flavor.  When it comes down to it, when we look back at our lives, it is not what possessions we have accumulated that truly matter, but rather the laughter, tears, struggles, victories, and adventures that make life truly worth living.

Okinawan Lesson Number One

Okinawan Lesson Number One

Late one 1982 August night, my plane touched down at Kadena Air Force Base, Okinawa.  My interest in the Far East went back several years., and I was almost giddy with excitement at this opportunity.   My new duty station was the Naval Security Group Activity (NSGA) Hanza, Okinawa; but we were living on Torii Station, an Army Base.  Those of us going to the Army base collected our baggage and loaded on the bus waiting for us.

As we drove along the streets, I watched in fascination as the signs lit up in Hiragana.  All of the streets looked like my idea of the Vegas strip.  Everywhere was bright red neon signs, many flashing, and all in a language I could not read.  My imagination was running on overtime, trying to guess at what adventures awaited in each building, lurking behind those signs.  I had watched movies and read books enough to know that each must contain danger and at least one beautiful woman!  After about an hour, we arrived at the base and were given a temporary room for the night. 

The next day I was introduced to my sponsor, Marty Beale.  It was his job to acclimate me to the Island and get me set up at work.  My first week was orientation.  They representatives went over the many things we needed to know of the local culture.  Hopefully this would keep us from embarrassing ourselves or America.

They went over many interesting facts, such as:

  Don't leave your chopsticks crossed on your plate when you finish eating.  This was considered a curse on whoever cleared your plate from the table.

  Don't leave your chopsticks sticking up from your rice.  This was only done at funerals, where you offer food to the spirits.

  If you see a mongoose, do not try to shoo it away with a broom or such.  A mongoose will run right up the handle and attack you.

  If you see someone lying on the sidewalk, with a paper over their face, leave them alone.  It was part of the culture, that if someone drank too much, they could lay on the ground and cover their face.  This saved them the shame of someone noticing that they over indulged.

You get the idea.  There were many such things.  Everything that appeared bizarre, just intrigued me more. 

My third day on Okinawa was a payday Friday, and I had the weekend off.  Marty stopped by and asked if I would like to hit the town with him.  I was very happy to, of course, but even if he hadn't asked, there was no way I would not have went out.  I was twenty-two, with a pocket full of money, and a land of excitement and opportunity lay just outside the gates!

Three of us flagged a taxi and went to Gate Two Street, outside of Kadena Air Base.  It was about 5:00.  It was shop after shop of types I had never seen.  There were grocery stores, with meat just hanging out in the air.  Furniture stores filled with futons and hand carved wooden pieces.  There was also a pet store.

The pet store had a minor bird, in a cage, just outside of the door.  I don't know if Marty wanted to get the bird to talk, or was just trying to impress us with his Japanese; but he went up to the bird.  "Kamban wa."  Nothing.  "Konichi wa."  Nothing.  He paused, then "Ohio Gozaimas."  The bird just stared at him.  He turned back to us and said "I guess the stupid bird can't talk."

At that moment the bird spoke in clear English and "Love You" is not what it said.

The look on Marty's face was priceless.  We howled, it was hilarious, but he just looked insulted.  Oh well, the day was young and adventured beckoned.  As the hours passed, we worked our way over to BC Street.  As the hours waned, the stores started to close, but every other building turned out to be a club that was just starting to open.

As we strolled along, we came upon two Marines fighting on the sidewalk, outside of a bar.  They were both big guys; the smaller one was well over six feet.

As we watched a Japanese Police (JP) car pulled up.  Two older police officers got out and walked up to the Marines.  One little old JP officer grabbed both service members by an arm.  "STOP!"  One Marine spun around and threw a punch at the cop.  Big mistake.  The officer barely moved, but the kid went flying.  He hit hard, but jumped up and went at the JP again.  Once more he sailed through the air.

The second JP walked up beside the first one.  The idiot picked himself up from the sidewalk and ran at both cops.  This time they pulled their JP sticks (metal batons).  As the Marine attacked. each officer hit a knee with his JP stick.   As the kid fell, one officer hit him in the back of the head.  I guess they were tired of playing.

