Tired of Retirement

Lance

2011-01-22T07:19:00.000-08:00

We try to catch at least one stage of the Giro di Italia, each time we go to Italy. The Giro is to Italy, what the Tour de France is to France. The route of the Giro changes each year and usually passes relatively close to where we stay. In 2004, the closest stage of the race was from Frosisone to Montevergine Di Mercogliano. We decide to drive to Montevergine to catch the finish. The last 10 kilometers of the stage were a steep climb up to Montevergine where there was a church.
When we arrived at the foot of the mountain., all traffic, except for news media was already blocked off. The only way to get to the top was to walk. The 10Km road was a classic switch back curved road. Since we were going to walk, we started using the ancient steps that went straight up the mountain. Every few hundred feet, we would cross the steep road that was going back and forth. We were only about a third of the way up, and as we approached another section of the road, we saw a small station wagon coming our way. My wife stepped in the road in front of the wagon and stopped them. There were four men in the car. She asked if they could give us a lift and the driver said ok if we didn't mind riding in the back of the wagon. He opened the lift gate and we sat with our legs hanging out. It wasn't dangers, as the little car with six passengers and curvy road, could never get out of first gear.
As we took off, the driver asked where we were from, and we said America.
The four men were retired professional cyclist now working as sports journalist .It was 2004 and in a few months Lance Armstrong was going to try for his sixth win of the Tour De France. The four men started talking about Lance and everything they said was bad. Each man took his turn with a litany of negative comments about Lance. We listened in silence . When they had said about all they could say, the driver , once again turned his attention to us. Where we from exactly in America.? He Asked. I answered. "Were are from Austin, Texas... the home of Lance Armstrong" . All four of the men groaned. Then they all started complementing Lance as the greatest cyclist ever.

I Quit

2011-01-14T10:01:00.000-08:00

My first employment after leaving the service was with a small loan finance company. As a new employee, I spent most of the time in collections.
This company financed all types of small items, in hopes of capturing customers that would later make more substantial loans. Some of the products they financed were shoddy and broke and it made it difficult to collect. One company had canvassed all the teachers and sold them on a portable tape recorder. The hailed it as a innovative teaching tool. In reality, it was a piece of junk and few were ever paid for. Other items were things like surf boards, exercise equipment and health club memberships.
One night a week, we stayed late to try to get in contact with "past-dues" that we had been unable to contact during the day. While most worked the phones, one or two of us would actually knock on doors of the non payers.
I mapped out a route one evening and started on my way. The people on my list were all over nine months past due and this would be a last ditch effort before writing off their loan.
It was difficult. Driving and trying to follow a map book. The first three address I visited were empty houses. The fourth was down an unpaved road where there was a shotgun house about every 25 for 30 yards. This one had a lone light bulb shinning above the front door. I parked my car and walked up and knocked on the door. I could hear a TV and as soon as I knocked , I could hear someone moving. Someone was coming to the door, and they had to be big as the whole house was shaking. The door opened and I gasped. There was a huge man there that was as big as the biggest NFL lineman.
"Whatta you want" he barked?? "Mr. Williams?' I asked. I introduced myself and reminded him that he was nine months late and that I needed to get at least 3 payments. (I think his payments were like $30.) He grumbled something and went back in and came back with $100. I wrote out a receipt , thanked him, and left.
We had a time limit on how late we could stay out and I was already past , so I returned to the office.
As I entered the office, everyone in the office stopped what they were doing and looked at me. I was surprised and asked " What's up?" Everyone continued to stare at me in anticipation and then the assistant manager asked "What happed with Williams?" I told them he was there, but I was only able to get three payments. The office erupted in laughter and I was puzzled as I didn't think I had told a joke. One of the other collectors said. "Nobody has been out there for six months because the last time someone went, Williams told them that if anyone else ever came out, he would kill them".
I tendered my resignation the next morning

Lost

2011-01-04T18:32:00.001-08:00

Over the years I have heard people tell stories about being lost. I think I have the best ever.
Our Auto dealership was located on Interstate 10 , about half way between San Antonio and Houston. We had a billboard on the Interstate, so we got a lot of traffic from people passing through.
It was around noon one day, and I saw a Cobra Mustang with out-of-state plates pull in and head for the garage. Both technicians were at lunch, so I ran down to the shop to see what the traveler needed. He had stopped if front of one of the stalls and I saw he had New Jersey plates. I greeted him and asked how I could help him. "Need an oil change", he replied. I told him ok and that the techs would be back in half an hour. He got out and was standing by his car and I asked him where he was headed. He raised his arm and pointed west and said "Florida". I was confused , since he was pointing towards California. I asked him where he was coming from and he replied, " New Jersey" . Now I was really confused. So I asked him again and he told me the same thing again. So I said "If your going from New Jersey, to Florida, what are you doing in Texas??" "Texas!!!??" He exclamed, "Holly Crap, I must have taken a wrong turn!!" He leaned against the car and I thought he was going to pass out. I got him to go into the waiting room and sit down. Reality began to sink in and he asked "How far did I go out the way?" I grabbed a map book and looked at it and figured about 1400 miles.
He asked to use the phone to call his mother in New Jersey. She answered and screamed "Where are you!!!??" He Responded, "Texas" . She screamed even louder, " Texas!!!! What the hell you doing in Texas??"
The technicians came back from lunch and serviced his Mustang. As he was getting into his car he said, "I sure am glad you had that billboard out the on the freeway, otherwise, I might have driven all the way to California"

What Would He Say

2011-01-04T18:13:00.001-08:00

Over forty years ago I did something that changed a young mans life. Since that time I have often wondered what he would say if I were to meet him today.
I had been stationed in Naples Italy for over a year. My best friend had already married an Italian and I was planning on doing the same when I got discharged. I had helped my friend as he plowed through all the "red tape" that was required when an American wanted to marry an Italian.
One day, Festus, a young man who was stationed with us, came up and said he needed our help as he was planning on getting married. I was really surprised, as I had been in his room and had seen the photo he displayed of his homely high school sweetheart that he had planned to marry when he got back home. My friend and I spent all our free time with our Italian girlfriends and knew little of what was going on with the rest of the men stationed there. I asked someone that I was sure would know and here is the story I got.
One evening, a few months before, as a bunch of guys were playing pool, it came out that Festus was a virgin. True to form, the group decided that they needed to take him down to Naples to the red light district to cure his virginity. They did it. He did it, and he was in love. After that day he had started to support the prostitute to get her off the street and he wanted to marry her.
I never saw this women, but those that knew her said she was around 35 years old and looked older. Festus was 20.
I cornered Festus one day and questioned him about his girlfriend back home. He said he no longer cared about her.
Had Festus been stationed at the main base, his marriage probably would have become a fact. There were hundreds of young men there and no one would have cared or intervened. However, our base was small and everyone knew everyone. At that time we had a young Navy Capitan as our base commander. My friend and I went to talk to him. He knew about the proposed marriage and had signed off on the initial application that Festus had made. What he didn't know, was the background of the women that Festus wanted to marry. He was appalled that this women wanted to take advantage of this immature young man.
Forty-Eight hours later Festus was transferred to the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay Cuba.

