This is such a great story I had to put it on the blog. To the Levins, I Thank you…to Ronnie Polaneczky, thank you for writing this and sharing it with us all.
Here's a 'today' Yule story in time for the holidays, I bring you the best Christmas story you never heard. written by Ronnie Polaneczky of the Philadelphia Daily News, as published December 22, 2005.
It started last Christmas, when Bennett and Vivian Levin were overwhelmed by sadness while listening to radio reports of injured American troops. "We have to let them know we care," Vivian told Bennett. So they organized a trip to bring soldiers from Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Bethesda Naval Hospital to the annual Army-Navy football game in Philly, on Dec. 3.
The cool part is, they created their own train line to do it. Yes, there are people in this country who actually own real trains. Bennett Levin - native Philly guy, self-made millionaire and irascible former L&I commish - is one of them.
He has three luxury rail cars. Think mahogany paneling, plush seating and white-linen dining areas. He also has two locomotives, which he stores at his Juniata Park train yard. One car, the elegant Pennsylvania , carried John F. Kennedy to the Army-Navy game in 1961 and '62. Later, it carried his brother Bobby's body to D. C. for burial. "That's a lot of history for one car," says Bennett.
He and Vivian wanted to revive a tradition that endured from 1936 to 1975, during which trains carried Army-Navy spectators from around the country directly to the stadium where the annual game is played. The Levins could think of no better passengers to reinstate the ceremonial ride than the wounded men and women recovering at Walter Reed in D. C. and Bethesda , in Maryland . "We wanted to give them a first-class experience," says Bennett. "Gourmet meals on board, private transportation from the train to the stadium, perfect seats - real hero treatment."
Through the Army War College Foundation, of which he is a trustee, Bennett met with Walter Reed's commanding general, who loved the idea. But Bennett had some ground rules first, all designed to keep the focus on the troops alone:
• No press on the trip, lest the soldiers' day of pampering devolve into a media circus.
• No politicians either, because, says Bennett, "I didn't want some idiot making this trip into a campaign photo op"
• And no Pentagon suits on board, otherwise the soldiers would be too busy saluting superiors to relax.
The general agreed to the conditions, and Bennett realized he had a problem on his hands. "I had to actually make this thing happen," he laughs.
Over the next months, he recruited owners of 15 other sumptuous rail cars from around the country - these people tend to know each other - into lending their vehicles for the day. The name of their temporary train? The Liberty Limited.
Amtrak volunteered to transport the cars to D. C. - where they'd be coupled together for the round-trip ride to Philly - then back to their owners later.
Conrail offered to service the Liberty while it was in Philly. And SEPTA drivers would bus the disabled soldiers 200 yards from the train to Lincoln Financial Field, for the game.
A benefactor from the War College ponied up 100 seats to the game - on the 50-yard line - and lunch in a hospitality suite.
And corporate donors filled, for free and without asking for publicity, goodie bags for attendees:
From Woolrich, stadium blankets. From Wal-Mart, digital cameras. From Nikon, field glasses. From GEAR, down jackets.
There was booty not just for the soldiers, but for their guests, too, since each was allowed to bring a friend or family member.
The Marines, though, declined the offer. "They voted not to take guests with them, so they could take more Marines," says Levin, choking up at the memory.
Bennett's an emotional guy, so he was worried about how he'd react to meeting the 88 troops and guests at D. C.'s Union Station, where the trip originated. Some GIs were missing limbs. Others were wheelchair-bound or accompanied by medical personnel for the day. "They made it easy to be with them," he says. "They were all smiles on the ride to Philly. Not an ounce of self-pity from any of them. They're so full of life and determination."
At the stadium, the troops reveled in the game, recalls Bennett. Not even Army's lopsided loss to Navy could deflate the group's rollicking mood.
Afterward, it was back to the train and yet another gourmet meal - heroes get hungry, says Levin - before returning to Walter Reed and Bethesda . "The day was spectacular," says Levin. "It was all about these kids. It was awesome to be part of it."
The most poignant moment for the Levins was when 11 Marines hugged them goodbye, then sang them the Marine Hymn on the platform at Union Station.
"One of the guys was blind, but he said, 'I can't see you, but man, you must be f---ing beautiful!' " says Bennett. "I got a lump so big in my throat, I couldn't even answer him."
It's been three weeks, but the Levins and their guests are still feeling the day's love. "My Christmas came early," says Levin, who is Jewish and who loves the Christmas season. "I can't describe the feeling in the air." Maybe it was hope.
As one guest wrote in a thank-you note to Bennett and Vivian, "The fond memories generated last Saturday will sustain us all - whatever the future may bring."
God bless the Levins.
And bless the troops, every one.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The "Rocker"
As the result of what I am sure was just some youthful foreplay Elaine would announce in early 1969 that she was, for lack of a better term, pregnant. To say I was excited, happy, scared, convinced of my manhood, and on the way to becoming the father of a “son” would be a slight understatement. Did I mention scared. I would find out, as many a man before me and since, this would be nothing like being in combat, trying to cross a busy street, fighting off a bear, or facing down a pissed off cobra. No this would be much harder, more demanding, and the greatest responsibility that can be stowed upon the male species. Beyond the demands of being a good husband I can think of nothing more important than being a good father. Being a patriot, a good worker, honest, truthful, punctual, and all of those other things that define who we are is nothing in comparison. As it turned out being a Marine was easy. Being a father lasts a lifetime, a constant learning process, and comes with demands that can only be defined by a wife and mother. You see I didn’t know that you couldn’t give birth until you had a “rocker.” Even before the birth, of what could only be a “son,” the learning process of being a father had begun. I would also learn that there were certain voice inflections, facial expressions and body language positions that defined, beyond any doubt, that Elaine was serious. This has proven to be a valuable learning experience early on in our marriage. I learned very quickly when to just shut up.
So as we progressed through the trimesters, made the required doctor’s visits, and worked our way closer to the “due date” the search for just the right “rocker” would become a part of our weekly diversions. I honestly and truly cannot recall how many stores we visited, many I know, nor can I recall how many rocking chairs I sat in, not that it made any difference to me, but that too was an exasperating number. Somehow the “rocker” eluded us. “I am not having this baby until I have a “rocker.” “Yes dear.”
At the time would be parents didn’t have the opportunity of knowing the sex of the child. Not that it made any difference to me; it was a boy! But we did have a due date, or at least a due period, the middle of August. So on the last day of July when we walked into a little mom & pop furniture store on Atlantic Ave. not two blocks from Elaine’s childhood home I knew we still had plenty of time to find just the right “rocker.” What surprised me was that we found the right “rocker.” It fit, it was comfortable, it was affordable, and the most important aspect, it “rocked” and the search was over. You have no idea. We were informed that we should purchase some “Scotch Guard” and spray the chair to protect it from the inevitable “burp.” That was a polite way to say it. Scotch Guard was a new product at the time but it made sense to me so I bought two cans and with the “family rocker” we headed home. It didn’t take too long before the chair had a good coating of Scotch Guard applied and we waited the several hours for the dry cycle of the process.
It was around 10:45 in the PM when Elaine placed her pregnant loveliness in the now spill protected necessity of childbirth. After several minutes of peaceful, calm and delightful rocking she announced that she was ready. I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear that. The next several weeks would be blissful the search for the “rocker” was over.
“I guess you didn’t hear me. I said I am ready.”
“I heard you and I am really glad.”
“Okay, you heard me, you just didn’t understand. It’s time, take me to the hospital.”
Remember the lesson I mentioned earlier, inflection, expression and body language; it applied here.