They walked over to the unconscious service member.  One grabbed him by the shoulders, and the other by the legs.  Someone opened the back car door, and they placed him in the back seat.

One officer turned to the second Marine and said "You.  Go home."  The young man hesitated a second, then started yelling "Taxi!  Taxi!"

Marty turned to us and said "Lesson Number One.  Don't mess with the JPs!"  THAT was a lesson I never forgot.

Beware Life’s Runaway Trucks

Beware Life’s Runaway Trucks
 I was serving my second tour in Washington, DC.  I worked a second job at the International Trade Center (aka the Ronald Reagan Building), about two blocks from the National Theater.  The National was playing “Caberet”, with Terri Hatcher, so I decided to surprise my wife with tickets. We parked at the ITC and started walking to the theater.
 It was a late Friday evening and both automobile and foot traffic were busy.  We stopped at a cross walk, waiting for permission to the cross.  A truck had parked at the curb, making it hard, for some, to see traffic. The sign flashed “Walk.” A petite young lady rushed forward.
 She was only a little over five feet tall, and as I stated the truck next to the curb blocked the view of traffic.  She could not see over the truck, but I could. There was a semi barreling down the road, not even slowing for the light. I yelled, but she never hesitated. I shoved between two people, grabbed the girls shoulder, and jerked her back.
 She spun around, cursing me.  At that moment the eighteen wheeler went barreling past, horn blaring. She stopped in mid-tirade, her jaw dropped, and mouth open.
 In a small voice she said “Thank you.”
 This is a true story, with a moral.  If life occasionally jerks you back, don’t curse. It may be God’s way of protecting you from life's runaway trucks.

Skunked

Skunked

My father went to school at Scott’s Chapel in Liberty, KY. Scott’s Chapel was a one room school that used to be a church. All of the local kids went to the same school, regardless of their age. Think Little House On the Prairie. The school used to be a church called Scott’s Chapel. I haven’t been by in several years, but the last time I was there, it was still standing.

I guess you could say my father was a precocious child, though his teachers may have used harsher language. He was a jokester whenever opportunity afforded itself. One Friday evening he espied a skunk crawl into a stovepipe lying on the ground. The end of the pipe had a vent that was closed, and the skunk was probably using it for a den.

Acting quickly, he found a thick gunny sack, put it over the end of the pipe and trapped the skunk. He stood the pipe on end and the skunk slid into the heavy sack, which he quickly tied shut. He now had the skunk in a bag, but what was he to do with it?

His family only lived a couple of miles from Scott’s Chapel, so he set off for the school, skunk in tow. When he arrived at the school, he found an unlocked window. He closed the widow most of the way and stuck the bag through the opening. He shook the skunk out and quickly slammed the window shut.

Monday when the first people arrived at school, they received a noisome greeting from a very angry skunk. The nearest neighbor was my father’s uncle, whom the teacher asked for help. When he tried to get the skunk out, it ran behind a bookcase. He took a long stick and kept trying to prod it out. He would prod for a while, then go out and puke for a while, prod, then puke. This continued for a couple of hours, until finally, he had to kill it, to remove it.

The building stunk so badly that they had to hold classes outside for a couple of weeks. Even though this could rightfully be called the “King of Pranks,” Dad could not own up to it. His uncle would have beaten him silly. The mystery of how the skunk entered the school eluded my father’s uncle, for the rest of his life. My great–uncle has been dead for about twenty years, but I hope his ghost doesn’t decide to haunt Dad after this post. After all, it would probably be angry enough to, if it learned the truth.

Howard and the Dickering Stranger

Howard and the Dickering Stranger

It was a clear spring afternoon in the mid 1960's.  Several men were gathered in Clem Dean's general store.  It was a casual stopping point, where men of the area often gathered to socialize.

A stranger pulled up at the pump, and Clem went out to fill his tank.  The stranger walked into the store to buy some supplies for the road.  As he was walking around he noticed several men huddled together.

He walked over, and curiously asked "What's going on?"

Howard Long, a well known character of the area, looked up and said "They wanted to see my snake."

"Snake?" the stranger asked.  At which Howard pushed a large Pickled Bologna jar toward the stranger.  The rattlesnake in the jar, not enjoying all of the jostling struck the side of the jar toward the stranger. 