©2011

Lost in Africa

2011-01-03T19:31:00.001-08:00

I was working on the merchant ship Del Alba on a cruse to Africa. The ship had a crew of about 30 men including officers. I worked as Officers Pantry man. My duties were to shout down a dumbwaiter to the kitchen, what the officers wanted to eat. The cook would place the plate on the dumbwaiter and I would pull it up. I also made salads and kept fresh coffee brewing all during the day. I worked about 4 hours a day and got paid for 8. The rest of the crew were hardened sailors with whom I had little in common. I pretty much stayed to myself.
The first port we hit in Africa was a Bauxite mine and we unloaded fuel oil. We then went down to Conakry in Guinea . We had 24 brand new school busses that were being given to the people there. I had watched them being loaded in Lake Charles. The longshoremen were very careful to get them all down the hole of the ship with out a scratch. The African's on the other hand, didn't have the proper equipment or qualified personal, so they managed to knock out the head and tail lights on every single bus. The rest of the ship was loaded with free Wheat. The busses and Wheat had signs painted on them. The sign said "Gift From The United States of America" . Under the sign was the figure of two hands shaking. I thought it curious that both hands were white.
Tied up next to us was the Hospital Ship Hope. The first evening we were there I went and watched a movie on board the Hope.
The next evening, I let a few of the "old Salts" talk me into going with them to what they called a luxury restaurant. We got a cab and as we drove, I tried to make a mental note as to which direction we were traveling. The cab driver was driving like crazy and attempted to hit several pedestrians along the way.
The restaurant was nice and we sat down and enjoyed a good meal. The old salts had started drinking as soon as we arrived and now after the meal, were drinking more. They were getting drunk and I was wishing I was back on the ship. At about this time another group of seaman from another ship came in. They were already drunk and had only been there a few minutes when one of them made some crude comment to one of the guys I had come with.
The guy sitting next to me stood up and leaped at the other seaman and broke his bottle of beer over they guys head. All the seaman jumped up and ran across the room and started to fight. I ran out the door.

I ran about a 100 yards before I stopped and turned around. It sounded like everyone in the restaurant was in the fight.
I started to walk in the direction where I thought the ship was. The streets were unpaved and dimly lighted. The houses were not much more than huts and as I walked I could hear music coming from some. I continued walking for about a half a hour and knew I was totally lost. I would have taken a cab, but there were none coming by. I walked cautiously past a group of young men and thankfully they paid no attention to me. I wasn't just scared, I was numb. I continued until I came to a corner that was well lit. There was a old bench and a sign for what I thought was a bus stop. I sat on the bench in hope that a cab or bus would come by. I heard someone coming up behind me before I could see them. They had on sandals and made a flopping noise as they walked. It was a young man and he sat down on the bench. He smiled and I gestured with my hands and said "ship?" He smiled and said something in French. Then something came into my mind. "Hope?" and once again I gestured something big. His eyes lighted up.. "Hope" he responded. Then with a series of gestures I got it across that I wanted to go to the Hope. He got up and made the sign for me to follow.
We must have walked for 45 minutes before we finally entered an area that I recognized as the entrance to the port. I could see the tail end of the Hope in the distance. I thanked him in a Spanish/English mixture and tried to give him a few dollars. He refused the money and walked off. I ran the rest of the way to the ship.
Later, I was at the top of the ships ladder, talking to the Guard. I heard screeching tires and saw a vehicle racing down the docks towards us. When it reached the area where the ships ladder hit the dock, it stopped. The driver jumped out and opened the back door and pulled out the three sailors I had gone to the restaurant with. He piled them up on the dock and drove off. They all three were beaten up badly and required medical attention .
I stayed on the ship at night after that.

©2011

Parallel Lives

2011-01-01T12:51:00.000-08:00

I met Ken Godshal because of our surnames. We were both attending University of Texas Business School and had some of the same classes together. Students were assigned seating alphabetically, so we sat together.
We met to study together several times at the library during the year and parted ways at the end of the Spring semester of 1964. I was ousted for poor grades. At the time I didn't know what happened to Ken.
I drifted around for the next year, working part time, attending a junior college in Houston part time.
In the Spring of 1965 I entered a "training " school for Merchant Seaman. The "school" was run by the Seafarers International Union. To be able to work on a merchant ship, you had to have Seaman's Papers that were issued by the US Coast Guard. To get the Seaman's Papers, you had to have the endorsement of the Union. The union used this law to justify working a bunch of young guys and only paying room and board. I worked at the union hall in New Orleans and then got transferred to the Union Office in Houston. I had been working in the Houston office for about a month when one day, in walks Ken Godshal. He had entered the same program a few weeks before me in Mobile, and had traveled to Houston to board his first assignment. I was working , so we only talked for a few minutes. It wasn't until later that day that I realized what a coincidence it was that we had both gotten into Seafaring.
A few weeks later I got my first assignment on a ship going to Africa.
The ship made several stops in Africa unloading a bunch of new school busses and Wheat. The ship was returning to New Orleans where it was to reload and depart for an extended cruise to South America. I planned to stay aboard for the next cruse.
Upon arriving at New Orleans, I was informed that I could not continue because I had received a Draft Notice and had to report to Houston Draft Office. This was the Summer of 1965 and the Vietnam was ramping up and all loose young men were being gathered up. I had lost my student deferment, so I was a prime candidate.
After passing the physical, I decided to sign up for the Navy on a four year hitch. I was guaranteed training in the communications school in San Diego. I also would attend boot camp there.

I finished boot camp and then continued with 26 weeks training at the Radiomen's school in San Diego.
I finished Radio School and had to wait for my security clearance to be completed.
On a Sunday evening, I was returning to the base from a weekend with my relatives in Los Angeles. I was riding the city bus and as I entered, I notice there was a bunch of "boots" returning from their first day out after Boot Camp. They were easy to pick out with their short haircuts and new uniforms. All of a sudden , one of the "boots" walked up to me and said, "Don't I know you?" . I looked up and he did look familiar. I was trying to remember and then he said, "I'm Ken Godshal... we were at UT together".
I was blown away. Another coincidence that we had both joined the Navy.
We talked a little, but the bus arrived at the base, and he only had 10 minutes before he had to check back into the barracks.
I never saw him again while I was in the Navy and from time to time wondered where he had ended up. I didn't remember his home town, so I didn't have a clue as to how I could find him.
Twenty years past and one weekend I was visiting my Mother and she suggested I clean out the remaining items I still had in my old room.
I got a trash bag and started going through the chest of drawers that had been mine, tossing most of the contents away. In the bottom there was a cigar box with various pieces of paper and an old wallet. Before throwing the wallet away, I looked in side and found a small slip of folded paper. The paper had the address for Ken Godshal. He had lived in Mobile Alabama.
The next week I called information for Mobile Alabama, but there were no Godshal's listed. I decided to send a letter to the address and see what happened. Several months passed before I got a response. I was informed that the Godshal's no longer lived there and the writer thought they might have moved to New Orleans. I called information for New Orleans and there was one Godshal listed. I called the number and talked with Ken's father. He told me that Ken was married and that he and his wife had lived and worked all over the world. Currently they were living in Baton Rouge. After I explained who I was, he gave me Ken's phone number. I called several times over the next few days before I got an answer.. Ken answered and I told him who I was... he didn't remember me. I then recounted how our lives had crossed at school, in the Seafarers Union and then in the Navy. He laugh and said that I knew more about his life then he did, but he could not remember me. He and his wife had never "settled down" . They had worked as teachers all over the world, drifting from place to place every few years. He was currently working as a pressman at a printing company.
I told him what I was doing and he commented that it looked like I was settled down and that I was lucky. It was obvious from our conversation that he was still searching.
Our paths never crossed again.

©2011

A Premonition

2010-12-29T12:39:00.000-08:00

It was the Spring of 1958 when "Nel blu dipinto di blu" won the San Remo Music Festival In Italy. Few Americans had ever heard of the Festival. In August of that year, the song reached America. It was number one on the music charts for five weeks. It's the only foreign language song ever that won a Grammy. It was known to all as "Volare".
I was thirteen years old in 1958 and about the only thing I knew about Italy was that it was shaped like a boot.
One day my Dad came home with a 45 record in his hand. I had two brothers and two sisters, but he gave the record to me. He didn't understand what it was about, but he thought it was funny. Up to that time, I don't think I had even heard the song.
We played it again and again.
I have heard about how a single happenstance can change someone's life.
Over the next 11 years of my life, I had about a dozen happenstances that ended up with my being in Italy, meeting an Italian girl, and getting married. My Dad had given the Italian record to me. I still have it.

Net Worth

2010-12-25T07:22:00.000-08:00

My first employment after being discharged from the military was with a Finance Company. You don't see those kind of companies around now like back then. They had a legal limit on their loans of $2500. . In the business they were called "stick note" loan companies. Reason for the name was that they often took furniture as collateral and the furniture was the "stick"
It was a brutal business and I didn't stay in it very long, but I have to admit that it taught me a lot about personal finances. The following happened one day.