Within minutes we were on our way to St Mary’s and I was in complete control. I parked the car outside of “Admitting” and went in to the lobby to the “Reception Area” to announce that my wife was in labor and was about to give birth of my “son.” The nurse informed me that it would be a good idea if I went back out to the car and brought her in. Everyone got a good laugh. I turned and found that apparently they had witnessed this behavior before. As I turned to retrieve my wife I saw that two very competent individuals that had witnessed the ineptness of expectant fathers before were wheeling in Elaine.
About a half hour after arrival I was led to the “labor room” for what turned out to be only several minutes before one of the very competent nurses would tell me in no uncertain terms that it was time for me to go to the “Father’s Waiting Room.” A father in the delivery room was still a decade away. Thank goodness. I was alone in the room that showed signs of wear and tear, pacing paths in the linoleum, worn chairs and a well-used TV. As I walked in “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre” was just starting. I wouldn’t get to see “The End” flash across the screen and from the time we left home to my return would only be four hours and forty-five minutes. I got home about a half hour after the nurse in delivery would announce over the speaker mounted over the door inside the Father’s Waiting Room.
“Mr. Page, listen to your wife.”
Elaine would respond, “It’s a boy.”
I knew that.
Before leaving I would get to meet my son as he was transferred from delivery to the nursery and wonder what happened to his forehead. I would also get to see Elaine as she was being wheeled from delivery to recovery. She would announce that she was ready to do it again. I wasn’t quite ready for that. As it turned out we only shared in this joy once, and it has been a lifelong joy. My regrets I think I have mentioned in another entry.
So as we progressed through the trimesters, made the required doctor’s visits, and worked our way closer to the “due date” the search for just the right “rocker” would become a part of our weekly diversions. I honestly and truly cannot recall how many stores we visited, many I know, nor can I recall how many rocking chairs I sat in, not that it made any difference to me, but that too was an exasperating number. Somehow the “rocker” eluded us. “I am not having this baby until I have a “rocker.” “Yes dear.”
At the time would be parents didn’t have the opportunity of knowing the sex of the child. Not that it made any difference to me; it was a boy! But we did have a due date, or at least a due period, the middle of August. So on the last day of July when we walked into a little mom & pop furniture store on Atlantic Ave. not two blocks from Elaine’s childhood home I knew we still had plenty of time to find just the right “rocker.” What surprised me was that we found the right “rocker.” It fit, it was comfortable, it was affordable, and the most important aspect, it “rocked” and the search was over. You have no idea. We were informed that we should purchase some “Scotch Guard” and spray the chair to protect it from the inevitable “burp.” That was a polite way to say it. Scotch Guard was a new product at the time but it made sense to me so I bought two cans and with the “family rocker” we headed home. It didn’t take too long before the chair had a good coating of Scotch Guard applied and we waited the several hours for the dry cycle of the process.
It was around 10:45 in the PM when Elaine placed her pregnant loveliness in the now spill protected necessity of childbirth. After several minutes of peaceful, calm and delightful rocking she announced that she was ready. I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear that. The next several weeks would be blissful the search for the “rocker” was over.
“I guess you didn’t hear me. I said I am ready.”
“I heard you and I am really glad.”
“Okay, you heard me, you just didn’t understand. It’s time, take me to the hospital.”
Remember the lesson I mentioned earlier, inflection, expression and body language; it applied here.
Within minutes we were on our way to St Mary’s and I was in complete control. I parked the car outside of “Admitting” and went in to the lobby to the “Reception Area” to announce that my wife was in labor and was about to give birth of my “son.” The nurse informed me that it would be a good idea if I went back out to the car and brought her in. Everyone got a good laugh. I turned and found that apparently they had witnessed this behavior before. As I turned to retrieve my wife I saw that two very competent individuals that had witnessed the ineptness of expectant fathers before were wheeling in Elaine.
About a half hour after arrival I was led to the “labor room” for what turned out to be only several minutes before one of the very competent nurses would tell me in no uncertain terms that it was time for me to go to the “Father’s Waiting Room.” A father in the delivery room was still a decade away. Thank goodness. I was alone in the room that showed signs of wear and tear, pacing paths in the linoleum, worn chairs and a well-used TV. As I walked in “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre” was just starting. I wouldn’t get to see “The End” flash across the screen and from the time we left home to my return would only be four hours and forty-five minutes. I got home about a half hour after the nurse in delivery would announce over the speaker mounted over the door inside the Father’s Waiting Room.
“Mr. Page, listen to your wife.”
Elaine would respond, “It’s a boy.”
I knew that.
Before leaving I would get to meet my son as he was transferred from delivery to the nursery and wonder what happened to his forehead. I would also get to see Elaine as she was being wheeled from delivery to recovery. She would announce that she was ready to do it again. I wasn’t quite ready for that. As it turned out we only shared in this joy once, and it has been a lifelong joy. My regrets I think I have mentioned in another entry.
Friday, September 10, 2010
9/11/Forever
After the initial shock of watching an act of war being committed on American soil a sadness that I had never felt before, even in combat while serving in Vietnam, engulfed my soul. I was saddened by the loss of men, women, children, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, family and friends. Saddened even more by what I knew would be a weak response by our government, its leaders and the most powerful military on the face of the earth, by no fault of their own. My experience told me that many more lives would be lost, senseless to some degree, yet heroic that again thousands of men and women would answer the call to protect our so precious freedoms. For those murdered that day my sadness cannot be measured. For those that sacrificed their existence that day in an effort to help others my respect is endless. For the men and women that have answered the call to duty, stepped into harm’s way, sacrificed ultimately, physically, mentally without one selfish thought my heart and soul will always celebrate your contribution and dedication as a member of the greatest group of people ever assembled; the American Military. Thank you. For anyone and everyone be assured that if you lost a loved one here or on any foreign soil, they have not and will not be forgotten.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Regrets
I guess I have been putting this off long enough. That is not regret but the result of procrastination. Regrettably I think procrastination could fall somewhere in the list of regrets I may have. I’m not quite sure how many I may have because of the scale; regrettably a scale that is difficult to define. I know, I ask around.
How would you classify your regrets? The responses were as numbered as the regrets. Simple to complex, forgettable and unforgettable, intentional and unintentional, with and without outside influence, voluntary and involuntary, painful, painless, short term, long term, eventful, uneventful, you get the point.
So, what do I regret and how do I put them on a scale. For me they are all of the above, then, I label them significant and insignificant. Insignificant didn’t change my life or how I think about things, significant did.
I regret not having more children, the most significant regret to date. I was afraid I wouldn’t be a good father, be able to provide amply, I was being selfish and fearful. We would spend four years in the adoption process only to be denied what I now consider to be a blessing. To some degree I was still being selfish, but I had no idea how hard it would be to get a newborn girl. Nor did we realize how often expectant Mothers changed their minds at birth. The last time we were sitting by the phone, with the car loaded, baby’s seat in place and ready to head to the hospital, the expectant Mother in delivery, when the Adoption Attorney called and informed us the Mother had changed her mind. That was the last time. It was the fourth time. We moved on…significant…Elaine and I grew closer, more caring, more committed to each other, and life-long friends, not just a husband and wife, oh yes very significant. Thank goodness for Grandchildren.
