This is the first of perhaps (hopefully) many exercises in writing:
The Calendar
Many years ago my oldest son and his wife had decided to give calendars
as gifts at Christmas. Not cheap calendars but thoughtful and hopefully
well-received calendars that were carefully chosen for the intended
recipient. As they wanted to share their love and friendship to many
family and friends they picked a gift that became affordable and yet
delivered a meaningful relevance to the person and persons they gave
the gifts to at this time of the Season.
My calendars have always been right on target. The first calendars were
of works of artists that they knew I greatly admired: Alphonse Mucha
and Hiroshige. The year before last it happened to be the Girls of
James Bond movies. And this year it was pin-ups from the great pin-up
illustrator Gil Elvgren.
I hang the calendars close to the desk in front of me, where I can view
the date, of course, but also see the appropriate illustrations or
paintings of that particular month. And naturally, I am also reminded
of the Christmas gift.
Well only a few weeks ago while our youngest grandchild sat on my knee
as I worked on the computer he gazed around the area and pointed at the
calendar. My wife had taught him to look at images of Christ that are
in many areas of the house and reverently point to the images and
crucifixes, bow his head, and utter the name, "Jesus". Little John is
only one year old. He even takes a magnetic image of Christ that is
left on the refrigerator, removes it to his little hands, kisses it,
utters, "Jesus" and then returns it to the refrigerator door.
But John sometimes confuses images of Christ for other paintings and
statues in our home. He has occasionally pointed to other statues we
have about or pictures, and then with the same youthful exuberance
suggests,"Jesus", even when it was not. We are trying to make him
certain of which images are and aren't Jesus. My wife is especially
dutiful in this task.
Anyhow on this one day as I worked on the computer, just as my wife
came into the office, John lifted his finger, pointed to the calendar
on the wall before us and said to my wife, "Jesus". At that my wife
looked over to the calendar, looked at John, and admonished, "No that
is not Jesus, but a picture of a sexy girl for Grandpa!" I'm certain as
he gets older, the difference will become more clear.
4-19-08
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A Knockout Punch
When I was young I got in many fights. Perhaps because I grew up in New
York City. Or maybe it was my name, or that I viewed my Dad as scrappy,
sometimes coming home from work covered with blood and he would tell me
that he had been in a fight. Or maybe I just had a temperament that
provoked people to fight. But I had been in many and as I think back,
probably I had won no more than I had lost. But I had never been
knocked out, I think, except once!
It was on my second tour in Vietnam. I was stationed on a Naval Base at
Nha Be. It was 13 miles southeast of Saigon and we were a Support
Facility. My rate was a Damage Controlman and my job was repairing the
hulls of the River Patrol Boats that patrolled the rivers in the Delta.
For a year and a half I patched holes in the fiberglass hulls that had
been shot up while on firefights the night before. Either from small
arms fire, but more often mortars and rockets that would leave gaping
holes in the sides or bow of the boats. I learned my craft there and as
time progressed and senior people would leave, I soon was in charge of
that unit. Our base had come under fire many times while I was deployed
there, probably the greatest attack was during the Tet Offensive in
1968. But I digress.
The first boats I worked on were the '67 boats, as I recall, and they
were all fiberglass but the bow of the boats were packed with
Styrofoam. If they came under fire and were severely damaged, for the
most part they would still float bow up, bouncing like ping-pong balls.
Then the '68 boats came out with the gunwales wrapped in metal and no
Styrofoam within them. Needless to say, we did lose some boats at that
time.
But after a day of work there we often had liberty if not having the
"duty". And on those days if not on duty I would usually spend the few
hours of liberty out in the town in the local bars. It was a wonderful
distraction from the war, work, heat and humidity, and even the rocket
and mortar attacks that were somewhat frequent. I seem to recall that
our base had come under attack some 13 times in the 18 months that I
was stationed there.
Well on one of those occasions as I drank with a good friend, George,
in walked a PBR sailor - a green hornet - a new guy who was just
recently stationed in Vietnam and beginning his tour. By that time I
was an old salt, probably 20 years old, with but a few more months to
do on my second and final tour there.