A well dressed man entered and I sat down with him in one of the customer cubicles. In a arrogant manner, he said he needed $2500.00 . I slide over a credit application and he pushed it back and said he already had accounts there and didn't need to fill it our. So I asked him to just fill out his name and I would pull out his account.
This was before the age of computers , and I searched the file cabinets till I found his name.. He was correct, he did have an account, in fact, he had 14 accounts.! The 14 accounts were in different stages of being paid off and all were being paid perfectly. I stopped by the managers desk, he looked at the Customers name, and said without hesitation that the loan was approved.

I prepared the paper work and started learning more about the customer. He was the brother on an internationally know singer. He and his wife were talent agents and had a combined income of around $60000. a year. (1970) They lived in a luxury high-rise apartment. They both had expensive foreign cars. Their Apartment and auto's were leased. They had no children.. The loan he was getting now was for a Club Med trip they were taking with some of their friends. I finished the paper work and the man left with his money.

A short time later, an older Hispanic man came in. We sat down in the cubicle and in a humble and almost apologetic manner, he asked if he could get $700. to buy a color TV for his wife's birthday. Their 20 year old black and white had been broken for over a month. I started to ask him questions to fill out the credit application. Where did he live.. He owned his modest home. He owned his 8 years old car. He had no outstanding loans anywhere. He worked for the School District as a janitor . Had worked there all his life and was making $10000. a year.
As I went through the application , I found out that he had five children. He Proudly told me they all had good jobs as he had insisted that each had taken technical training out of high school. They all were married with children and were all buying their own homes. On checking his credit, I found it to be perfect. I finished the paper work and he left with his TV money.

As I drove home that day, I was reflecting on the two customers and what different life styles they had.
The couple that had a huge income had virtually no net worth while the minimum wage earner had property and a great family. The lesson learned... it's not how much you make, but what you do with it.

©2010

Just A Few Words

2010-12-20T09:36:00.000-08:00

There were three people in my life that played major parts in forming my successful career. They were my high school Principle, my Uncle that lived in California, and a guy named Hank. I feel lucky that I was able to thank the first two before they passed away. This story will be an attempt to thank the third.

It was in the 70's that while working on my business degree, I found myself working for my brother. I had been attending school full time and was working nights and weekends at a fast food restaurant. It was tough on my young foreign bride being left alone in our tiny apartment.
One day, my brother, who owned a used car lot, called and said he had just fired his porter and wondered if I might want to come work for him as a porter. The pay would be better, and I could work between classes and be with my wife evenings and weekends. It was a no brainier for me and so I went to work for him.
The arrangement worked well for me and continued for several years. My duties expanded from just being a porter to what amounted to managing the lot. A tragic event changed everything. My brothers partner was diagnosed with cancer and died within a few months. This created a huge void in the company and my brother asked me to start working full time. I was almost finished with my degree so I was glad to accommodate him. I finished up my degree taking evening classes.
During those years , I had become acquainted with a guy named Hank. I never knew if he had a regular job, but he was always coming around buying or selling cars. In the business he was called a "wholeseller" . I always enjoyed talking to him as he was intelligent and knowledgeable in a lot of areas. His personality was sometimes abrasive, but overall, he was a breath of fresh air in the area of used car business.

It was several years after I had completed my degree, that Hank came by one day. I wasn't busy, so we were having a conversation about various topics. He asked about my plans. I had always dreamed about owning my own business, but had fallen into a comfortable rut. My pay was good, I had purchased a home and had a young son. We continued to talk, then he looked me straight in the eyes and said "You know, Your Stupid" . I was shocked and at a loss for words. He continued "Your a smart guy and you should do something on your own, because you will never get anywhere working for your brother" . I was hurt and really felt like hitting him. I told him I had to get to work, and he left.
I thought of nothing else the rest of the day and during my long drive home. I told my wife about it when I got home and while she consoled me she said that Hank was just being honest.

A few days later, I asked my brother if he would ever consider taking me in as a partner. He said that he really liked me working for him , but a partnership would never happen.

A year later, my wife and I, held the Grand Opening of our Ford Dealership. The Dealership that we purchased had been on the brink of bankruptcy and turned out to be the proverbial "bird nest on the ground" for us.
Thank You Mr Hank!

©2010

Under Budget

2010-12-01T12:10:00.000-08:00

The memo came for the ship’s Executive officer. I was working in communications, so I saw it first. The ship was nearing the end of its financial year and we were under budget by $60000. The memo from the XO asked each department head to check all supplies and equipment to see if anything was needed and could be purchased at that time. Other wise, next years budget would be cut.

The Chief of communications ask me to go with him to the supply depot to see if there was anything we could use.

We walked around the depot that would have dwarfed a Wal-Mart. We located the section that had communication equipment and came across an item that we could use. We had four Teletype machines on the ship. When we were “running ops” all four machines were spitting out messages a line at a time. This was during the height of the Vietnam War and we were undermanned, so the single seaman assigned to read the messages and tear of the ones addressed to us, could not keep up. The paper would start piling up between the machines. What we found at the depot could solve the problem. It was an auto-winder.

It was really a nice stainless steel devise. Mounted above each Teletype, it would gently roll up the paper as it was printed to a reel. When the seaman wanted to read the rolled up messages, the reel would slide apart and the paper could be removed.

We bought 4 at about $200. Each.

A few days later the Chief told me to install the machines. I removed one from its box and proceeded to do what I was told. It only took about 2 minutes to see that there was not enough room between the bulkhead and the printers to mount the machine. I call the Chief and he looked and said some French words. The he told me to put the thing back in the box and put it with the others in the Transmitter room. I asked him if I should return them to the depot and he responded with more French.

The four boxes sat there, in the way, until the next time we went out to sea for operational exercises. I got off of my shift one night at midnight and they were still there, in the way. The next morning I came back in and they were gone. I asked the chief what happened to the machines. He answered with more French and told me not to “make waves”

Later that day, the seaman who had relieved me the night before came in. I took him aside and asked him what happened to the machines. He said, “ Chief told me to take the machines and throw them overboard to see if they will float, and to make sure, no one would see me.” They didn’t float...

Getting to Know Edward

2010-11-26T09:29:00.000-08:00

It had been the talk of the town. The old doctors widow had married a man she had just met while on a cruise. It wasn’t just the fact that she had quickly married this man, but that he was different. He had a beard and goatee. The first time I saw him, he reminded me of a diminutive Mitch Miller. I was living in the small town when I first met Edward.

Years past before I got a chance to know him. He would come to my dealership once a year to get his vehicle inspected. I would try to start a conversation, but he was reserved and we never got past the small talk.

Our relationship changed after I made a service call to his home. It was just a dead battery. I jumped the car, replaced the battery and returned it to him. A week later he came in with his wife and ordered a new car. I hadn’t seen the doctor’s wife in years. I was in the same class as her daughter in high school and attended a party or two at their home. She always impressed me, as she was one of the few adults that didn’t talk down to younger people.

Now she was sitting across my desk with her new husband. It only took a few minutes to see that she was in an advanced stage of Alzheimer's. She just sat there smiling. The car was ordered and delivered a month later. It wasn’t long after I delivered the car that Edward stopped by my office in an obviously disturbed state. He had to have his wife placed in an assisted living facility. He had passed his 80^th birthday and just could not take care of her any more. For the first time we talked at some length and he was obviously depressed about being alone. My wife saw how he was feeling and invited him to our home for dinner.

That evening at dinner, we began to understand what a gem of a man he was. He had traveled and read extensively. Unlike most tourists that only travel so that they can brag to friends, Edward had traveled to study and learn. His mind stored data far greater than any computer.

After that first dinner, our friendship blossomed. Our business was in a decline and we had time and Edward started coming to our office several times a week. Each time he would come in with a little notebook with notes about things he had read about since our last meeting. My wife was suspicious that he was just memorizing some tidbits of information and then coming to impress us with the newly found facts. One day, as a test, she brought up a different, totally unrelated topic to see how he would react. To her and my surprise, he gave a delightful and knowledgeable commentary on that topic. He started having dinner with us several times a week. Other days my wife would cook extra and I would take the meal to his house. One winter evening he had been gone for about half an hour, when we got a call from the local police. He had stopped on a street in town and was lost. I took him home and after that, we would pick him up when ever he came to eat with us.

