Monthly Archives: July 2016

A Pocket of Resistance: The Old Navy

Pete and Nancy Toennies could not join us for our golf round celebrating our thirty-third anniversary yesterday.

They have a dog named Cody who is in the last round of living. Pete and Nancy are in the process of making the “when?” decision, one of the most difficult decisions i have had to make twice and is a driving reason for us not having a dog until i am confident the dog will outlive me: i don’t ever, ever want to make that decision and live through the consequences again. We did go out for dinner with the Toennies last night, eating at a tony Coronado restaurant on the outside patio. I feel deeply for Pete and Nancy in their dilemma .

In their golfing absence, we were joined by Mark and Andy, two young Navy Surface Warfare Officers. Mark is the “OE” division officer and the Network Security Officer aboard the USS Milwaukee (LCS 5) (i think that is right: i apologize Mark, for my bad memory; i will correct this when we run into each other again if i got it wrong). Neither of Mark’s billets nor his class of ship was around when i was on ships.

Mark played baseball for Penn State. His golf game reminded me of mine years ago except his game is much, much longer. i told him of this driver i had in the late 1980’s. It had a graphite head and a graphite shaft. My friends named it “The Scud Driver,” Like the missile the Iranians had around that time, my tee balls hit with that driver would go a long way, but no one knew where they would land.

Andrew is the weapons officer aboard the USS Germantown (LSD 42), home ported in Sasebo, Japan. Her class of Landing Ship Dock ships is the successor to the Anchorage class. i was First Lieutenant aboard the Anchorage (LSD 36). My favorite Navy tour was that job on that ship. She is where i grew into being a mariner. The weapons officer aboard Anchorage worked for me.

Andrew played baseball for Concordia University, a small university in Nebraska. Andrew is from near Galveston, Texas, and is a big Texas A&M fan. Of course, i was the senior Navy officer at the NROTC Unit at Texas A&M from 1976 to 1979, one of my two Navy shore tours. Like Mark, Andrew has a lot of potential as a golfer. We might get in nine holes before he finishes his two-weeks of training here and heads back to Sasebo Saturday. Sasebo is one of my favorite liberty ports of all time.

Mark’s girl friend, Andrea, moved to San Diego from Croatia about six months ago. She rode with Mark for our round.

It was good to connect with two young officers who were me almost fifty years ago. i told them a bunch of sea stories, and they seemed to enjoy connecting to the past Navy.

It is a different Navy, but it has good folks, and there is always hope when there are good folks involved.

The afternoon made me nostalgic.

This morning, i opened an email Pete had sent me yesterday.

old_liberty

The photo was a reminder of the way the Navy used to be. It also reminded me of my third class midshipman cruise.

In 1963, the other ships in the Intrepid (CVS 11) anti-submarine carrier group went to Halifax but the Lloyd Thomas (DD 764) was sent to Sydney, Nova Scotia for Canada’s Independence Day (July 1). In the parade, six midshipmen, including me, escorted the six parade “princesses” through the streets. For a week, we wandered the town, drank a significant amount of Carling Black Label beer (“Hey Mabel, Black Label”), and met some nice young ladies.

On the last night of liberty, we worked out a plan with the first class midshipman who had the duty. Liberty for seamen, firemen, and third class petty officers expired at 2200. First and Second Class Petty Officers (Acey-Ducey Clubs, remember?) had to be back to the ship by 2300. Liberty for chiefs and the third class midshipmen  expired at midnight. Officers could stay out until the next morning. Knowing the first class middie would be the quarterdeck officer of the deck for the midwatch, we worked a deal where he would cover for us and a half-dozen of us could get back as late as 0400 without getting caught.

We arranged a party with six of the girls we met at one of their homes on the outskirts of Sidney. It all went well and everyone was having a good time. Then the six midshipmen returned to the ship around 0200 where all hell was breaking loose.

Most of the sailors on liberty had gathered at the dance hall in the middle of town. They were dancing with the local girls, and some of the local boys took offense. Around 2030, a fight broke out between a local and a third class petty officer. The fight grew until it became a huge brawl in the middle of downtown.

Liberty was cancelled. Shore patrol was beefed up with crew from the duty section, and all hands were ordered back to the ship . The quarterdeck watched was doubled and the executive officer was on the quarterdeck from when news of the fight reached the ship until the captain returned.

Wide-eyed from watching the bloody sailors with soiled and torn uniforms (much like in the photograph) straggle back to the ship, we were stunned when we found our first class midshipman was not on the quarterdeck, replaced by a more experienced OOD and the XO. When we reported aboard, we were immediately put on report.

