– Basic Training – Army Style – #2

September 6, 1966

I had just been drafted into the United States Army for a two-year stint. Was I going to war because we had a doozy going in Southeast Asia. Vietnam, to-be-exact. Would I get duty in Europe or, maybe, Korea? Would I be stationed state side? I mean, there were jobs enough for everyone. The military establishment was growing by leaps and bounds and only a relatively small portion would be combat troops. Most would be support or logistics, right?

First things first. We had to successfully make it through basic training or it was all a moot point, correct? It was make it or go home with a less than glorious discharge.

No one wanted to go home with a medical discharge that would state you couldn’t keep up with the other guys for whatever reason. No one wanted to go home labeled a trouble maker and get a dishonorable discharge. That stays with you forever. And, certainly, no one wanted a Section 8. Psychologically unfit for duty. Man, who would want to get stuck with that one?

Yeah, well that was the extreme. Once you went through the battery of tests, both physical and mental, the military was pretty sure they got it right. If they, for some strange reason, missed something, it would show up eventually. Unfortunately, sometimes it showed up too late. You can diagnose the problem and still lose the patient.

The basic training company that Phil and I went to was D-1-1. That’s D- Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Training Brigade and we were the 1st platoon.

Since Phil and I were both ex-R.O.T.C. in high school, the D. I. or Drill Instructor gave me the temporary rank of Sergeant and Phil the temporary rank of Corporal. This afforded us the privilege of sleeping not in the squad bay with all of the rest o f the troops but in separate rooms.

There was one room for the guide-on bearer, Buzz Sheridan, the only National Guardsman in the whole company, who was also a temporary sergeant and me, the acting platoon sergeant. Then there was a separate room for the four squad leaders, Phil McWilliams, Richard DeLucca, Clarence Champion and, I’m sorry I forgot his first name but his last name is Cruz, who were all acting corporals. They were, and I hope still are, a great bunch of guys.

I’m sorry, also, that I was unable to keep track of the guys in my first ever military outfit. I had the guys each write their names on our platoon picture but, unfortunately, it got lost some years ago. Phil found his and sent me a copy which I now treasure. Unfortunately, his does not have the names on the back as did mine.

I remember some of the guys by name if only by their last. I remember all of them by their faces. All the young faces that stare back at me through time. My own included.

We had quite an eclectic group in our platoon. It covered the gambit from highly educated to high school to drop out, both out of school and, since it was the sixties, from society in general. All-in-all, they were the best platoon going.

When it came to awards, we, the 1st Platoon, got the ones that counted. Physical training #1, marksmanship #1, drill #1, basic combat skills #1, anything and everything …….. except house-keeping. Try as we might, house-keeping just wasn’t our thing. Taking the big picture into consideration, I think everything else we exceeded at was of far great importance. In the long run, that is.

Anyone who has won a battle with a broom and dust pan, raise your hand!

There are many guys who, like I said, I remember by their last names or by their faces alone but there is one guy who will always stay with me because he was quite a character.

He was a tall skinny black kid with glasses who was naturally funny and, in general, a joy to be around. He was not, how should I say, well-coordinated. The young man I refer to is Huey Walton and, Huey, if you read this or someone you know tells you about it, I mean this in the most endearing of terms. Believe me.

Huey went on a few of our first training outing and we, his squad leader, the drill instructor and me, noticed that Huey was having trouble negotiating some of the obstacles and wasn’t handling the calisthenics very well either. Marching was not his forte and a distant runner with pack, he was not.

The drill instructor suggested that perhaps Huey would be better off on K.P. (that’s Kitchen Police for those of you not initiated), permanently. He was going to bring our over-all score down and those 1st places are important to the D.I.’s as well as to us.

So, if there was nothing physical about the days activities, Huey would come along and watch a movie or take a class. But, should anything physical be required, Huey would be relegated to K.P. for the duration.

As the eight weeks of  basic training continued, Huey saw very like of the actual training but was becoming quite good in the kitchen not just at washing dishes and clearing tables but at cooking as well. I guess the cooks took a liking to Huey, which, as I said earlier, was quite easy to do. Huey, on-the-other-hand, hated K.P. and everything that went with it. He could hardly wait for graduation day so he could go to his permanent duty station and away from that blasted kitchen.