We had many wonderful evenings together. He got to where he stayed later and later. After some hinting he would smile and sigh and say “I guess it’s time for me to go home?”

After many months we started learning about his personal life. His work as a graphic artist for the Methodist church.He had created the Methodist Logo.

He had joined the local Rotary Club, but found their conversations shallow. He frequently thanked us for being his friends.

I will never forget the day we told him we were closing our business and planning to move away. He normally had a sparkle in his eyes but now it was gone as he asked. “If you leave, what am I going to do?” I didn’t know what to answer, but my wife quickly said. “You can move to Indiana where your daughter lives”. He looked shocked. We talked a little and then he left.

He came in early the next morning and he was unusually agitated. “ I didn’t sleep all night!!” he exclaimed. “You know I think your right and I can move!!”

The next few months got busy. He would fly to Indiana, so his grand daughter and son in law came to pick up his two vehicles. We helped him pack and contact a mover. We drove him to the airport for his flight to Indiana. He thanked us and the last thing he told me was that he felt like he was escaping.

We took a trip to Missouri to visit an aging aunt later that year, and then decided to extend the trip to Indiana to see how he was doing. Edward had rented a small apartment near the University and was enjoying participating in cultural events there. His daughter lived near by and it was a comfort to him.

He only lived a few more years, but they were happy years for him.

Looking

2010-11-22T11:40:00.000-08:00

I have to a admit it. I still like to admire pretty girls. Some might say that makes me a dirty old man. I say if a man stops looking, he’s dead.

The best girl watching I ever experienced was when I got drafted into the military and was stationed in Italy.

They were the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I fell in love the first day I was there. A guy that had been stationed there for over a year invited me for a ride down to the local bar. The open patio with umbrella-covered tables was crowded. We sat down, ordered some Peroni beers and then I saw her. She was leaning in the doorway and was engaged in a heated argument with her brother inside. I was unaccustomed to the intense emotions of Italians and her intensity captivated me. She was lean, with dark eyes and long dark hair. She was the owner’s daughter. I saw her several times during the next few weeks and then her family shut down for the winter. I didn’t really have a chance to get to know her. I was warned not to get involved as Italian fathers and brothers were protective to a fault.

During the rest of my stay in Italy the sheer number of beautiful women constantly overwhelmed me. Everywhere I looked they were there and what was great was that they looked back. Italian women didn’t feign disinterest like American women. Needless to say, I had a great two years in Italy.

Recently I returned to Italy for an extended stay. Immediately, I notice a difference in the women. The dark and lean are hard to find.. The junk food culture has spread to Italy and I was hard pressed to find a young women who didn’t have a little “tire” around her waist. Another disappointment came from the fact that they no longer looked back. Not because of culture change, but only that now, I am over 60 years old.

I was walking around downtown Naples one day going no place special. As I turned a corner I spotted a real beauty coming my way. When we were about 30 feet apart, she looked up and flashed a heart-stopping smile. I returned the smile and when we had almost met, she raised he hand and shouted, “ Ciao Armando!” She sped by me like I was invisible. That was a short life for a fantasy. In life, nothing stays the same.

Good thing for me.

That dark eyed, beauty that I had seen leaning in that doorway many years ago… I’ve been waking up next to her for over 40 years..

Porches

2010-10-28T15:22:00.000-07:00

My grandfather had a favorite story that he loved to tell. It was actually from a program that he had put together and presented to his Rotary Club. It was about "the good old days" and why he didn't think they were really so good.

As a child, he had walked several miles to school no matter what the weather was like. Shoes were at a premium so if the weather permitted, he went without. He thought school buses were a great improvement. He had grown up without electricity, so electric lights and refrigerators were still a wonder. He didn’t think there was anything nostalgic about waiting in line on Sunday mornings to buy a block of ice. Air conditioning. While he was impressed by it, he wouldn’t use it. He had high blood pressure so the doctor had told us that he should get air conditioning. He would run the window unit only when we were there. We didn’t realize what he was doing until one Sunday when he had had lunch with him. His living room was nice and cool when we arrived. After lunch we left to return home. About half way home, one of us remembered that something had been left at grandpa’s house. We turned around and when back to his house. He already had all the windows open and the window unit off, and was sitting in his undershirt sweating. He had lost almost everything in the depression, so He was afraid of wasting too much electricity.

His program about all “ the good old days” had won the "best program of the year" award at his club, and for him, it was the high point of his life. To his family, his high point became a boring story that we had all heard hundreds of times. I loved my grandpa and it saddened me to have to fake interest in the story that I had heard so many times. It exposed the only frailty I had ever seen in him. It also reinforced my growing desire to get out of that dull little town where such a simple event could be the high point of someone's life. Years later the song, "I thought happiness was looking at Texas in the rearview mirror" describe exactly how I felt about my hometown. I graduated from high school and went to college. However, I wasn’t ready for the transition from small town school to a major university. I still wanted to stay away and my local draft board was glad to accommodate me.

I did get away.

Fifteen years later, after traveling in Europe, Africa and all over the States, I found myself moving back to my hometown. One old friend laughed in my face when I told him I was moving back. It was poetic justice to him that after having always talked about wanting to leave, I was returning. I had to justify that it was mostly out of concern for my young son that I was moving back. The years had mellowed my attitude towards my hometown. While I still remembered this small town as being boring, I knew that is was a safe place to raise a child. After all, I hadn’t really become bored with the town until my teen years.

It didn't take long, after moving back, before I started remembering my "good old days". My grandfather’s story had focused on advancements in technology. School buses, electricity, refrigerators, were the thing that he marveled about. My “good old days” were about the lifestyle I had enjoyed as a small child. I cherished the memories of days I stayed with my grandparents in town. I had lived a mile out in the country, so being able to stay in town was always a thrill. Those pre-TV evenings were spent on their front porch and yard. After supper my grandparents would move out to the front porch. They had a large bench swing and a few metal lawn chairs. Their house was in the path of families walking to town to see a movie. Most left home at least a half-hour early, so they would have the extra time to stop and chat along the way. There was a large Chinese Tallow tree we called "china berry” in the drainage ditch in from of the house, and I loved to climb up and hide. It was the perfect place from where to ambush anyone passing by. The summer breeze carried the sounds of life. Children could be heard blocks away playing hide-and-seek.

All of these memories are passing through my mind as I stand in front of my home this summer evening. Twenty years has passed since I moved back. My son has grown up and left home. I can’t see or hear any children playing. All I can hear are all the air-condition units battling the heat. Even if there were no air conditioners, I still wouldn't hear anyone, since no one is outside. I guess they are all glued to the TV watching some mindless sitcom. No one is sitting on their front porch waiting for passers by. Most homes built in the last thirty years don’t have any front porch! I like to imagine what would happen if we had a power failure for a few hours. What would everyone do? Would it flush everyone out in the open and force them to talk with their neighbors?

Forty years later I have my own "Good old days" story. My story is completely different than my grandfathers. His was about things gained. Mine is about things lost. I'll try not to tell my story too often.

Good Deed

2010-10-19T06:31:00.000-07:00

I was hurrying from the shop to my office when I noticed an elderly gentleman looking at one of our new cars. It surprised me, as I had not seen him drive in and had no idea how long he had been there. I quickly walked out and greeted him and asked him if I could help him. He asked a few vague questions about the car and then walked to another.

I looked around and could not see a strange car anywhere, so I asked him where he parked his car. “I didn’t” he replied, “ I’m on foot”. He looked for a few more minutes and then asked if there was anyone available to take him to the bus station. I was very busy, but I told him I would be glad to and directed him to my car. I drove him to the bus station, he thanked me several times, and I returned to work.