And in he swaggered, going on about how he and his unit were the
toughest in Vietnam. Talking to the bar in general. Likely it was the
beer, but I was just weary at the time and wasn't in the mood for such
braggadocio. I felt compelled to tell him that if his boat ever came
under fire it would go down like an anchor, and did so. He ignored my
statement and so I just continued drinking. But for some reason I never
did figure out, my buddy George just stood up looking at me! And then
so did I, looking at him ! The two of us just standing at either side
of our table staring at one another, with the braggart sitting behind
us some 10 feet at the bar.
It was then that I felt a grip on my shoulder, was spun around and
cold-cocked! One punch likely square on the jaw, that caused me to go
reeling out of the swinging doors and land in the middle of the dirt
street that parted the town. Something right out of "Gunsmoke" or
"Shane". And as I sat there with my legs spread, I saw stars. Stars
like one would see as if with a camera flash, blinking in various
colors all over the place. I think it was the only time I may, no
probably was, knocked out. But just for an instant. I remember the
punch, I remember barely going through the doors, but the very next
thing I remembered was sitting on the dirt street, staring up at a
shotgun pointing at my nose, from a Shore Patrolman named Padilla.
And the next thing I knew was that I was being helped up by a Navy
Seal, the guy who delivered the punch, who was telling Padilla that
everything was all right. "It was just a misunderstanding," he said. As
he dusted me off, and took me into the bar with him, he sat me down
beside him and bought me a beer. Shaken as I was, I remember him
clearly telling me that he had had a bad day, just wanted to have a few
quiet beers, and didn't want to be involved in any barroom fights.
Because he witnessed the confrontation earlier between me and the PBR
sailor, he imagined that we would have gotten into it. He saw to it,
that there would be no fight - by knocking me out! I guess.
And I think it was the only time in my life that I ever was!
One incident that had a lot to do with making me the person I am occurred shortly after I acquired my Drivers License.
It was a long time ago, I probably was 16 at the time.
I had worked in a butcher shop for many years. I started out as
the delivery boy but gradually acquired many skills around the shop. I
could slice cold cuts, cut chickens and chops, could do the minor
functions of a meat cutter. I also often accompanied the boss down to
the market and as I grew older I would carry the sides of beef into the
walk-in and hang them from the hooks. It was this job that had a lot to
do with shaping my character, making me who I am.
I had also worked in a grocery store around that time, down the
block from the butcher shop. But immediately beside the butcher shop
where I worked was another grocery store. I was acquainted with the
"delivery boy/aide" that worked in that one. His name was John Taylor.
Shortly after I had gotten my Drivers License, John suggested that
we might go hunting together, perhaps. As we lived in the Bronx, we
would have to go upstate somewhere in order to go deer hunting. He had
a hunting license and I got one that year, not that I was any hunter.
And because I had given him my word, I was now obligated to take him
upstate for the day sometime in the course of the Season.
The weeks passed and I found myself drawing to the end of the Deer
Hunting season before I knew it. Finally it was the last weekend and I
needed to go or renege on my word. I had mentioned to a friend from
school that I was going hunting this weekend and he, too, asked if he
might come along. Well this was great as I didn't own a gun and so my
function for the outing would be merely chauffeur for John. I had asked
Joe, my classmate, if he had an extra gun that I might borrow and he
assured me had. So now I finally had a sensible reason for going. My
promise would have been enough cause, but now at least I could
participate in the hunting experience.
It was determined that we would go early Sunday morning. I had the
keys to the butcher shop and told the boss that I would go in early and
get some cold cuts for us to take upstate. He didn't mind so I met John
around 5 AM, got the meat for our sandwiches and together we drove over
to pick up Joe. He answered the door but quietly whispered that he was
unable to go. His mother wouldn't permit him. I expressed my regret but
followed it with my own request to borrow that gun he said he would
lend me. He went off to get it but came back in a few minutes empty
handed. He said his mother forbid him from lending his rifle. So this
was working out great. I would be going hunting with no rifle. Taylor
had a bow and arrow, and I reasoned that I might take a shot with his,
given the opportunity. Or something.
So off we went to destination unknown - but direction North.
Upstate. I began our trip on the Saw Mill River Parkway intending to
take it north for an hour or two until I got into some forest areas
that I presumed we could hunt in. We drove for about 30 minutes, I was
at Hawthorne Circle and thought I was continuing on the Saw Mill.
