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!"