An hour or so passed and then a professionally dressed lady. obviously distressed, came in. I asked here if I could help her and she said.” I am the director of the rest home”. (There was a rest home about 500 yards behind the dealership) “Have you by any chance seen an elderly gentleman walking around?” “ He has been missing for several hours”

Who's Going To Lead The Country?

2010-10-18T06:54:00.000-07:00

It was a Saturday and as we often did, we closed our business at noon and went out to my mothers to have lunch. Lunch was not ready, so I sat down on a comfortable chair and grabbed a magazine from a stack and opened it to the first article. “Who Will Lead Our Country?” I had to smile to myself, as I had been asked that same question that morning at work.

The evening before, three local youths had gotten drunk and turned over their car. Luckily they were not hurt seriously, in spite of the fact that non-had been wearing seatbelts. This was a small town, so everyone that had come in that morning to my shop had offered some comment on the accident. The sum of the comments was that the youth of today were out of control and would never amount to anything and whom would we have to run our country.

Now, sitting in this comfortable chair at my mothers, I had this article asking the same question.

The writer of the article really blasted the youth of the day. They were lazy and spoiled and disrespectful of their elders. They were only concerned with having a good time and gave no thought to the future.

I read through the pessimistic article until I began to notice that some of the wording seemed dated. I closed the magazine to look at the cover and the date.

April 4, 1917.

Final Cut

2010-05-04T02:27:00.000-07:00

For at least ten years, Umberto has been my barber during my summers in Italy. It’s almost been a ritual that I get a haircut upon arrival and a day or two before I leave. There was always a cut or two in between, depending on how long I stayed.
I have never received a better haircut. He never used an electric clipper. With scissors in hand, his motion never ceased .He took his time, never rushing, even though he had other clients waiting.
It was a two-chair shop with one chair never being used. The marble counter top had hundreds of burns attesting to his nasty habit. All ignored the “No Smoking” sign.

Like the barbers where I grew up, Umberto knew my life and I his. On my last trip, He had just married off his only daughter whose biological clock was almost complete. He didn’t have much hope for grand children.

This morning I arrived at his shop before he opened. After 15 minutes and still not open, I walked a few doors down to the coffee bar. Pepe, the hardware store owner, was enjoying his coffee and I asked him what time Umberto opens. He looked up and said ,“ He won’t”, “He’s dead”.

He was younger than me.
He won’t see his grand children, if there are any.
I have to find another barber.

©2010

Old-Timer

2010-04-07T15:52:00.001-07:00

I don’t know how old he is. It’s easy to see in his walk that he has had a tough life. No one can tell me how long he has been coming around. This establishment where he “works” is a worse case scenario of too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Workers are hired and fired by one without the knowledge of the others. Days could pass and someone might query. “What happened to Luigi?” and the response might be, “He was fired last week”. No one admits to allowing this old timer to work. He was probably self-appointed as parking lot watcher. It has happened before.
He receives no salary and is content to get only food and drink. He knows how to stay out of the way when it’s best to do so
He stays away from groups of customers, but makes himself available as a good listener to a customer that is alone. . He seems to sense when an unwanted approaches and springs into action. His stern look is enough to discourage any intruder with malicious intent.

How old could he be? My guess would be 10 to 12 years. Let see, if the accepted ratio of dog/human years is 8 to 1, that would make him about 90.

©2010

Have You Known Joy?

2010-04-07T15:32:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I heard something in a movie that really caught my attention. The two characters, which were both terminally ill, were discussing what their lives had meant. One made a statement that I have yet to be able to verify. He said that Ancient Egyptian Mythology told this story of what happened when a person died and arrived at the entry to eternity. The gatekeeper asked two questions.

“ Have you know joy?”

“ Have you given joy?”

Two yes responses were required for entry.

I don’t know if this really came from Egyptian Mythology, but it seems like a simple way to quantify the quality of ones life.

©2010

Small Towns

2010-03-21T07:37:00.000-07:00

What are the best and worst things about living in a small town? The best thing is that you know everybody. The worst thing is that everybody knows you.
Having lived in a small town for many years, I have experienced many of these best and worst, but this is an instance that stands out.
We owned a small auto dealership in this small town. We worked five and a half days a week, closing at noon on Saturdays. My mother lived about a mile out of town and on many Saturdays, she would prepare a lunch for us.
We were having a lunch one Saturday when the phone rang and it was for me. A traveler had car trouble and needed a part. The traveler was very polite and apologized for disturbing my lunch. He would wait for me, if I could come and sell him the needed part. I agreed to meet in an hour or so.
As I hung up the phone, I became curious as to how he had found me, not at my home, but my mother’s house.

We finished lunch and I met the traveler and sold him the part he needed. As we were walking back to our cars I asked him how he had found me at my mothers house. This is what he told me.
He saw the dealership was closed and asked a worker at the Dairy Queen if they knew the auto dealer and where he lived. They gave him my phone number, which he called, but I was not there. They then gave him the general directions to my home. He drove into town and stopped at a convenience store on the main drag. He asked the convenience store owner if he knew where I lived. This is what the store owner said “ Well, he lives on down that street a ways behind the ball park, but he ain’t there, cause I saw him drive by a half hour ago and he usually has lunch at his mothers on Saturday”

©2010

Searching for Whit

2010-03-16T13:54:00.001-07:00

If I hadn’t been eating raw seafood and picked up Hepatitis, I never would have met Whit.
I was on the sixth floor of the Naval Hospital in Naples Italy. The entire
Floor was filled with an ever-changing number of young servicemen with Hepatitis.

As luck would have it Whit was assigned a bed next to mine.. It was a Godsend for me.
We were alike in so many ways. We had the same interest and we had both immersed ourselves in the Italian culture. We both had Italian girlfriends that we planned to marry.
I was released from the hospital a few weeks later, Whit was released a short time after that. I had a few more months in Naples before I was transferring to a ship home ported in San Diego. Whit was in the Coast Guard stationed on the island of Sardinia.
We corresponded for a while, but with the transfers.. We lost touch. That was 1968.
I was discharged in 1969. Went back Italy and got married. We moved back to Texas.
I thought about Whit from time to time, but all I knew was his Nick Name "Whit”, his last name and that he was from Kentucky. We were so busy starting our new lives. Going to school, working, moving several times. I only had his Coast Guard address and tried sending several letters. They all were returned. I tried contacting the Coast Guard, but got no help.
Years past and from time to time I would wonder what happened to Whit. This was still before the Internet and long distance calling was still expensive. My curiosity got the best of me and so I started to call Kentucky information on the weekends when it was less expensive. I would get a long distance operator and tell her what I was doing and she would give me the numbers of 5 or 6 people in Kentucky with the same last name. I did this on and off for at least a year with no positive results. Then, one Saturday, I called another number and a girl answered. I explained who I was looking for and she said she married her husband who had that name. He was not there, but she thought she remembered his saying one time that he had a cousin who was in the Coast Guard in Italy. She told me that if I could call back in a few days, she would have found out for sure.
I waited till the next weekend and called. She gave the number of a person she thought might know my friend.
A women answered the phone. I introduced myself and explained who I was looking for.
I heard a gasp and then silence. After a few moments she said, “Whit was my son”. I asked how he was and where was he. She replied. “ Whit was getting his mail one evening and a drunk driver came by and ran him over… he died instantly” We were both silent for a while and then she asked me to tell her more about how I met Whit. We talked at length and then she asked if I by chance had any photos of Whit. I told her that I might, but would have to do some searching. She also told me that Whit had two children and that after his death, his wife returned to Italy with them.
Later I did find one photo and sent a copy to her. She sent me a card thanking me for thinking of her son and for the photo. . I never talked with her again.
In the card she sent me, she gave me the names of Whit’s Children. I did a search and found the daughter. She answered my email and was happy to hear from someone that had known her father. She owns a villa in Sardinia that she rents to tourist.

©2010

Lost Time

2009-06-22T02:20:00.000-07:00

I have been living/traveling in Italy for over forty years and the one thing I can never get used to is how everything moves so slowly. The simplest task in the US, like a trip to the bank, is regularly a two or three hour event here. The post office is worse. This trip I have noticed something that is almost out of the twilight zone. I have a Swatch Automatic watch. It’s the self-wind type (It doesn’t even need a battery!) that in the US runs at least 15 minutes fast every day. I make it a point to adjust each morning. The second day after we had arrived in Italy, my watch started being 15 minutes behind every day.