As the snake struck the jar, the stranger jumped back, tripped over his own feet, and fell.  This caused everybody in the store to laugh, including the stranger.  He picked himself up, brushing his clothes and walked back to Howard.  "Can I hold the jar?" he asked.

Howard handed the man the snake jar, which was taken gingerly.  As he stood looking at the jar, he thought of how fun it would be to show his friends a live rattlesnake.

He looked at Howard, "How much do you want for the snake" he asked.

Howard thought for a minute and said "You can have it for twenty dollars."

Twenty dollars was a quite a bit of money at that time and place.  The stranger laughed and said "I'll give you ten."

Howard shook his head and stated flatly, "Twenty."

The stranger said "I will give you ten, but not a penny more."

Howard looked at him and said "All right give me the fifteen dollars."

The stranger pulled out a ten and five and handed it to Howard.  Howard promptly spun the lid off of the jar and dumped the hissing rattler at the strangers feet.  "There you go." he calmly said.

The stranger fell back against the wall, staring in shocked surprise at the snake.  "Put it back in the jar!"  he screamed.

Howard just looked at him and said "You didn't buy the jar.  You bought the snake." 

The stranger was scared to death, with the angry snake close by his feet.  "H-H-How m-much for the jar?" he stuttered.

Howard shrugged and said "Ten dollars."  The stranger gladly paid, without haggling.

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Carl Meece was sheriff of Casey County, Kentucky when I was a teenager. He was a good sheriff, in rough county. Carl stood about five foot eight and looked fat. He wasn’t. He had earned the reputation as the baddest man in the county. I don’t mean he was evil or mean, you just didn’t want to mess with Carl. He would chase a fight like a greyhound after a rabbit. If you were caught breaking the law, but did not resist when caught, everything was fine; but a bad ass, that resisted arrest, made Carl’s mouth water.

Dad had a neighbor friend who was always often in trouble with the law, to avoid embarrassment I will leave his last name out.  He was a very likable fellow, but he did not think things through.  I felt sorry for him, when he was in trouble, even though I knew he deserved everything that came his way.

We were out on my Grandpa Choate’s porch late one evening, when the young man came running up. “Kit, can I hide out here? Carl is looking for me.” Grandpa just looked at him and said “You know I won’t lie for you, but go on about your business, and I won’t volunteer any information. If I don’t know where you are, I can’t tell Carl.”

He took off around the house, and we sat out enjoying the evening breeze. After ten or fifteen minutes Carl drove up. He got out of the car and walked up to the porch. He looked at grandpa “Howdy, Kit.” “Howdy, Carl.”

Carl says “I’m looking for ____. Do you know where he’s at?” Grandpa goes “Well, I can’t rightly say.”

Carl stood there for a minute then asks “Do you mind if I look around?” Grandpa just shook his head and said “No, help yourself.”

Carl went around the house and out to the cornfield in back. After about a half hour Carl comes back and says “Thank you, Kit. Ya’ll have a good night.” Grandpa looked at him and said “Welcome, Carl. Night.”

A little while later, Dad's friend came up out of the field, white as a sheet, and stumbled up to the porch. He sat on the stoop, head hanging. Grandpa just looked at him. “Ya’ll right?”

He nodded, took a deep breath and said “I was hiding in the corn patch when Carl came out. When he started toward me I was on my knees, and started to move away. I heard a buzzin'.  I looked to my right and a rattler was right beside me. He was buzzin’ on my right and Carl was comin’ on my left. I didn’t know where to go. After a while Carl stopped, like he heard the rattler, and headed back to the house. I was afraid to move, in case the rattler got me. After a while it went away, too.”

He took another deep breath, and said “Lordy, Carl on my left, a rattler on my right, and me in the middle not knowin’ which was the meanest!”

The Wild Ride

The Wild Ride

This story happened around fifty years ago, to my aunt Brenda Choate (Ponder) and her friend Linda Edwards. They were driving down 1547, the rural Kentucky road on which my grandparents lived. They came upon a bend in the road and did not make the turn. The real story is what happened after.

Brenda and Linda were driving down the road, in a little VW Beetle, when they came upon a sharp bend. I don’t know if they were going too fast, not paying attention, or had mechanical problems, but for what ever reason, they did not make the turn.