We hovered around the quarterdeck watching the sailors return in small groups or one by one.  One third class petty officer passed us by after crossing the gangway. His head and arms were splattered with blood, along with his service dress white uniform which was in tatters. He was obviously very drunk and without his dixie shop (sailor’s cap).

When we asked him what happened, he said some guy hit him with a chair, and they had a donnybrook. We then asked him if he was okay. He smiled. A front tooth was missing, and then he answered, “I came back, didn’t I?”

We were further surprised when we learned the captain had not returned. He had been a submarine commanding officer before becoming the captain of the Lloyd Thomas and preferred going on liberty with the chiefs rather than the officers. Finally around 0315, his sedan pulled onto the pier. As the executive officer walked to meet him, the captain, being held up and helped aboard by the chiefs, reeled across the brow, obviously four sheets to the wind. He and his chiefs had been to a hole in the wall and been tossing them down since early evening unaware of the brawl or liberty being cancelled.

When the XO informed him of the events, the captain rolled his eyes and yelled, “Well hell then, liberty call for all hands.”

Of course, the XO immediately nixed that and helped the captain, with the aid of the chiefs, to his cabin.

At 0800 the next morning, the Lloyd Thomas got underway. The foggy harbor area was thick with small vessels at anchor including several Japanese fishing ships. The captain took the conn and was giving orders to the helm and lee helm, obviously a little woozy from the previous evening’s activity. He sped up to standard speed too early and turned to starboard a little late, scraping the side of one of the Japanese fishing ships. Looking down from the signal bridge, my watch station for sea detail, i watched a half-dozen or so Japanese fisherman jumping, diving, or falling into the water.

We continued out of the channel to rendezvous with the Intrepid and her other escorts.

The midshipmen, including me, received ten hours of extra duty for missing liberty expiration. My ten hours of extra duty was spent mostly cleaning and painting hot, dank, and out of the way spaces. i was told the State department had sent a letter of apology to Nova Scotia and Japan, but all concern apparently ended there. The captain, then a commander, made captain. The incident, including the collision at sea, did not hamper his career. He did not give himself or his chiefs any extra duty.

Yep, it ain’t the same Navy. Perhaps, perhaps, the new Navy is better. It is certainly less boisterous.

i’m glad i was in the old Navy.

A Pocket of Resistance: Staying Power, Thank God

Thirty-three years ago on a day like today though much less humid, a sea breeze reached the house on the corner lot where Taft Street intersects with Hughes Street. The temperature in the afternoon reached 95.

The backyard of the house was spotted with one white pavilion tent and about a half-dozen serving stations. The wedding took place in the northwest section of the backyard, Reverend Joe Jewell presiding.

He read the vows written by his brother, the groom, and edited by the bride:

We are here today to celebrate a union.

Maureen and Jim have traveled different paths to meet at the opportune place to become a perfect union. Their love began as a friendship and has grown far beyond what either had dreamed possible.

Their wish today to be a celebration, a joyous day of laughter and warmth; they wish to share their elation of finding each other with those here today. They hope the emotion of gladness they feel will overflow and others can feel the wonderment and peace of togetherness they share.

The light of love lit by Jim and Maureen has allowed them insight into previously  unseen corners of their lives and to see down corridors of their future.  This light also has revealed a depth of emotion that defies explanation. It has cast the light of clarity on relations with other people important in their lives, redefining and deepening those relationships. In their relationship with each other, this light of love has allowed them to experience a depth of feeling coexisting with an openness and sharing they have not attained before.

This union does not create walls but invites freedom to Maureen and Jim to be who they are with each other and with others with whom they have shared. This wedding is a symbol, an announcement, a consecration of a relationship that has been blessed as a union by the spirit and power that transcends us all.

Jim and Maureen, do you promised to share your joy, your insights, and moments of beauty with each other? Do you promise to support each other without inhibitions or reservation in all of your endeavors and moments of reflection, both high and low? Will you continue to hold each other close in body and spirit? And do you promise your friendship with each other, from which this love has grown, will continue with the same openness, depth, and fervor as it began?

This ring is a permanent symbol of this union. It signifies the love, adoration, and friendship between these two people. Its never ending circle is a symbol of the extent of Jim and Maureen’s love.

It should be remembered the ring is a symbol and cannot completely capture or represent the love and commitment these two share with each other.

The lord bless you and keep you; the lord let his face shine upon you and give you peace.

When i reread and copied those vows today, i kept thinking about how gracious my brother was in reading them without at least chuckling. But he delivered the words with feeling.

It is a bit smarmy in parts and a bit overblown. The writer and editor were in love and wanted to share that with all of their relatives and friends. So i think that is perfectly fine.

cutting-cake-mother

The above photo is sort of perfect. We are cutting the cake covered with chocolate covered strawberries with my Navy sword. My mother is in the background to the left of Maureen.