I regret not having a passion, extremely significant now. I had a great career, I have a great family, I have great friends, great neighbors, the health is doing very well, the golf game it seems is always improving, I still bang on the drum kit now and then, the bills are paid, there is some, although not as much as you would like, money in the bank and 401/IRA’s and such, and I met some cousins several years ago that I previously just knew about. I’ll get to that. But I have never, beyond knowing I wanted to spend my life with Elaine, had a passion. This is significant at several different levels but I would have to say mostly because now I have a lot of time and nowhere to direct it. I like to golf, but not passionately, ride the motorcycle, but not passionately, play the drums, but not passionately and I like to write, but not passionately. I heard somewhere if you want to be a writer, just write. How simple that sounds, how complicated that is to formulate the thought process to get it all on paper. Thomas Edison, Edgar Allen Poe, Van Gogh, Bruce Springsteen, Bret Favre, Charles Schultz, and Mother Theresa are a few, a very few of the people I believe are driven by passion. I regret not having a passion. Significant, to the degree I waste a lot of valuable time that I could be directing to something more creative and beneficial. I am working on it.
Are there other regrets…I could spend days writing about them and bore myself to death. I regret not practicing more; whether it is the drums, golf, whatever. I regret not reading more. I regret not getting a better education, maybe a degree. I regret not painting the front and rear door sills yet, cleaning out the in-basket more often, yes I still have an in-basket on my desk, where else you going to put old scorecards and unopened mail. So the list is long and could be very boring.
I mentioned earlier some new family. I guess under regrets is a strange place to put that. But this is one of those you can’t do anything about regrets, till now. My Father, for I am sure numerous reasons ended up in California. While a large part of his family, which included all of his sisters, remained in Florida. So separated by miles and time there are cousins on the east coast I had never met until several years ago on a golf trip to Ponte Vedra. I also got to meet one of his sisters. I had a vague memory of meeting her when I was 11 or 12 but long forgotten, watching my cousins around her I knew she was special. Although we only spent several hours together I knew I would regret not having known them sooner. Never in my lifetime have I met with someone so far removed from my life and so instantly a part of my life than on this day. Watching, listening, and sharing just a speckle of time that would be a lifelong memory. I hope we will have the opportunity to share even more. The regret, one of my cousins just passed away and I didn’t get to know her better, share more time with her, laugh or cry with her, comfort her or protect her. Joke with her, tease her, and give her a hard time about her favorite sports team, TV show, color, cartoon character, place to vacation or anything else. I didn’t get to praise her for her work as a nurse, a Mother, a sister, a cousin, wife or friend. I didn’t get to know her for who she was, I just got to know that she was my cousin, loved by her sisters and apparently by everyone whose life she touched. I know she touched mine and there will always be a place in my heart for her. Now I am back to being selfish again. Out of us all, my immediate family and my new found family I am the oldest. This will no longer be allowed. I am well aware we will all go in due time, but as the Elder it is here by decreed that you shall not pass until I have departed, and I am sticking around for some time. Let it be said, let it be so.
So in the list of things that I feel shaped who I am…regrets are part of that. Some are insignificant, some were very significant. What else helped shape who I am? Well I will spend some valuable time procrastinating the next subject, not a regret, but Humor in my life has been the difference between sane and insane as much as I need time to think about that, so do you.
How would you classify your regrets? The responses were as numbered as the regrets. Simple to complex, forgettable and unforgettable, intentional and unintentional, with and without outside influence, voluntary and involuntary, painful, painless, short term, long term, eventful, uneventful, you get the point.
So, what do I regret and how do I put them on a scale. For me they are all of the above, then, I label them significant and insignificant. Insignificant didn’t change my life or how I think about things, significant did.
I regret not having more children, the most significant regret to date. I was afraid I wouldn’t be a good father, be able to provide amply, I was being selfish and fearful. We would spend four years in the adoption process only to be denied what I now consider to be a blessing. To some degree I was still being selfish, but I had no idea how hard it would be to get a newborn girl. Nor did we realize how often expectant Mothers changed their minds at birth. The last time we were sitting by the phone, with the car loaded, baby’s seat in place and ready to head to the hospital, the expectant Mother in delivery, when the Adoption Attorney called and informed us the Mother had changed her mind. That was the last time. It was the fourth time. We moved on…significant…Elaine and I grew closer, more caring, more committed to each other, and life-long friends, not just a husband and wife, oh yes very significant. Thank goodness for Grandchildren.
I regret not having a passion, extremely significant now. I had a great career, I have a great family, I have great friends, great neighbors, the health is doing very well, the golf game it seems is always improving, I still bang on the drum kit now and then, the bills are paid, there is some, although not as much as you would like, money in the bank and 401/IRA’s and such, and I met some cousins several years ago that I previously just knew about. I’ll get to that. But I have never, beyond knowing I wanted to spend my life with Elaine, had a passion. This is significant at several different levels but I would have to say mostly because now I have a lot of time and nowhere to direct it. I like to golf, but not passionately, ride the motorcycle, but not passionately, play the drums, but not passionately and I like to write, but not passionately. I heard somewhere if you want to be a writer, just write. How simple that sounds, how complicated that is to formulate the thought process to get it all on paper. Thomas Edison, Edgar Allen Poe, Van Gogh, Bruce Springsteen, Bret Favre, Charles Schultz, and Mother Theresa are a few, a very few of the people I believe are driven by passion. I regret not having a passion. Significant, to the degree I waste a lot of valuable time that I could be directing to something more creative and beneficial. I am working on it.
Are there other regrets…I could spend days writing about them and bore myself to death. I regret not practicing more; whether it is the drums, golf, whatever. I regret not reading more. I regret not getting a better education, maybe a degree. I regret not painting the front and rear door sills yet, cleaning out the in-basket more often, yes I still have an in-basket on my desk, where else you going to put old scorecards and unopened mail. So the list is long and could be very boring.
I mentioned earlier some new family. I guess under regrets is a strange place to put that. But this is one of those you can’t do anything about regrets, till now. My Father, for I am sure numerous reasons ended up in California. While a large part of his family, which included all of his sisters, remained in Florida. So separated by miles and time there are cousins on the east coast I had never met until several years ago on a golf trip to Ponte Vedra. I also got to meet one of his sisters. I had a vague memory of meeting her when I was 11 or 12 but long forgotten, watching my cousins around her I knew she was special. Although we only spent several hours together I knew I would regret not having known them sooner. Never in my lifetime have I met with someone so far removed from my life and so instantly a part of my life than on this day. Watching, listening, and sharing just a speckle of time that would be a lifelong memory. I hope we will have the opportunity to share even more. The regret, one of my cousins just passed away and I didn’t get to know her better, share more time with her, laugh or cry with her, comfort her or protect her. Joke with her, tease her, and give her a hard time about her favorite sports team, TV show, color, cartoon character, place to vacation or anything else. I didn’t get to praise her for her work as a nurse, a Mother, a sister, a cousin, wife or friend. I didn’t get to know her for who she was, I just got to know that she was my cousin, loved by her sisters and apparently by everyone whose life she touched. I know she touched mine and there will always be a place in my heart for her. Now I am back to being selfish again. Out of us all, my immediate family and my new found family I am the oldest. This will no longer be allowed. I am well aware we will all go in due time, but as the Elder it is here by decreed that you shall not pass until I have departed, and I am sticking around for some time. Let it be said, let it be so.
So in the list of things that I feel shaped who I am…regrets are part of that. Some are insignificant, some were very significant. What else helped shape who I am? Well I will spend some valuable time procrastinating the next subject, not a regret, but Humor in my life has been the difference between sane and insane as much as I need time to think about that, so do you.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Gender Issue...
I don’t recall where I first saw this, but each time I see it I get a smile, enjoy. If you want to have a vote on who provided the best reasons, make sure those who will be casting favor your gender. It is always a split decision otherwise.