©2009

A Compliment

2009-05-22T09:34:00.001-07:00

When I was young, I was taught to show respect for my elders. I did this by addressing anyone older than me “Mr.”, and only responded “Yes Sir” or “No Sir”. When I say “older”, it generally meant anyone about 20 years older than me. I spent four years in the service, and my habit was reinforced.
Twenty years later I returned to the small town where I had grown up to take over a car dealership. I was surprised and offended how the high school kids (mostly the guys) would address me by my first name. I chalked it up to lousy parents that had done a poor job of teaching their kids manners.
A lot of years have passed and I found my self again being offended when the 20 year old at the health club would take my membership card, scan it, and say “Have a good workout Frank” After all, I’m 64!!
This morning, I entered the health club along with another member that I chat with while working out. He’s 78. I handed my membership card to the young attendant and he scanned it and said, “ Have a good work out Frank”. He then took the card from my friend, scanned it, and said, “ Have a good workout Mr. Jones”. I think I got a compliment.

©2009

The Old "49"

2009-03-28T09:06:00.000-07:00

In I979 I owned an auto dealership, I came across the opportunity to purchase an old Ford Pickup. AT first it was thought to be a 1949 model, but later we found out that it was actually a 1950 that was built in 1949. We just called it the “Old 49”. Following are a few interesting stories that surfaced until I sold the truck in 2001 On Ebay to a lady in Iowa.

THE Heirs

The sellers had inherited the Old 49 from an uncle. The uncles name was Alous, but had always been know as Lutz. Lutz live on what was known as “river bottom “ land and he seldom came into town. For the last 30 or more years of his life, he depended on a nephew to take care of most of his business. The nephew would take his SS checks to town and cash them and bring the cash back to Lutz. Lutz gave the nephew cash to buy groceries and other necessitates. The nephew himself had an interesting and sad story. He had a gift for woodcarving that could have made him wealthy save the fact that he was shell-shocked from his time in the service during the Korean War. He lived near by in another tired frame house like the one Lutz lived in. Now the nephew was no dummy. He knew how much cash he brought back to Lutz and how much he got back to make purchases, so when Lutz Died, he expected to find the huge cache of cash in the house. When the cash was not easily found in the house, the nephew and his son started digging all around the house. Pretty soon the yard looked like a B29 had dropped its payload of bombs. Still no cash was found. The nephew and his son then decided that the money had to be somewhere behind a hidden board in the house. They came up with the only fool proof plan. They would disassemble the house. It took about a month. Board by board they took the house down to the old tree stumps that it had rested on. They found no money. I saw the nephew many times during the next 10 years until he died and he never failed to mention all that money that some one had stolen. What happened to the money? Who knows? There was a near by neighbor whose lifestyle seemed to unexplainably improve at the time, but nothing was ever known for sure. The nephew inherited the 50 acres of Lutz’s land and his “old 49”.

Lutz Buys His Truck.

I had owned the Old 49 at least 15 years when I heard the story of how he had made the purchase. I was talking with a man who had worked at the Ford House in 1949 when Lutz had bought the truck. Here is his story.
Lutz had let the word out that he was interested in buying a truck. The Ford dealer sent his man down to the river bottom with a new Meadow Green F1 Ford. The salesman pulled up to Lutz’s house and 3 or 4 hounds announced his arrival. He just waited in the truck for a while and soon Lutz came shuffling down the path. The usual greetings were answered with grunts. Lutz stopped about 15 feet away and eyed the truck. He then proceeded to continue his shuffling around the truck, making sure to kick all four tires.
He stopped to lean on the bed and prop his foot on the running board. “What ya holding it for?” he mumbled, staring at the ground. The salesman told him the total price. “Ha!!” “ I didn’t pay that much for my farm!!” Lutz answered. He was told that might be true, but that was the price. Lutz mumbled something else and shuffled back to the house
Mumbling all the way. Not more than five minutes passed and Lutz came out of the house with a bundle of dirty cash in hand. It was the total price to the dollar. Lutz wouldn’t let the salesman leave with the truck so he had to walk to the main road and catch a ride back to town. The salesman said he never saw the truck again until I purchased it from the estate.

©2009

The First Stone

2009-03-18T06:54:00.000-07:00

The bishop invited all to rise and join him in a prayer of thanksgiving for the meal we were about to enjoy. I looked around the room at all the dignitaries and town leaders. I had to smile as I thought about how it happened that I was here among them. The credit goes to my wife, who has a knack for getting us involved.
It all started that morning while we were taking an early morning walk in a rural area outside of Naples. We were on an extended trip to Italy visiting with family. We had walked on the same quiet road for several days and had noticed an area that had been cleared and signs declared it to be the future site of the new local church. It had just been an empty lot on previous walks. This morning, however, was different. A large group of people were obviously preparing for a big ceremony. A stage made of pipes and boards had been erected and white linen lined the roof and backside. Hundreds of chairs were being opened in front of the stage in an area that had been freshly graded and graveled. Deeper into the lot, a large hole had been gouged out of the earth with an entry ramp that led to the bottom. There we signs proclaiming that this was the day that the “first stone” of the church would be laid.
We passed by the activity on our way down the road and on return, my wife suggested that we stop and see if they had arraigned for the event to be photographed. Since our retirement, we had volunteered our photographic services to many non-profits and had enjoyed being involved.
There was a group of men huddled around a priest and obviously, last minute plans and decisions we being made. As we approached the group, the priest received a phone call. We caught his attention and he finished his call. We introduce our selves and ask if they already had a photographer service lined up. The priest gasped and looking amazed said “Sent by God!!” They had just realized that a photographer had not been lined up and the last phone call was from the last local photographer, who had called to say he was out of town on a photo shoot. We became the official photographers for the event.

The old church was about a mile away. The event started with a procession of priest and parishioners that would walk down the main road to the new site. Each organization had their colorful banners. There was a marching group dressed in mid-evil costumes from Naples. They had huge flags that they swung and threw to each other skillfully. A complete marching band rounded out the effort.
When the procession reached to new site, the bishop and his entourage were waiting on the stage. Several hundred others that couldn’t brave the long walk were already seated. The Bishop and a number of other dignitaries got up and gave their speeches. After they had all spent themselves, the “first stone” was brought out and blessed. This was followed by a procession to the large hole, where the stone was mortared in the ground. As the last bit of mortar was being set, a huge fireworks display was set off. After the bishop and all the other local big wigs got photos taken, the crowd begin to disperse. We were returning to our car when my wife’s brother came up to us and quietly notified us that we had been invited to eat at the private lunch that had been prepared at a restaurant owned by one of the oldest families of the community. .
We proceeded to the restaurant where the multi coarse meal was nothing short of fabulous.
During the following week I edited all the photos and made three large albums, one each for the Bishop, the local priest and the restaurant owner who had hosted the meal.
It’s been over eighteen months since they laid that first stone. We were just back in Italy and noticed that they still hadn’t lain the second.

©2009

Walking Down Post Office Street

2009-03-06T11:41:00.000-08:00

I consider myself lucky for having been able to grow up in a small Texas town. That was in the 50’s and 60’s and my cousins from Houston called it a “hick town”. What ever that meant. My memories and experiences are integrated in the many small business’s that were operating then. Sometimes I enjoy sitting back and “walking” down those streets I knew so well.

There was the produce company that my Dad owned. He bought and sold, chickens, turkeys, eggs, cream, shucks, and sold animal feeds and a variety of supplies for the farmers. I was too young to work, but enjoyed hanging around and observing the customers. There was the little old lady who would bring in a half case of eggs to sell.