We have now been married for more than half of Maureen’s life. That is amazing to me. i often think it was good to have married each other later in life than most. i think it makes us more tolerant of each other and with the other people we hold dear.

We have settled (somewhat) into our routines of an aged relationship. The length pales into comparison to my parents’ seventy-five years of marriage. Still i think our length of marriage shows our staying power and it’s just fine, just fine.

And i, as i have pointed out a grunch of times, am a lucky man, a very lucky man and have been so for thirty-three years.

 

A Pocket of Resistance: the old mariner’s eternity

The Facebook video of a ship in a sea storm posted by David Hughen, my recollections of  storms at seas in sharing David’s video, my response on his post, my Tuesday column, and my posting here about going down the PTS pier yesterday, made me nostalgic, missing the sea life. And tonight when i continued my flailing quest at organization, i came across this poem i wrote three years ago. Seems sort of suitable:

eternity

nigh onto thirty years ago, the old mariner left the sea;
after nigh onto thirty years, he still misses the life:
the sea takes your heart, your soul, and sets you free;
the sea becomes your mother, your ingénue, your wife.

so the old man climbs his hill each day
and
looks down to the bay
and
beyond the sliver of land
they call the strand, which forms the bay,
and
gazes out to the sea,
which just goes on and on and on
until the curvature of the earth
takes the sea away from the old man’s gaze
into eternity
and
he breathes a sigh
for what used to be
and
he shifts his gaze down
to the harbor where the new
gray ladies lie at their berths:
modern, sleek creatures,
electronic, green-powered wonders
of advancement, they say
and
he remembers
the huffing and puffing of the steam ships
with twitches and twangs
of machinery
and
sweat and labor of men
manning the engine rooms, fire rooms,
and
magazines and crowded mounts
belching fire and smoke and noise;
realizing those old ships of the old navy
have gone over the horizon
as well as the sunset
into eternity
and
he breathes a sigh
for what used to be.

A Pocket of Resistance: The Fat Man

i read the email and felt numb, all over numb.

Then i was confused because i could not figure out how much of the hurt was because i had not done what i had promised myself to do.

Forrest Crockett Carr had sent me the email. It was the obituary of one James Allan Smith prefaced with Crockett’s note, “One of the best ‘town boys.'”

Every one i have known looked up to Jimmy Smith. He, John Sweatt, and Kent Russ took care of me at Heights and beyond. Jimmy and Kent were instrumental in getting me to pledge Kappa Sigma at Vanderbilt where i forged some of the strongest friendships i’ve ever had and many remaining so today.

Tiger golf team, 1958: Burke Herron, John Castro, Billy Lea, Bill Rose, Jimmy Smith, Charlie Teasley, Bob Pinkerton, Charles Gilbert, Tom Goldsby.
Tiger golf team, 1958: Burke Herron, John Castro, Billy Lea, Bill Rose, Jimmy Smith, Charlie Teasley, Bob Pinkerton, Charles Gilbert, Tom Goldsby.

Jimmy was just flat something special. At Heights, he played on the last golf team (1958, i believe). He exuded cool, which was a difficult thing to do in the school’s military uniform. Jimmy and Leonard Bradley are the only two guys i remember who could pull that off. And Jimmy excelled. In everything. Graduating my freshman year, he was the 1959 class salutatorian.

Then Jimmy and Kent Russ went to Vanderbilt. Three years later i followed. The summer before i matriculated, Jimmy invited me to a Kappa Sigma summer party. It was not pretty. i drank rum and coke for the first (and last) time, drank more, and blew lunch somewhere. It should have given me a clue, but it didn’t. When classes began, there was no question what i would pledge, and to this day, i’m glad Jimmy and Kent influenced my being a Kappa Sigma pledge. My closeness to my brothers remains strong and good.

Both of them watched over me that freshman year and tried to help me as much as possible, but i was on an inevitable course to failure. Even as my grades slid and my acumen for calculus vanished, i still thought i could do everything, including partying hard, sleeping late, skipping classes and still bring my grades up. It didn’t happen, but it wasn’t because of Jimmy and Kent.

At Vandy, everyone knew Jimmy as one of the coolest guys around. His favorite phrase was addressing everyone he liked as “fat man.” It became such a deal, he was known as “Fat Man,” and that was a cool thing. He impressed me in everything he did. He was an immaculate dresser, never overdressed, never underdressed. And just as he did in his Heights uniform, he made everything look cool.

Jimmy hung out often as The Sportsman Club to the west of the Parthenon in Centennial Park across West End from Vanderbilt. The cool guys hung out there. Of course.