A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.
“House” for instance, is feminine: “la casa.”
“Pencil” however, is masculine: “el lapiz.”
A student asked, “What gender is “computer?”
Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female, and asked them to decide for themselves whether “computer” should be a masculine or feminine noun. Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendations.
The men’s group decided that “computer” should definitely be of the feminine gender, (la computadora”} because:
1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic.
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else.
3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval: and
4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.
The women’s group, however, concluded that computers should be masculine, (“el computador”) because:
1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on.
2. They have a lot of data but still can’t think for themselves.
3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they are the problem: and
4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.
A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.
“House” for instance, is feminine: “la casa.”
“Pencil” however, is masculine: “el lapiz.”
A student asked, “What gender is “computer?”
Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female, and asked them to decide for themselves whether “computer” should be a masculine or feminine noun. Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendations.
The men’s group decided that “computer” should definitely be of the feminine gender, (la computadora”} because:
1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic.
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else.
3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval: and
4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.
The women’s group, however, concluded that computers should be masculine, (“el computador”) because:
1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on.
2. They have a lot of data but still can’t think for themselves.
3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they are the problem: and
4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
"When I'm Sixty-Four"
When I get older losing my hair,
Many years from now.
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine.
If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door,
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four.
Paul McCartney, John Lennon
There is a special place in my heart for these lyrics. Released in June 1967 on Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band...one month after I proposed and one month before I was married. Under the warm summer night's deep blue blanket, with an ocean breeze lightly scenting the air like fresh cut flowers the two of us agreed to come together for a lifetime in sharing the joys and sorrows of living. Several times before that union we would ask, ....when I'm sixty-four? Since that union we have ask,...when I'm sixty-four? Of course we have both responded in the affirmative, although I have detected some hesitation on occasion I think she was just keeping me in check.
Anyway as stated...Many years from now...there never really was any seriousness to the response. It was puppy love, an association to music we both liked, from our era, by a group that made us sing in the shower and dance till quarter to three. It wasn't reality, I mean good grief, sixty-four, that was a million miles away and so far beyond comprehension, and geez, it was really old.
I don't know who said it but, "Life Happens." This just seems to be appropriate. In several days, less than that really but I'm putting this off for as long as I can, I will be sixty-four. You see turning 30 meant nothing to me, it was just another birthday, as was 40, and 50 was very special and I looked forward to it. You see there was no real reference marker. What made all of those and the birthdays in between not that big a deal. I still had my lovely bride by my side. My rock, my companion, my best friend. So now a true test of our commitment has arrived, an established reference marker. Will you still need me will you still feed me when I'm sixty-four. With joy, jubilance, a warm heart, contented soul, a smiling sense of extreme wealth, and the blessing of all that is good in this life she hung around so I have the answer to this age old question. Yes, and I couldn't be any happier.
Oh, and it is not really that old, but it was a million miles away, we have travelled at least that far together.
Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four.
Many years from now.
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine.
If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door,
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four.
Paul McCartney, John Lennon
There is a special place in my heart for these lyrics. Released in June 1967 on Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band...one month after I proposed and one month before I was married. Under the warm summer night's deep blue blanket, with an ocean breeze lightly scenting the air like fresh cut flowers the two of us agreed to come together for a lifetime in sharing the joys and sorrows of living. Several times before that union we would ask, ....when I'm sixty-four? Since that union we have ask,...when I'm sixty-four? Of course we have both responded in the affirmative, although I have detected some hesitation on occasion I think she was just keeping me in check.
Anyway as stated...Many years from now...there never really was any seriousness to the response. It was puppy love, an association to music we both liked, from our era, by a group that made us sing in the shower and dance till quarter to three. It wasn't reality, I mean good grief, sixty-four, that was a million miles away and so far beyond comprehension, and geez, it was really old.
I don't know who said it but, "Life Happens." This just seems to be appropriate. In several days, less than that really but I'm putting this off for as long as I can, I will be sixty-four. You see turning 30 meant nothing to me, it was just another birthday, as was 40, and 50 was very special and I looked forward to it. You see there was no real reference marker. What made all of those and the birthdays in between not that big a deal. I still had my lovely bride by my side. My rock, my companion, my best friend. So now a true test of our commitment has arrived, an established reference marker. Will you still need me will you still feed me when I'm sixty-four. With joy, jubilance, a warm heart, contented soul, a smiling sense of extreme wealth, and the blessing of all that is good in this life she hung around so I have the answer to this age old question. Yes, and I couldn't be any happier.
Oh, and it is not really that old, but it was a million miles away, we have travelled at least that far together.
Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Chicken or the Pig?...Commitment
Another segment involved in the development of me has been commitment. I am not saying I am one or the other, chicken or pig, but sometimes I am one, other times I am the other, and on occasion, both. Huh? There are two kinds of commitment as I see them. Let us use breakfast as the goal. It takes commitment to accomplish a goal. In the case of breakfast there is a commitment from the chicken, the egg. So the chicken is somewhat committed to the breakfast. Then there is the bacon or sausage, the pig. I would have to say the pig was fully committed to breakfast.
So, as I became me I had to make commitments. When it comes to my family, my marriage, my desire to protect them both, I am a pig. I am a pig when it comes to protecting the freedom of this country. In regards to the Marine Corps I will always be a pig with a touch of chicken. It was not in the cards for me to make it a career, but even now when it comes to the organization, its history, my service to it, my belief in everything it stands for, I’m a huge pig.
The level of commitment will and has dictated the success and attainment of the goals I have set. Some have been reached by being the chicken and others have been reached by being the pig or both. But in either case I was required to make a commitment, work hard, devote time and in some cases money. Like everything in life there have been rewards, losses, successes and failures.
Through all of this I was then either the chicken or the pig. I committed to remain a free man, stand by my word, and represent my family name with pride and honor. I committed to do whatever it would take to provide for them regardless of what sacrifices I had to make. There was a time I had three jobs. We had a time when I had no job and moved in with my in-laws. Rest assured I was a total pig in the commitment to get employed and get us back out on our own. My commitment to graduate Marine Corps Boot Camp was repeated when I went through the Academy, 15 years older and no where near was I physically as prepared like when I was coming out of high school. The commitment of the chicken wouldn’t cut it. The commitment to work in a career that required the carrying of a sidearm made me a pig (no pun intended) to do and commit to whatever it would take to go home at the end of shift. I succeeded even though there were those that wanted to prevent that. I must confess that the tour of duty in Vietnam had a lot to do with that commitment to survive. That I still carry. Oink Oink.
What makes me, what makes all of us? Commitment is one of those things that I relate to when I have to define who I am. Whether I have been the chicken or the pig I have attained the goals, most of the time. In some cases the results defined regret and regrets that I didn’t commit defined other results, more or Les.
So, as I became me I had to make commitments. When it comes to my family, my marriage, my desire to protect them both, I am a pig. I am a pig when it comes to protecting the freedom of this country. In regards to the Marine Corps I will always be a pig with a touch of chicken. It was not in the cards for me to make it a career, but even now when it comes to the organization, its history, my service to it, my belief in everything it stands for, I’m a huge pig.
The level of commitment will and has dictated the success and attainment of the goals I have set. Some have been reached by being the chicken and others have been reached by being the pig or both. But in either case I was required to make a commitment, work hard, devote time and in some cases money. Like everything in life there have been rewards, losses, successes and failures.