The farmer who owned the property had just checked his mail, and stepped away from the box. The girls flew past him, plowed through the mailbox, and went rolling down the hill, like a tumbleweed across the prairie.

An eccentric friend of the family, Howard Long, had been driving behind them, and saw the wreck. He quickly stopped and jumped out to help. He ran down the hill to where the car had stopped.

He helped them out of the car and seemed unhurt, but were scared and crying. As helped them up the hill, and back to his car, they continued to sob.  Howard was the softhearted type and always hated to see a girl cry, so he decided to try to get their mind off the accident.

When they reached the road, he went to his car and pulled out a jar. The girls were still sobbing and huddled in each others arms as Howard returned. He proudly proclaimed “Hey, look it what I got.” He then put the jar up to the girl’s faces.

Inside the jar was one of Howard’s pet rattlesnakes, hissing and striking the side of the jar, trying to get at the girls. They jumped back screaming and sobbing.

Just then my father arrived and stopped to see what was going on. The girls were sobbing and talking over each other, such that dad could not make head nor tail of the circumstances. Howard jumped in to explain what happened, and then said “To calm ‘em down I got my pet snake. It didn't seem to help at all!"

The Gypsy's Blessing

The Gypsy's Blessing

Most of us have interesting, bizarre, or exciting stories in our family history.  One of the strangest in my family is the story of a Gypsy's blessing.

My grandparents, Dave Miller and Hazel Hughes, married in 1934.  They were both from the hills of Casey County, Kentucky.  He was twenty-three, a crack shot and an avid hunter; she was seventeen, a crack shot and third cousin to Davy Crockett.  They were both fiery, hot-tempered, and very much in love.  This was a time when people married young and had lots of kids.  As the years went by, they became disheartened, however, for they could not seem to have children.

My Great-grandma Hughes was of a mystical bent, and would meet with gypsies when they travelled through the country.  In 1940, an old, bent gypsy lady came to her door.  She asked my grandmother if she would be interested in any charms poultices or such.  My grandmother jokingly laughed and said only if she had something to help a barren woman become pregnant.

The old lady laughed and said as a matter of fact she did.  She sold g-grandma Hughes a poultice.  It was to be placed under the bed, every night for one month.  Not really believing, but ready  to try anything for a grandchild, she bought it and gave it to her daughter.

Neither my grandmother nor grandfather believed in gypsy curses, blessings, or cures; but to humor g-grandma Hughes they placed it under their bed.  At the end of the month Grandma Miller started having severe cramps.  After several hours she passed what she described as a huge nasty looking blood clot. 

Grandma was bed ridden for several days as the nausea and sickness passed.  As she got better, she and my grandfather went on about their normal lives.  Ten months later my mother was born.  Seven other children followed.  Strange, but true.

Scotty to the Rescue

Scotty to the Rescue

Earlier someone posted she would like some good news. I couldn't think of any new, good news, so I thought I would post a funny story, from boot camp, 31 years ago.

On the last weekend of boot camp recruits used to be able to go out for one night to do whatever they legally wanted, as long as they checked in at the quarter deck, before midnight. When they checked in, the recruit had to say "Permission to cross the quarter-deck, sir." If they, however, made a joke of it and were brave, or drunk, enough to say "Permission to cross the patio, Daddy-o" they would be sent back to the beginning of boot camp.

I was standing the podium watch, envious of the kids coming back town. This young recruit was half carried to the quarterdeck, where he stumbled away from them and said, "Permission to cross the pat- uh, uh, can I come in?" As I was trying not to laugh, I hear a voice from the shadows yell, "You! In my office NOW!!!"

As they entered the office the chief on duty, slammed to the door and began screaming at the kid, and telling him that he would repeat boot camp. After a while the kid, pulled his wallet out, flipped it open, and said into it, "Beep. Beep. Beam me aboard Scotty, I'm in trouble!"

The chief stopped in mid-tirade, and screamed "Get the hell out of here!" As the kid ran away, the chief dropped his head onto his arms and began to laugh uncontrollably.

About a month after boot camp, I ran into that chief and asked if the recruit had been sent back. He replied, "Hell, no. With b-s that big, he will make Admiral one day!"