Instead I mistakenly had taken the Taconic Parkway and was now lost.
Not that I really knew where I was going anyway.
Driving on a short ways I asked John to consult the map and tell
me where we were. He said that we were on the Taconic and close to a
town called Peekskill. I remembered that two very good friends of mine
(two brothers) had moved there some 7 or so years previously. My
parents would send the family Christmas cards. I asked Taylor if he
wouldn't mind my taking a short detour. He was agreeable so I went to
the Peekskill Police station hoping that they could tell me where my
friends lived.
In no time I was at the house, Sunday morning around 6 AM. The
father answered and asked if I had business with the two sons. I
explained who I was and suddenly the father beamed with the new
recognition. He hadn't seen me since I was about 8 or 9 and now I was
16 or so. He ushered myself and Taylor up the stairs to the boys room.
It was quite the reunion. We spoke of the neighborhood they left and
who was still living there. We talked about our present circumstances
and touched on intentions for the future. Here were two guys I grew up
with in my earliest formative years and I had discovered them again.
But I was struck with how "normal" and "cool" they were! Being from
NYC, living my whole life there - some 16 years or so - I was pretty
much taught to think that anyone NOT from NYC had to be hicks!
As I listened to the two brothers, Denis a year older and John 3
years older, I came to realize that the country had not turned them
into "bumpkins". The two brothers were really "cool"! Their way was
modern, the clothes they had were great. Everything about them was so
cool. I had to explain my puzzlement, how surprised I was that I was
not with two old friends who would be looking at me wearing straw hats
and holding a piece of straw from their teeth. It was then that the
older brother, John, smiled and commented how, "You came up here
intending to hunt deer with one bow and arrow, and you call us
'hicks'"!?
At that moment I got a new appreciation of the world. I realized
that the sun didn't rise and set on New York City exclusively. And to
any New Yorkers who might be reading this, I apologize for revealing
that to you.
4-24-08
_______________________________________________
An Incident in my Youth
When I was 17 years old my very good friend, Denis, “double-crossed” me. He had known that for as long as I could remember, I had wanted to join the Navy – like my father had. And I had wanted to go to Vietnam, the only War we were in at the time. Denis did it by joining the Marine Corps. And I almost followed in his footsteps – but that’s another story.
It was an incident that occurred the evening before he left for Boot Camp that remains indelibly etched in my memory. Many other things I have forgotten over the years, but not that night. Some of the details are hazy, but the sense of it all will live with me forever.
Denis had suggested that a fitting parting gift as he left for his tour of duty the following day would be to have a raucous evening of fun terrorizing the town. Of course in those days, terrorizing was nothing more than pelting the town with dozens of fresh eggs. But Denis also wanted to include a very selective and focused attack on two brothers he described as the town villains, thugs. A few years older than we were. He described them as low-lifes, and very mean individuals to say the least.
Denis and a bunch of friends, myself included, went to a local tavern that the two brothers frequented regularly. Or so I was told. Denis was very persuasive even at that time in our lives. He had formulated this plan to have me call out the two brothers and then dart to the safety of the car we were all riding in. Denis explained how I was the most fearless guy he knew, but by recollection, I think I was little better than reckless. He explained that I would probably be fine, as all I had to do was enter the bar and from the door yell out if the two brothers were there. I was to tell them that someone outside wanted to see them. I would be merely the messenger challenging them to go out. If I was quick I could be in the car before they ever got to the door.
With a little concern, I did my deed. And as quickly, I ran to the safety of the waiting car. In but a moment the two brothers followed, intending to meet their challengers. They came out pool cues in hand, not unlike some western movie. I don’t think I even made it to the car before the two were bombarded with easily a dozen eggs or more hurled from our “gang” who were waiting to ambush them! I recall the two covered in eggs waving their cue sticks and threatening to kill us all, if they could but catch us. This as we sped away. And I recall, too, the praise I received from Denis as having done well the task assigned me.
I had never met the two before, and never saw them again. I never doubted for a minute how “bad” these two were, and how they likely deserved the pummeling with eggs. But most of all, I remember how proud I was that I had not let my friend down, and did what I considered a fairly heroic act. Even if that act had a somewhat evil intent.