Through all of this I was then either the chicken or the pig. I committed to remain a free man, stand by my word, and represent my family name with pride and honor. I committed to do whatever it would take to provide for them regardless of what sacrifices I had to make. There was a time I had three jobs. We had a time when I had no job and moved in with my in-laws. Rest assured I was a total pig in the commitment to get employed and get us back out on our own. My commitment to graduate Marine Corps Boot Camp was repeated when I went through the Academy, 15 years older and no where near was I physically as prepared like when I was coming out of high school. The commitment of the chicken wouldn’t cut it. The commitment to work in a career that required the carrying of a sidearm made me a pig (no pun intended) to do and commit to whatever it would take to go home at the end of shift. I succeeded even though there were those that wanted to prevent that. I must confess that the tour of duty in Vietnam had a lot to do with that commitment to survive. That I still carry. Oink Oink.
What makes me, what makes all of us? Commitment is one of those things that I relate to when I have to define who I am. Whether I have been the chicken or the pig I have attained the goals, most of the time. In some cases the results defined regret and regrets that I didn’t commit defined other results, more or Les.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Love at first sight...no lust...no love...lust...whatever!
I have always said it was love at first sight. She has always said it was the hormone driven lust of a fifteen year old. We haven’t agreed on much else since. We are living proof that opposites attract. It really doesn’t make any difference if we agree it will always work out, we will come to terms, strive for the common goal and support each other the best that we can with what we know to be a lifelong friendship and a love that goes much deeper than on the first day of school on a hot September day in 1961.
I was new to the school and having moved into the neighborhood only a month before school began I had only met a few people. As it turned out two of them were in my Biology class. The three of us arrived early and were in the classroom at least 10 minutes before the bell. Who knows if it was boredom or just stupid we began participating in what would soon be defined as horseplay. Not a term that I have ever really understood, there being no horses involved.
The rectangular classroom was set up with tables that would become the platform for the butchering of bugs, frogs and of all things leaves. All of the tables, 6’ across, and two abreast would face the teacher’s desk that sat facing all of the tables on an elevated platform. The rectangular shaped room had two means of entry and exit. When seated for class there was no view of the back entrance. We were seated facing the desk of dominance and having a rather vocal bout discussing who knows what, when above our noise rose the voice of the custodian of the elevated desk whose name was prominently displayed on the engraved plaque we all had taken notice of but didn’t pay much attention to. The voice, from the backdoor echoed through our marrow and we immediately, as if responding to a siren, yielded our boisterous activity.
Mrs. Wise, previously identified by the engraved plaque demanded,
“You three stop that horseplay right now and take your seats, quietly! Leslie, take the seat against the wall.” Her index finger was directed to a singular schoolhouse chair, the kind with its own desk top. It sat facing the opposing wall that contained both doors, was much too close to the elevated desk, right up against the platform. Not within arms’ reach, but close enough. It had never even passed my line of sight and its existence wasn’t even a thought until the finger demanded my attention in its direction. As I relocated myself the six or seven feet to the chair two things became evident. The back of the chair had been crudely carved with the identification of “hot seat” and Mrs. Wise knew my name. I don’t think there were 10 people in the school of nearly 3,000 that knew my name. Now I am freaked out. Silence had taken over my body, a chill I wouldn’t feel again until combat possessed my being and the realization that Mrs. God was not going to be a push over defined the remainder of my activities during my sophomore year of high school. I mean who knew who she told who I was. I would be sitting in the “hot seat” with a clear view of both doors as the other victims of Biology 101 would step into boundaries of the Walls of Wise.
With only a minute or two before the tardy bell would ring its penal warning a young girl of 15 would walk through the backdoor, a door I would have never seen, an entrance that would have gone unnoticed, an event that would have had no impact on my life, an event so distant it would have never had an effect on my day, let alone my high school career, my being and the rest of my life. She was as tan as could be from the wonderful summer sun that caused her skin to glisten like liquid gold against the white blouse that was so neatly tucked in to the black skirt that stopped just above the knee leaving more glowing skin and allowed the imagination to fill in any blanks. I think this is where she got the lust idea. I wasn’t filling in “centerfold” data; I was contemplating if what else was there was as good as the visual package. She was cute, was she fun, did she like to dance, did she play sports, and was she going with someone? What else was there to this really fabulous looking “woman?”
I leaned forward in my new found seat and whispered to my equestrian playing friends,
“I just saw the girl I am going to marry.” Directing them to the back of the room with a slight nod of the head so as not to get anyone else’s attention they would both slowly turn to look. One of the horse playing partners would slowly turn back, lean forward and identify the future Mrs. With the control I don’t think I have ever demonstrated since, with a calmness I have never known I replied,
“You know her?”
My new best friend, the one person outside of my family I would have died for confirmed he has known her for years, they have gone to school together as long as he could remember.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Oh yea, she lives down the street from Burnett.”
I didn’t have a clue where Burnett was, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before that information became common knowledge. Later that day, the first day of the rest of my life, my newest best friend would take me by and I would be introduced to the girl that would change my purpose of life. Did I want to kiss her? Yes. Did I want to hold her? Yes. But more than all of those “lust” things that a 15 year old thinks about as the hormones race around and about with no specific direction or purpose more than all of that stuff, I wanted to know her. I’m still working on that.
It wouldn’t be until I returned from Vietnam that she would accept my proposal, the second happiest day of my life, the first was being directed to the “hot seat.” We had dated, off and on, graduated high school together, shared in dancing, dating and dining for just over six years before we were married. The list of days that were really happy days was getting longer, and every one of them included her…still do.
I was new to the school and having moved into the neighborhood only a month before school began I had only met a few people. As it turned out two of them were in my Biology class. The three of us arrived early and were in the classroom at least 10 minutes before the bell. Who knows if it was boredom or just stupid we began participating in what would soon be defined as horseplay. Not a term that I have ever really understood, there being no horses involved.
The rectangular classroom was set up with tables that would become the platform for the butchering of bugs, frogs and of all things leaves. All of the tables, 6’ across, and two abreast would face the teacher’s desk that sat facing all of the tables on an elevated platform. The rectangular shaped room had two means of entry and exit. When seated for class there was no view of the back entrance. We were seated facing the desk of dominance and having a rather vocal bout discussing who knows what, when above our noise rose the voice of the custodian of the elevated desk whose name was prominently displayed on the engraved plaque we all had taken notice of but didn’t pay much attention to. The voice, from the backdoor echoed through our marrow and we immediately, as if responding to a siren, yielded our boisterous activity.
Mrs. Wise, previously identified by the engraved plaque demanded,
“You three stop that horseplay right now and take your seats, quietly! Leslie, take the seat against the wall.” Her index finger was directed to a singular schoolhouse chair, the kind with its own desk top. It sat facing the opposing wall that contained both doors, was much too close to the elevated desk, right up against the platform. Not within arms’ reach, but close enough. It had never even passed my line of sight and its existence wasn’t even a thought until the finger demanded my attention in its direction. As I relocated myself the six or seven feet to the chair two things became evident. The back of the chair had been crudely carved with the identification of “hot seat” and Mrs. Wise knew my name. I don’t think there were 10 people in the school of nearly 3,000 that knew my name. Now I am freaked out. Silence had taken over my body, a chill I wouldn’t feel again until combat possessed my being and the realization that Mrs. God was not going to be a push over defined the remainder of my activities during my sophomore year of high school. I mean who knew who she told who I was. I would be sitting in the “hot seat” with a clear view of both doors as the other victims of Biology 101 would step into boundaries of the Walls of Wise.