Funny that she always left 4 or 5 empty spots at the bottom of the case. Then there were the ladies that came in and insisted on the bag of feed at the bottom of the stack. They were always matching up the feed sack material from another they had already. Most of the kids in school had shirts or dresses made from feed sacks. I got a real lesson in humility from this matter. One weekend my dad had taken my siblings and me to Houston for some event that I can’t remember, and to do some shopping. After the event we went to one of the fancy department stores downtown. Battlestiens I think. I got a shirt and pants. When we got back, my mom fussed about what he had spent for the shirt. My Dad just wanted to show off. Well, Monday morning I went strutting into school about 3 inches taller than normal. One of my classmates and probably the poorest girl in the school came running up to me with a dress made of the exact material as my shirt. She proudly announced to all that her dress came from feed sacks and I was lucky because I could get all the sacks I wanted for free. It was a pretty good lesson for me.

Across the street from the feed store was the Pool Hall. I was strictly forbidden to enter except to just buy a soda pop. One Sunday when I was beside myself with boredom, I decided to brake the rule. I had only taken about two steps into the Hall when an errant cue ball caught me under my left eye. Talk about instant justice! I don’t remember how I explained the black eye to my mom.

Down from the Pool hall was the Sewing store. It was were the local ladies went when they wanted to step up from Feed sack cloth. I wasn’t interested in sewing, so I seldom went there.

The next store I frequented was the Barber shop. All the local “news” was discussed there. Actually, occasionally it was news, mostly it was gossip. I remember the day the barber told me I really had a lovely head of hair. I beamed at the compliment. It wasn’t till some time later that I realized that he told everyone that.

Next to the Barber was the meat market. I didn’t like the smell, but I loved the sausage and crackers I could eat in the back. They had a few old barrel tables and stools. Hot Half links were served on wrapping paper and a huge jar of mustard and plenty of crackers were always near.

A Confectionery was next door. They had the best Cherry Cokes in the world. The stern women that owned it kept an eagle eye on you to make sure that you would only take one straw. Sometimes we took two just to see her reaction. Taking an extra straw could get you a five minute lesson about the “great depression” . They had punchboards and fireworks until they were outlawed.

A few door down was the Drug Store that didn’t sell drugs. The druggist had died and his wife had taken over. It was a dark unfriendly looking place so I stayed away.

The bank was next door. It’s were I opened my first bank account. They gave me a little green book where the two dollars was noted in ink in a penmanship long forgotten. I was given the same courtesy as the customer that had deposited hundreds.

Another confectionary was next door. This one sold beer and homemade hamburgers and fries. Each year when the World Series was on, the owner would bring his console TV from home and place it on top of stacked tables. The extra business must have been worth it. I know I sure ate a lot of hamburgers during the series.

The small post office next door had two windows and a long wall of Postal boxes. Each box had dials for the combination lock. You see a lot of these in flea markets now as they are very collectable. The floor in the post office was always smooth and it was the only one it town were I never picked up a splinter.

Across the street was the movie theater. Saturday was “serial” day. My favorite was Rocket Man. If I came with a dollar, the ticket, pop corn, drink and what ever else would still leave me some change. I remember that a Elvis movie was showing the day I held my first hand .

A few doors down from the theater was the world smallest grocery store. Customers came in to talk and maybe buy something. If they couldn’t find what they needed, the owner was glad to run out the back, cross the alley and grab it from his competitor’s shelf. There were a half dozen small grocery stores in town and they must have had some sort of agreement about sharing merchandise.

At the corner was the dry good store. They catered to the whims of fashion. It always amazed me how quickly they could meet the demand of the latest fad. When the moccasin fad hit, every kid in town was feeling like an Indian.

There were a lot more stores back then. Each one holds some special memory. They all, save a few, have something else in common. They no longer exist. The explanations as to why they all closed are numerous. Some will say it’s the fault of a few powerful families that sought to keep out competition, thereby cutting off “new blood” to the town. Others blame the huge chain stores even if the demise started a good while before they became a factor. Children of the store owners knew the hours that their parents worked and wanted no part of it. Nothing stays the same. The Post Office is no longer on Post Office Street. Today, few people know how to sew.

If feed sack material could still be found, no kid would be caught dead with anything made out of it. VCR’s and TVs killed the little theater. Sanitation laws won’t allow anyone to be eating in the back of the Meat market. It doesn’t really make any difference as to why they all closed.. I’m just glad I had the experience. Boy! Were those Cherry Cokes great!!

After 40 years , I finally fit.

2009-02-25T12:36:00.000-08:00

It was August 1966 when my Navy buddy and I found out we were going to Italy. At the end of our training, we had all filled out a “preference of duty” form. The consensus was that the forms were immediately thrown in the trash. No one ever got the assignment they requested. Dan & I had requested the most obtuse locations. I don’t remember them except for Turkey. Italy was a great surprise.
There were two types of servicemen in Italy. Type 1 avoided all contact with the natives. Then spent most of their free time complaining about the country and its inhabitants. Type 2 servicemen immersed themselves in the country and its culture.
98% were Type 1’s. 2% were type 2’s. Dan and I were Type 2’s.
We did everything possible to fit in. Italian clothes helped. Dan came up with the idea of always carrying a local newspaper. The reality was that I was tall and blond and while there were blond Italians, few were tall. Dan was shorter, but just didn’t look Italian.
It was amusing .Board a train and take a seat in one of the compartments. . Dressed Italian, and pretend to read the Italian news.. I would ignore the curious glances and the discrete whispers. Usually, after a short while, someone would brave a simple question. A simple Si or No was not enough for them to figure out where I was from. When they could stand it no longer, some one would ask, “Tedesco?” (German). “No”, I would answer, “American”. Everyone in the compartment would give a sigh of relief and start practicing their limited English on me. I would usually hear something like this “ I godda brodder in New Yak, ya know him?”,
My Italian got better, but I was never able to fit in. I stayed two years, Dan shipped out before me.
Forty years later it’s a different country. There are hundreds of thousand of immigrants from all over and many are tall and blond. On our last trip, I walked out to the street and almost immediately a car pulled over and asked directions. I thought it was a fluke, but it started happening all the time. Forty years ago I always got stares, today no one even notices me.
One day I drove my mother-in-law to the fish market. The parking lot was jammed packed, so I dropped her off and pulled up and doubled parked. I got out of the car, ready to move if I was in someone’s way. A couple got in there car and I stopped the traffic so that they could pull out of their parking place. They pulled out and then stopped. The women got out and gave me 50 cents and thanked me for watching their car.
After 40 years, I fit in.

©2009

Crossing the Road

2009-02-16T14:26:00.000-08:00

We had many dogs while I was growing up, but never one that got old. This phenomenon was due to where we lived. It was about a mile west of a small town right on the main road between Houston and San Antonio. In itself this would not have been a big problem, but that major highway divided the family property. We were constantly crossing back and forth across that road to go shoot birds, rabbits or anything else that moved. We had just enough sense not to get hit by the constant flow of traffic. Dogs, being a little less smart, weren’t as lucky. The scene was always the same. Horn blowing, screeching tires then a loud thump. Some drivers stopped and apologized. Most just floored the accelerator and continued on. Replacement dogs were easy to come by. Our Grandfather visited all the local farms, buying livestock, and there was always a fresh litter somewhere. I don’t remember how many dogs we “went through”. I don’t even remember any of them, save one. The one I remember wasn’t the normal mixed-breed farm dog. It was a full breed Cocker Spaniel. Not sure about the name, but it might have been Rusty. It had a silky rust color coat. It was the “family” dog, but I
Considered him mine. I spent far too much time playing with him. During the first few weeks I couldn’t concentrate at school for thinking about Rusty. As months past, I did my best to overfeed Rusty. He grew rapidly and soon could out run me. He kept getting fatter to the point I could tell that he didn’t want to run anymore. It didn’t bother me and I was content to sit down in the grass and let him nest in my lap.
I returned home from school one day and was surprised that Rusty hadn’t exercised his regular routine of running out to greet me. I dumped my books on the porch steps and started calling and searching. Just around the corner of the house I heard a whimper from under the house. I pulled open the tin door and there was Rusty. His normally rust color was blood red. I looked closer and was horrified. I ran screaming to my mother.. “ Mom! Mom! Rusty is falling apart!!” My mother grabbed a dishtowel and dried her hands as she followed me out side. She took one look and said. “O Lord, Rusty is too young to have puppies. “ Puppies?” I questioned, “ Rusty is a boy!” I was shocked and confused as my mother took me aside and explained what had happened. Although not hard fast, it had always been an understood rule that female dogs were not welcome in our family. We had gotten Rusty and he was a male. One morning, when we had had him only a few days, my mother had accidentally run over him when she returned from taking us to school. She had quickly returned to the people that had the cocker pups to get another male. However they only had females. She took the female to save us from the pain of loosing a dog.
Years past and I don’t remember for sure if Rusty had any more pups or even when or where she died. We always had that property across the highway so it’s a pretty good chance she died while crossing the road.