In the spring, Jimmy invited me and another freshman (i think it was Cy Fraser) over to his apartment, where we drank scotch. i was not a scotch drinker, but Jimmy drank scotch so i thought it was cool and drank it that night. Then he put on a record. The artist remains one of my all time favorites.

It was Mose Allison singing on all the tracks of “Mose Allison Sings.” i listened with awe. I  fancied myself a blues fan, and obviously, Mose has some of that in his songs, but it was different, jazz, cool, just like the Fat Man. i later learned it was also the first album where Mose was allowed to sing on all of the tracks. Jimmy knew. He was that cool.

Jimmy left for Virginia law school after that year, and i never saw him again. Through my Lebanon, Heights, and Vandy contacts, i kept loose track of him, and knew he had become a prominent labor and contract attorney in Atlanta. i also learned through either John Sweatt or Earl Major or both, Jimmy had lost his vision in his later years.

The Fat Man was an inspiration to me. i always wanted to be like him. He was the coolest, but he also was one of the most genuine friends i ever had. After learning he was in Atlanta, i vowed to get his contact information, call, and even planned how i would go spend an afternoon or a dinner with him. i’m sure if i had, i would have more memories of how cool, intelligent, genuine, and funny he was.

But i was thwarted in my initial efforts to contact him, usually being called away from my quest for some immediate crisis. The item on my checklist kept getting pushed down the page.

i am terribly sorry i was not more tenacious. i hurt from his loss because he meant so much to me. i hurt even more because i did not spend more time with him.

i guess what i’m really trying to say is: if you have a friend who is special to you but with whom you haven’t communicated in a long time, don’t put it off. Find them, call them, visit them.

If you do, i don’t think you will hurt as much as i am hurting right now.

Rest in peace, Fat Man.

A Pocket of Resistance: the kid with green hair

the kid with green hair

it was a necessary drive
for a blood test about
five miles down the road
pass four to six schools
depending on my route,
i not realizing
it was the first day of the new school term
in july.
something is just wrong about that:
july, when i was shirtless, barefoot, just shorts,
romping in the front and back yard,
under the fence or up the hill or down the street
to play with neighbors, similarly attired
climbing trees, hitting balls, playing cowboys and indians,
vacation bible school, swimming pools, picnics
in the dirt and grass with stinging bees
or
throwing a blanket under the chinese elm in the front yard
or
sitting on the small screened-in back porch when it rained,
playing board or card games with lemonade as a chaser;
can’t imagine school in july.

but
what the hell do i know?
i mean, they got all these teachers with degrees,
unions and administrators as many as the teachers
directing those self-same teachers
as to what to teach, how much, grading, testing
so the kids will be smarter than me
and
they divided up the terms for shorter vacations,
i.e. summer vacations truncated, for memory retention
but
i remember my teachers who loved me enough
to teach me basics
and
give me three months of summer vacation in the sun;
of course, we didn’t have air-conditioning then,
just big ceiling fans and open windows;
can’t imagine sitting in those big rooms in july
staring out at summer.

then, coming back from the blood test,
taking the back roads to avoid the opening school crowds
then giving up when i realized the crowds were everywhere,
i spotted the boy walking with his mother to school:
i did that once,
walking to school with my mother
once,
the first morning, six-years old,
within a half block of the school
when
i told her i was all right; she could go home;
i walked that half-mile with friends or by myself
every weekday for six years (except for summer vacation, of course),
no adult supervision, no fear, laughing mostly,
to home where most of the time
it was just me, then sister and me, and two years brother, sister, and me
into the unlocked house
until mother got home from work;
i understand
this mother walking her son along with an unending parade
of mothers walking their children to school
because it’s different now:
fear breeds protection: that is good and understandable;
yet this boy, this kid has got green hair:
am i watching sesame street?
does the boy want to be oscar the grouch, kermit the frog?
i wanted to be hopalong cassidy and then roy rogers
and
would have been laughed into oblivion
if
i had shown up with green hair.

i drove through the crowd at the elementary school;
i drove through the crowd at the middle school;
i drove through the crowd at the high school;
i drove through the crowd at the community college;
i did not see one girl in a dress or skirt;
where did those girls i worshipped go?
they were mysteriously, beautifully different;
put them on a pedestal, so to speak,
i worshipped them, didn’t understand them (still don’t),
wanted to be their hero,
wanted to take care of them, or at least to a movie;
now they are independent,
like the boys, only prettier,
and
someone might call me a chauvinist
or worse,
and
i recognize the world, their world is not what mine was:
ike and adlai running against each other: the world was safe,
segregated but safe,
bigoted but safe,
polio inflicted but safe,
soviet a-bomb threatened but safe
because we could hide under our desks,
then muster in the school’s front yard,
before walking home by ourselves
with the boys in jeans and the girls in dresses,
but
not in summer,
and
not with green hair.