With only a minute or two before the tardy bell would ring its penal warning a young girl of 15 would walk through the backdoor, a door I would have never seen, an entrance that would have gone unnoticed, an event that would have had no impact on my life, an event so distant it would have never had an effect on my day, let alone my high school career, my being and the rest of my life. She was as tan as could be from the wonderful summer sun that caused her skin to glisten like liquid gold against the white blouse that was so neatly tucked in to the black skirt that stopped just above the knee leaving more glowing skin and allowed the imagination to fill in any blanks. I think this is where she got the lust idea. I wasn’t filling in “centerfold” data; I was contemplating if what else was there was as good as the visual package. She was cute, was she fun, did she like to dance, did she play sports, and was she going with someone? What else was there to this really fabulous looking “woman?”
I leaned forward in my new found seat and whispered to my equestrian playing friends,
“I just saw the girl I am going to marry.” Directing them to the back of the room with a slight nod of the head so as not to get anyone else’s attention they would both slowly turn to look. One of the horse playing partners would slowly turn back, lean forward and identify the future Mrs. With the control I don’t think I have ever demonstrated since, with a calmness I have never known I replied,
“You know her?”
My new best friend, the one person outside of my family I would have died for confirmed he has known her for years, they have gone to school together as long as he could remember.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Oh yea, she lives down the street from Burnett.”
I didn’t have a clue where Burnett was, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before that information became common knowledge. Later that day, the first day of the rest of my life, my newest best friend would take me by and I would be introduced to the girl that would change my purpose of life. Did I want to kiss her? Yes. Did I want to hold her? Yes. But more than all of those “lust” things that a 15 year old thinks about as the hormones race around and about with no specific direction or purpose more than all of that stuff, I wanted to know her. I’m still working on that.
It wouldn’t be until I returned from Vietnam that she would accept my proposal, the second happiest day of my life, the first was being directed to the “hot seat.” We had dated, off and on, graduated high school together, shared in dancing, dating and dining for just over six years before we were married. The list of days that were really happy days was getting longer, and every one of them included her…still do.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Sacrifice
When I discussed in “What Makes Sammy Run” I listed several of the things that I internally believe made me the person I am. Following discipline was sacrifice. I don’t really think that what I might feel is a sacrifice I made to be in anyway comparable to what my parents and grandparents had to deal with. Two World Wars, the Great Depression, The Crash and all of the elements that followed the devastation of these events. What has been described many times in many forms what developed was recovery, growth, a stronger country, a gained appreciation for this country, its people and its freedoms but with tremendous sacrifice. The minor sacrifices I made though are equal in the “recovery” aspects that helped me develop.
It was, to a degree, a sacrifice to accept without question or debate the trip to the Post Office. As I look back I think it was a healthy choice. I sacrificed four years of opportunities to advance my education, time to develop relationships with people I met in school and went on to local colleges and passed on employment opportunities that may have led to a more financially rewarding career. It would turn out to be a very minor and insignificant sacrifice. I got an education that would provide a solid foundation for growth. I met friends that would last a life time; I would learn independence, camaraderie, loyalty, teamwork, dedication to duty, honor, and what it really means to be a part of the whole.
During that time I would make the sacrifice afforded by the borders of the U.S. and volunteer to serve in Vietnam. More fortunate than others I survived and the “recovery” saw the development of what would become at an early age a man. Before I would turn 21 I knew I was ready for marriage, hard work, providing for a family and holding my family, family name and my respect for this country and those that choose to protect it to a level much higher than many, equal to some and below only those that gave all.
The list of things I could call a sacrifice could be pretty long, like having to work almost every holiday for years in my chosen career. Also like having to be away from home and family for almost six months for training. But again it would show a growth as to who I have become by providing me the opportunity to make those holidays that I didn’t have to work that much more rewarding and precious. A Christmas with my son, and just being home, was so much more when I had earned the seniority to have those days off.
So sacrifice is a part of who I am. But it is not the degree of sacrifice but the recovery and growth from it that helps one develop good character, trust, and loyalty. In some part it is responsible for being able to commit, have compassion, learn from mistakes, share knowledge and live without guilt of regrets. Well, more or Les.
It was, to a degree, a sacrifice to accept without question or debate the trip to the Post Office. As I look back I think it was a healthy choice. I sacrificed four years of opportunities to advance my education, time to develop relationships with people I met in school and went on to local colleges and passed on employment opportunities that may have led to a more financially rewarding career. It would turn out to be a very minor and insignificant sacrifice. I got an education that would provide a solid foundation for growth. I met friends that would last a life time; I would learn independence, camaraderie, loyalty, teamwork, dedication to duty, honor, and what it really means to be a part of the whole.
During that time I would make the sacrifice afforded by the borders of the U.S. and volunteer to serve in Vietnam. More fortunate than others I survived and the “recovery” saw the development of what would become at an early age a man. Before I would turn 21 I knew I was ready for marriage, hard work, providing for a family and holding my family, family name and my respect for this country and those that choose to protect it to a level much higher than many, equal to some and below only those that gave all.
The list of things I could call a sacrifice could be pretty long, like having to work almost every holiday for years in my chosen career. Also like having to be away from home and family for almost six months for training. But again it would show a growth as to who I have become by providing me the opportunity to make those holidays that I didn’t have to work that much more rewarding and precious. A Christmas with my son, and just being home, was so much more when I had earned the seniority to have those days off.
So sacrifice is a part of who I am. But it is not the degree of sacrifice but the recovery and growth from it that helps one develop good character, trust, and loyalty. In some part it is responsible for being able to commit, have compassion, learn from mistakes, share knowledge and live without guilt of regrets. Well, more or Les.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
United States Marine Corps
It wasn’t April Fool’s Day, I checked. But it was early April in 1964; I would be graduating high school and moving on to adult hood all in a matter of less than two months. I was more excited than a seven year old on Christmas morning. On this Saturday morning I was en route to a quick breakfast and headed out for a sandlot baseball game at Burnett Park, something that we (friends) did often. My room was separate of the main house and I entered the house from a side door that went through my brother’s room, the hall, living room and into the kitchen. My short trek to the kitchen was halted abruptly by my Father, sitting in his chair, paper and coffee in hand. “Good morning,” “Good Morning,” was all I could come up with. With five sons at home from ages 17 to 2 he was almost always working, so to us Saturday was a work day. The last time I saw him at home when he was usually at work was when I got caught ditching class and going surfing. Never got caught again, I valued my life.
“So son, what are you up to today?”
“I was going to have some breakfast and head for Burnett Park.”
“Oh.” “Which college do you think you will be attending after you graduate?” Where did that come from and I didn’t even know he noticed. I had been told for years that his job was to get me through high school.
“Well I’m not really sure, haven’t thought about it much graduation is still almost two months away.” Seemed like enough time to plan for college. I really didn’t like school so going on was not high on my list anyway.
“Okay, well you and I are going down to the Post Office later, so hang around.”
“Yes sir.” Why would I want to go to the Post Office on a Saturday? I guess he didn’t hear I was going to Burnett Park. Oh well, I needed to make a couple of phone calls, the 2nd baseman was going to me missing.
It was a silent ride but once I realized that the Post Office was closed and the only thing open on a Saturday in the Post Office building were the “recruiter’s offices” the internal screaming was deafening. All he knew was that I was sitting in silence, little did he know. Too late but you could have said you applied at City College and this would have never happened. I don’t think from that moment on did I allow a question to catch me off guard, and the lesson to pause and contemplate an answer using some form of common sense and good judgment has been my beacon and compass to avoid being categorized as stupid.