Here Comes the Nino

Here Comes the Nino

Do you ever wonder about someone who briefly touched your life? About five years ago, I was driving to work on 70 East, in Indianapolis. A SUV came barreling from the Harding St on-ramp, straight across the three lanes of traffic, two cars in front of me. I hit the brakes, swerved onto the left hand pullover, and ran to help the people of the SUV and the car who hit it.

The passengers of the car, two teenage boys, were fine, so I hurried to the SUV. Inside were a Hispanic, pregnant lady and her three year old son. She spoke no English, and I speak limited Spanish, so conversation was not easy. She had gone into labor and tried to drive herself to the hospital. When coming onto 70 she had a contraction, jerked the wheel, and the accident ensued.

I called 911, while keeping the youngster entertained, and tried to keep everyone calm (I was scared to death). I got the 911 operator on the line, explained the circumstances, and explained that 70 East was completely blocked, and rush hour traffic had made it impossible to reach us from the West. The operator asked me if the baby’s head had crowned, to which I replied in a panic “I don’t know!” While trying not to laugh she told me to check. Now asking any strange woman to let you look at her hoo-ha, would be hard, but she spoke no English, and after 25 years my Spanish was not exactly fluent.

I looked at her, nervously, and said “Um, El nino, uh cabaza?” and pointed. She emphatically shook her head and said “No.” I picked the phone back up and said “No.” At this point I could hear the laughter in the background and the operator choked out “Did you personally check?” “She said NO!” I said, as I could hear them howling in the background. “Well the ambulance is on its way.”

I went back to trying to keep everyone else calm, when the lady screamed in pain from a contraction. “Where is that DAMN AMBULANCE?!!” I yelled. Still laughing the operator said “Its almost there.” About three minutes, or hours depending on your perspective, later, the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over. I went back to my car and left as soon as traffic cleared.

I have often wished I had gotten their number, just to check on them and see how everything turned out, but there is no way of knowing now.

The Psycho Billy Goat

The Psycho Billy Goat

The first home, I remember well, was a little three room house, on Bushhog Ridge, in Liberty, Ky. It had electricity, but little else. We had a well to draw our water, an outhouse, and the stove was used for heating as well as cooking. The house was constructed so poorly that in the winter I walked through snow, to go from my to my parent’s room, because the wind had blown it through the walls

It’s funny the things that stick with you. On Christmas I got a doctor’s kit, and I went around checking everyone’s heart. Looking back, I probably wanted one since I had been recently hospitalized with scarlet fever. I also remember my mother curled up, asleep, in a child’s bed, in the hospital room where I was kept, because she did not want to leave me.

I still smile at the memory of my mother making biscuits that no one could eat. I don’t mean they tasted bad, no one COULD eat them. She gave them to my dog, and he chewed on them for three days before giving up.

The most bizarre thing that happened, though, was the day the psycho billy goat attacked. My mother’s younger sister, Betty Lou, and two friends were walking down the road, when a farmer’s goat escaped and chased them down the road, to our house.

The girls were screaming as they ran, so my mother heard them, and met then as they got to the door. They were hysterical, so she brought them inside quickly, to find out what was wrong.

As the girls relayed the story, the goat started butting the door, trying to force its way inside. Mom grabbed a shotgun, opened the door, and shot the goat in the head. Its head a bloody mess, it again attacked. Mom slammed the door and took them to her room, at the back of the house, to get away from the goat. The girls continued to scream, so the goat came around back and tried to get in through the window.

While all this was happening my father and grandfather were hunting in the woods behind the house. Grandpa goes, “I wonder what those dogs are barking at?” Dad answered, “It sounds like someone screaming!” They ran back to the house, just as the goat was about to get in.

They shot the goat, and it turned and charged them. They both continued to fire until the goat fell over, dead. I don’t believe anyone ever knew what set the goat off. Mom and her sister still get kidded from time to time about being attacked by a goat, but at the time it wasn’t funny. It was frightening and bizarre.

Soon after this, we moved to Greenwood, Indiana. But strangely the happiest memories of my childhood, were of that house, and the following vacations, every summer, with my grandparents.