©2009

Top Secret

2009-01-23T15:07:00.000-08:00

It was 1965 and I had just completed Navy boot camp. My next assignment was 26 weeks of Training to become a Radioman. The manpower build up had gotten ahead of the physical facilities to handle the ever-increasing flow of young men. This created a large group of men waiting for their schools to begin, with nothing to do.
Each morning we would muster in front of the Transition HQ and slowly be sent on work parties. It was mostly “make work” as 10 would be sent where only one was needed. There was a joke about sweeping the compound where the only thing they were sweeping were the pieces of the brooms that broke off while sweeping the day before.

I wanted to do something more, so I went to the HQ early and volunteered for a real job.

I became a courier for a Top Secret Class C School. The school was on the far end of the base, so I was assigned my own bicycle for transportation. I arrived at the school each morning, made coffee for the students and teachers. The rest of the day I had to keep the fresh coffee coming and deliver and pick up mail between the School and various other offices on the base. I still didn’t have my Top Secret clearance, so I couldn’t have a key to the school. This was a problem as the teachers wanted to have hot fresh coffee when they arrived. After a few days the officer in charge came up with a plan. One window would be left unlocked and a trashcan would be placed nearby. Each morning I would arrive at least 15 minutes early and move the trashcan under the window, slide the window up and crawl into the Top Secret school room and make fresh coffee.

Last of the Hollywood

2009-01-19T13:27:00.000-08:00

I first heard about the Hollywood Theater a few days after I arrived in San Diego for Navy boot camp. It didn’t interest me, as I was not interested in watching girls dance and strip down to g-strings and pasties.

After boot camp, I spent a lot of time walking around downtown and passed by the Hollywood several times before I went in. What enticed me to enter was not the girls, but the music that escaped to the street.

It was big band, bump and grind music with what sounded like about 10 saxophones.

The show was going on as I entered and I took a seat about half way into the theater. In between the dance scenes, a slapstick comedian would run through his routine. The saxophone music accented all the entertainment.

I was curious about the musicians, so when the show paused for a brake, I walked down to the stage when I could get a look at the orchestra pit.

There were about a dozen musicians and all were sporting snow-white hair. Three or four seemed to be dozing off when the conductor came in; tapped on his music stand and they all picked up their instruments and started playing. At least two appeared to still be sleeping.

I went back to my seat and watched the rest of the show. It was 1966.

1969 found me back in San Diego after having spent some time overseas. I had some free time one Saturday and decided to go back to the Hollywood Theater .I wanted to hear the music again and had intentions of talking to the old musicians.

I entered the theater and took a seat about mid way. The girls and the comedians did the same acts and the music was there, but something was different. The richness of the Saxophones just was not the same.

I watched a few routines and then walked down to the orchestra pit. The pit was completely dark and empty except for one corner where a young man sat at the controls of a huge music synthesizer.

The Hollywood Theater closed down in 1970.

I Felt The Fall

2008-08-26T13:42:00.000-07:00

I think I was about 13 the first time I heard someone say something that expressed what I had thought only I had experienced for many years. I was at a friend’s house; it was eairly August I think, and out of nowhere his mother, gazing out the window said, “I felt the fall this morning”. Her son laughed, but I knew exactly what she meant. From that day on, I always saw her differently. I have mentioned this feeling to several people over the years, and mostly have received courteous nods that only showed that they did not understand. It’s difficult to explain. It can occur in many different ways. The sky takes on a curious shade of blue. An out of place wisp of cool air that appears as if from nowhere. A light scent of smoke from a far off fire or a bird that lands precariously close by and then departs in a panic. I’m not sure that anyone has ever shared this feeling with me. Even the friend, whose mother had said it, used to laugh about his mother saying it. There is a feeling of nostalgia that goes along with it. It reminds me of the feeling that always came with the ending days of summer. I’m 63 now and its only August 26 and this morning I felt the fall.

©2008

Retirement Shop

2008-05-12T00:39:00.000-07:00

I have no idea of how long he had been coming there. I first saw him in 2001. I would talk to him the on the first day we would arrive in Italy. I would push my bike to his roadside repair shop and get my tires inflated. He always seemed happy to see me and never accepted any compensation for inflating my tires or for other minor adjustments.
His “shop” was simple. His small station wagon with the tailgate open was backed up and served as workbench and tool storage. Years before he had brought a large plastic pot and pored it full of concrete and put a pole down the middle. He had a makeshift bike holder that slid into the pole. This contraption held sick bikes at a proper working level.
On the ground, he would lay out a blanket that would never know a bed again. On the blanket he displayed an assortment of bike parts and accessories. He had fined tuned his inventory years before and he had a rapid turnover.
Daily, a man would arrive with a number of bikes that obviously had been discarded. A small sum was exchanged and what looked more like scrap was unloaded.
When he wasn’t busy tending to his customers, he would dismantle the scrap bikes and remove useable parts. Remaining pieces were put aside and pickup up within minuets buy one of the many scrap hunters that are everywhere.
His life story was simple. He had been a factory worker until forced into retirement. His retirement was around a thousand Euros and not enough to survive on. He had always like piddling with bikes, so he got the idea of repairing for some extra money. Italy has millions of illegal workers from all over and many use bicycles as their transportation. He never would reveal how much he was making. A few times I would hang around and talk with him and quickly calculated that he was making more from the repair shop than from his retirement pay.
This trip, I had to inflate my tires myself. The old repairman is nowhere to be found. I asked several people that have shops around the area and no one knows what happened to him. No one even knows his name. I even asked several of the “working girls” that cover this area and they didn’t know either. Everyday I see someone pushing their broken bike towards the area where the "shop" once operated. The concrete tub with the pole sticking out is all that remains.

Nothing to Complain About

2008-04-30T23:47:00.000-07:00

My retirement boredom is on hold for a few months. We are spending a few months back where I meet my wife over 40 years ago.
I came here via a free ticket provided by Uncle Sam. How lucky I was. While others were sloshing around with 50 pound backs packs through the swamps of Vietnam, I was basking in the sun on a beach outside of Naples Italy.
Today, Italy’s economy is in terrible shape. It has been bad, but the Communist came into power two years and everything got much worse. Since The conversion of the Lire to Euros, prices have doubled. Wages and retirement benefits have fallen dangerously behind. Retirees are running out of money by the 20th of each month. Many have taken to petty thievery just to be able to eat. The Communist just got kicked out of power so everyone is waiting to see if the new government can make any real progress. Meanwhile, we have people coming by the Hotel every day looking for part time jobs to supplement their income. Most Americans don’t understand and appreciate how lucky they are

Tired of Retirement

2007-11-01T09:55:00.000-07:00

Famous Quotes About Retirement

Sooner or later I'm going to die, but I'm not going to retire.
Margaret Mead

Retirement is the ugliest word in the language.
Ernest Hemingway

I never dreamed I would ''retire'' at 56. My dad had tried an early retirement and ended up working till he was 80. My wife and I had our own business and planned to run it till we ran out of gas. It was a franchise, so we didn't have total control. After 20 great years, things started going south. We had to ether enlarge our business significantly or close. When the franchiser offered an incentive to close, we took it and we shut down. That was seven years ago. We have traveled a lot, and did a lot of volunteering. We still find our selves with too much unproductive time. Since I have so much free time, I’ve taken up writing short stories based on some of my life experiences.