The elevator ride to the 3rd Floor seemed to take quite awhile. Surprisingly the internal screaming did not echo throughout the vacant foyer and halls of the building. The doors opened and the signs over the open doors with the uniformed open arms of decorated, creased, pressed and shined men who didn’t know what college they were going to stood before me. United States Army, United States Navy, United States Air Force, United States Coast Guard, National Guard. All of these doors would be passed, at rather a quick pace I believed. Of course, I am 5’ 7” and my Father was 6’4”, at least, so his stride was a little longer than mine, so basically I was jogging to keep up. There was no mistaking his destination as my eyes made the focus on the sign at the end of the hall; United States Marine Corps. My father was a decorated WWII Marine Corps Veteran and the embodiment of “Once a Marine, Always a Marine.” Much of my disciplinary training came from a very thick Marine Corps Garrison Belt.
The Recruiter was very accommodating, to my Father, I think he looked like a Vulture circling some fresh road kill to me. As I think back he couldn’t have been over 25 but I became his relative almost immediately.
“So son, what do you think you would like to do in the Marine Corps to help defend the freedoms of your Country?” There were more posters in this room than there were Playboy Playmates, and just like the Playmates each one depicted a different choice that would make a decision extremely difficult. Okay I was somewhat impressionable. Hey I was here to please my Father, I wasn’t sure if I had ever done that and it would be years before I found out. My attention kept going back to the poster representing an Aviation Mechanic.
“I really think I would like working on planes.” as I pointed to the poster.
“Son, that’s a helicopter.”
“Yes sir, those too.”
“Well that takes a little extra commitment and you have to pass a special test to see if you would qualify to attend a special school.”
"Yes sir. Where would I have to go to take the test?”
“Oh, we can do that right here.” How convenient I thought. I was thinking I could delay this a little longer…wrong!
It really didn’t take that long to take the test nor was it very difficult. I’m thinking being a mechanic on planes or helicopters couldn’t be much different than working on cars, something I had been doing at my Father’s side since I was eight. I did think the test would be more difficult, especially the written part. But I found that identifying nuts from bolts, square from round and tall from short wasn’t really that difficult. I scored extremely high I was told and would have no problem qualifying for Marine Aviation. It was only a four year commitment, so what did I think.
“He thinks that is great.” My Father replies, “Sign him up.”
My Father, whom I never really considered a planner, although a very organized person, never a planner, hell he had sons 17, 12, 8, 7 and 2 for Pete’s sake, had my Birth Certificate, Social Security Card and a pen. Good grief.
Now I’m thinking, I can’t go to Boot Camp, I’m still in high school, haven’t graduated and I’m only 17. Have you ever heard of the Delayed Entry Program? I hadn’t, but apparently the person I didn’t consider a planner had, and he was assured by my high school that I had the credits to graduate and all he had to do was sign on the dotted line giving the Marine Corps his approval as my parent. Apparently he had also planned for one more thing; something I don’t think the Marine, creased, shined and starched had planned on this Saturday morning. With the paperwork complete the Recruiter moved it across his desk and presented it to my Father for his signature. My Father signed, with a smile I had never seen, and returned his pen to pocket. He pushed the papers back toward the Recruiter and was stopped with a slight waving motion from the Dress Blued Marine. Mr. Page we are going to need your wife’s signature on the forms.
With the sternness I was very familiar with, in the commanding voice of a former gun tub Sergeant aboard the USS Intrepid and summoning on all of the Marine that he was and would always be he looked this larger than life man in the eye, took all of the wind from his sails, took him back to boot camp as a lowly Private from his current position as a Staff Sergeant and in no uncertain terms informed him, “No, no you won’t.” “Yes sir, no problem.” was his quick and obedient reply, what a wuss. Before the end of the year I would be a United States Marine. I knew that failure to do so was not an option. Little did I know, well maybe a little; Once a Marine, Always a Marine. Semper Fi.
“So son, what are you up to today?”
“I was going to have some breakfast and head for Burnett Park.”
“Oh.” “Which college do you think you will be attending after you graduate?” Where did that come from and I didn’t even know he noticed. I had been told for years that his job was to get me through high school.
“Well I’m not really sure, haven’t thought about it much graduation is still almost two months away.” Seemed like enough time to plan for college. I really didn’t like school so going on was not high on my list anyway.
“Okay, well you and I are going down to the Post Office later, so hang around.”
“Yes sir.” Why would I want to go to the Post Office on a Saturday? I guess he didn’t hear I was going to Burnett Park. Oh well, I needed to make a couple of phone calls, the 2nd baseman was going to me missing.
It was a silent ride but once I realized that the Post Office was closed and the only thing open on a Saturday in the Post Office building were the “recruiter’s offices” the internal screaming was deafening. All he knew was that I was sitting in silence, little did he know. Too late but you could have said you applied at City College and this would have never happened. I don’t think from that moment on did I allow a question to catch me off guard, and the lesson to pause and contemplate an answer using some form of common sense and good judgment has been my beacon and compass to avoid being categorized as stupid.
The elevator ride to the 3rd Floor seemed to take quite awhile. Surprisingly the internal screaming did not echo throughout the vacant foyer and halls of the building. The doors opened and the signs over the open doors with the uniformed open arms of decorated, creased, pressed and shined men who didn’t know what college they were going to stood before me. United States Army, United States Navy, United States Air Force, United States Coast Guard, National Guard. All of these doors would be passed, at rather a quick pace I believed. Of course, I am 5’ 7” and my Father was 6’4”, at least, so his stride was a little longer than mine, so basically I was jogging to keep up. There was no mistaking his destination as my eyes made the focus on the sign at the end of the hall; United States Marine Corps. My father was a decorated WWII Marine Corps Veteran and the embodiment of “Once a Marine, Always a Marine.” Much of my disciplinary training came from a very thick Marine Corps Garrison Belt.
The Recruiter was very accommodating, to my Father, I think he looked like a Vulture circling some fresh road kill to me. As I think back he couldn’t have been over 25 but I became his relative almost immediately.
“So son, what do you think you would like to do in the Marine Corps to help defend the freedoms of your Country?” There were more posters in this room than there were Playboy Playmates, and just like the Playmates each one depicted a different choice that would make a decision extremely difficult. Okay I was somewhat impressionable. Hey I was here to please my Father, I wasn’t sure if I had ever done that and it would be years before I found out. My attention kept going back to the poster representing an Aviation Mechanic.
“I really think I would like working on planes.” as I pointed to the poster.
“Son, that’s a helicopter.”
“Yes sir, those too.”
“Well that takes a little extra commitment and you have to pass a special test to see if you would qualify to attend a special school.”
"Yes sir. Where would I have to go to take the test?”
“Oh, we can do that right here.” How convenient I thought. I was thinking I could delay this a little longer…wrong!
It really didn’t take that long to take the test nor was it very difficult. I’m thinking being a mechanic on planes or helicopters couldn’t be much different than working on cars, something I had been doing at my Father’s side since I was eight. I did think the test would be more difficult, especially the written part. But I found that identifying nuts from bolts, square from round and tall from short wasn’t really that difficult. I scored extremely high I was told and would have no problem qualifying for Marine Aviation. It was only a four year commitment, so what did I think.
“He thinks that is great.” My Father replies, “Sign him up.”
My Father, whom I never really considered a planner, although a very organized person, never a planner, hell he had sons 17, 12, 8, 7 and 2 for Pete’s sake, had my Birth Certificate, Social Security Card and a pen. Good grief.
