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
Monday, June 22, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
A Compliment
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
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
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Old "49"
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 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
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The First Stone
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
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
Friday, March 6, 2009
Walking Down Post Office Street
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!!
©2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
After 40 years , I finally fit.
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
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
Monday, February 16, 2009
Crossing the Road
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
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
Friday, January 23, 2009
Top Secret
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.
©2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Last of the Hollywood
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.
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