Now I’m thinking, I can’t go to Boot Camp, I’m still in high school, haven’t graduated and I’m only 17. Have you ever heard of the Delayed Entry Program? I hadn’t, but apparently the person I didn’t consider a planner had, and he was assured by my high school that I had the credits to graduate and all he had to do was sign on the dotted line giving the Marine Corps his approval as my parent. Apparently he had also planned for one more thing; something I don’t think the Marine, creased, shined and starched had planned on this Saturday morning. With the paperwork complete the Recruiter moved it across his desk and presented it to my Father for his signature. My Father signed, with a smile I had never seen, and returned his pen to pocket. He pushed the papers back toward the Recruiter and was stopped with a slight waving motion from the Dress Blued Marine. Mr. Page we are going to need your wife’s signature on the forms.
With the sternness I was very familiar with, in the commanding voice of a former gun tub Sergeant aboard the USS Intrepid and summoning on all of the Marine that he was and would always be he looked this larger than life man in the eye, took all of the wind from his sails, took him back to boot camp as a lowly Private from his current position as a Staff Sergeant and in no uncertain terms informed him, “No, no you won’t.” “Yes sir, no problem.” was his quick and obedient reply, what a wuss. Before the end of the year I would be a United States Marine. I knew that failure to do so was not an option. Little did I know, well maybe a little; Once a Marine, Always a Marine. Semper Fi.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Discipline
Basically I learned discipline from three different sources. My father, who during my youth, found that being strict, stern and the household justice system that Corporal Punishment was a major contributor to the learning curve. I think today they call it child abuse. I am afraid even though I did not apply it to the same degree that he did that it has its place in the teaching/learning process. Secondly from Ka Ka who had a totally different approach that never involved a belt. He would take the time to help me understand how decisions that I have to make need to reflect a thought process that considers others, leads to accomplishing what I have set out to do and in doing so follows a logical path involving set goals and a concentrated effort to succeed, regardless of how minor the task. Hell, one of those lessons came when I was being taught how to hook the worm properly. The way he explained it was the discipline it takes to do it correctly, not looking at it as hurting another creature but the reward at the end of the process and the benefit the fish would provide for the family. He was unsuccessful applying this to deer hunting so I would go along to enjoy the outdoors, but could never shoot one. It would be sometime before I learned how different his process was. He hunted with a .22 caliber pistol. He would later explain that it really wasn’t fair to the deer from a couple of hundred yards away. But if he was able to get close enough, the deer had earned the right to be at his table. Then there was the United States Marine Corps. They have a completely different process that I didn’t recognize in the beginning but turned out to be a combination of the other two. That combination has led to a work ethic that has been described by others as exceptional, a true honesty of purpose, true honesty of character, and the discipline to stay on course. With that said, until recently, none of this applied on the golf course. I have gotten much better lately. My disapproval of my swing did not set well with someone I respect a great deal, so I am applying an extra effort to discipline myself when the shot goes astray. A funny thing happened on the way, I have far fewer stray shots. Ka Ka would have told me this but he passed before I took up golf. And that brings me to the United States Marine Corps.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
"What Makes Sammy Run"
or; how did I get here? What influences shaped this character, this person. To a great degree the blog title covers a lot of who I am now, Ka Ka. But along the way aspects of life were laid out in my path to maneuver around, or through. All of which has led to me. Some aspects were good, some not so good, but looking back I can now see that even the bad helped form what is now good. I really do mean good. Some may not like some of the views I share. They may not like my haircut, my motorcycle, my golf swing, my choice of music, political views or the battles I choose to fight. But I am a good person. I am honest, trustworthy, sincere, committed, dedicated, empathetic, sympathetic and to a degree a man of peace. Please don’t confuse this with the fact that if you threaten my family, my friends, my country or its freedoms I will hunt you down and kill you like a rabid dog. About that I am also very sincere. I have taken three oaths that I hold in my heart and soul to this day…”Till death do us part…” “…I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies…” “…Assist those in peril or distress, and, if necessary, lay down my life rather than swerve from the path of duty;...”
They all happen to have the same expiration date. Until that time I will continue to grow, do the best that I can, help those that I am capable of helping and love those that I am capable of loving. What has gotten me here: Discipline, Sacrifice, Commitment, Regret, Humor, Love, Compassion, Likes and Dislikes. I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I have.
They all happen to have the same expiration date. Until that time I will continue to grow, do the best that I can, help those that I am capable of helping and love those that I am capable of loving. What has gotten me here: Discipline, Sacrifice, Commitment, Regret, Humor, Love, Compassion, Likes and Dislikes. I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I have.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Gramps
Someone ask me the other day, "What is important?" It took about second to answer and the answer even surprised me. I said my grandkids. I mean like I was standing over a 5' birdie putt. "Why?" he ask. I wonder if we are doing enough to make sure they really do have it as good as we do. Did I do enough for my son, like my father did for me and my brothers, to make sure he had it better than I did? Did I pass on to him the desire to apply the same concern for his kids, my grandchildren? He was kind of startled, "That's the most serious answer I have ever heard you give." Well it was the most serious question I have been ask in some time. If he was just trying to distract me...I made par. Then I started thinking about the Gulf, Iraq, Afghanistan, the Market, our troops, my grandchildren, their father and mother living on the Gulf and about what else can I do. I bogied the next three holes. But it wasn't really that important.
Why Google?
I read somewhere that it was relatively easy to set up, good help features, a good place to start and was FREE. All true by the way. No, why really? Okay it is pretty simple, LEP are my initials, my initials and last name is shared by one of the founders of Google and until he passed away I had a cousin named Larry, same last name, common spelling. It just seemed like the place to start. Apparently it worked out pretty well for Mr. Page; hey don't believe me just Google It.
This isn't e mail!!!!
As easy as this is...with a lot of help from Google, Mr. Bob Walsh " clear blogging" and a zillion other blogs, this is great. For me it was like eating vegetables, should have tried them much sooner in life than I did. It will be sometime yet before I get control so for the most part I will stick with the simplistic approach and hopefully pick up some followers of family and friends and maybe a stranger or two along the way. Once I get some postings completed I'll let my Facebook Friends know where they can stay in touch via my blog. This is really cool...I'm blogging. For those that don't know...if you don't want my opinion; don't ask. Oh, it is a blog...so I'll give it anyway.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Who the heck is Ka Ka???
In this day and age the term role model is greatly abused. It is given to entertainers, athletes, television celebrities, and even musicians. The list of these people that I admire, in some cases idolized, and respect is endless and ever growing. They never were a role model but Ka Ka was. He was my Grandfather, he was my hero, he was my rock, he was my guiding light, my shoulder to cry on, my support group and my Ka Ka. He would eventually be called that by my four younger brothers and other family members. Something I was very proud of. I can remember someone outside of the family calling him that once and thought "How dare you, that's my Ka Ka, not yours."
Throughout my life what he taught me, the things he shared with me, the words of advice, the stern moments of correction and the lesson of pause, (not applicable on the golf course) has kept me on the sane side of life.
I am now at the age he was where my independent recollection of his words and actions can be completely recalled. So when I decided to create a blog and I have some very strong opinions, the other intelligent and calming voice in my life, my wife, suggested I name it after the one person she knew that would guide me down the right path. So when I go to the blog to express my likes, dislikes and everything in between I will have a reminder that it is okay to express yourself, be opinionated, and relish the freedoms you enjoy. In doing so you don't have to be rude, vulgar, disrespectful, biased, prejudicial, mean, destructive or evil.
If you read and enjoy...Ka Ka and I are both glad. If there is a degree of difference in our beliefs, please express yourself. Hopefully you will do so under the guidance of a good role model...and if I have a response it is provided as he would have approved.
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