Soon enough graduation day came. Parents, wives and friends came for the event. We all dressed in our dress greens and marched out to the parade grounds. Heads held high and really strutting our stuff, we were all so proud I’m surprised the brass buttons stayed on our tunics.

After the ceremony was over and all the good-byes were said, the Platoon Sergeant gathered us all together in the squad bay to give us our orders. Phil and I signed up for airborne and took special P.T. (physical training) every morning before the rest of the company even got up. Then, we would do the regular P.T. with the rest of the company. What was called “The Daily Dozen”. I was in great shape then.

Anyway, when I got my orders I expected to go infantry. Surprise, I was going to be a cop. Military Police School, Fort Gordon, Georgia. Phil was going to Fort Gordon as well but he was going to be a radio operator or Signal, as it was called.

The list went on and on. Some of the guys went to infantry, some to armor, artillery, transportation and then there was Huey Walton. Huey, who hated K.P. with all his heart and soul. Huey, who was looking forward to no more than just getting out of this company and on to somewhere else. He didn’t care where just anywhere but here. Huey was going nowhere. The powers that be had made him a cook and, to make things worse if that is even possible, he would be staying right there at D-1-1.

That was the last time I saw any of the guys in my training platoon, except for my close friend Phil. I have often wondered how they are doing today. If any of them became casualties of the war that lasted way too long. Even though I may not remember the names, they were and are very important to me.

I remember one incident in particular that happened the last week of basic training. I had a disagreement with our D.I. in training, Sgt. Keyes and he demoted me to guide-on bearer. He made Buzz a squad leader and put Clarence A. Champion, a now former squad leader, in charge of the platoon in my place.

Buzz handed me the guide-on and I took my place to the right of the first squad leader. Champion took my old spot in front of the platoon. When the command was given to bring the formation to attention, Champion did an about face to face the platoon, came to attention and waited to echo the command given by the first sergeant. The first sergeant called the company to attention and each platoon sergeant repeated the command for his own platoon. Platoons 2 through 4 snapped to attention like a well oiled machine. First platoon stood rigidly at at ease. The only people to come to attention was Champion and myself. The rest of the platoon didn’t budge.

Sergeant Keyes was so mad I thought he was going to rupture an artery. He stormed up to me saying, “What’s the meaning of this. Binkley, you’re in real trouble this time.” I told him I had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t my fault.

He turned to Champion and said “Get this platoon to attention NOW!”

Champion was flustered to say the least but he gave it another try. Still, the ranks didn’t move. They remained at ease as before. You could start to hear snickering coming from the other platoons who were trying to see what was going on. I even saw a couple of the other D.I.’s choking back a smile.

Sgt. Keyes was livid and yelling at the platoon to obey Champions order to come to attention. Still they didn’t move. Finally, Sgt. Keyes came back to me and said, “Binkley, you get this platoon to attention right now or else.”

“Yes Sgt. Keyes.” I replied and stepped out in front of MY platoon. I said something like, “Men, there has been a change in command and you must follow Sgt. Champions orders.” I followed that with, “1st Platoon, Attention!!” You could have heard a pin drop after that platoon came to attention. It was perfect.

I turned to Sgt. Keyes, saluted and said, “1st Platoon is at attention and awaiting further orders.” I didn’t wait for an answering salute because I didn’t think one was forth-coming. I just returned to my new station as guide-on bearer and came to attention myself. There was a short round of applause from the other platoons which was soon quieted by their D.I.’s.

After the formation was dismissed, one of the D.I.’s from the 2nd or 3rd platoon, a Sgt. Smith, came up to me and said, “I have never seen that before in basic training. Such loyalty is rare even in combat.” then he said, “I would be proud to have you in any unit I commanded.” and he shook my hand.

Yes, it was only the beginning. It was just the start of my two years in the service but it was a grand way to begin. There will be more.

Remember a soldier if you know one. They’re always thinking of you.

Have a great day!

– Another Christmas Past –

It’s amazing how the mood changes in just a few days after the big event. All the wrapping paper has been collected and relegated to the trash bags waiting pick-up on Monday. The cards are hung with care or stacked on a table somewhere soon to meet the same fate as the wrapping paper. Well, maybe a few will survive. A few very select cards at best.

The tree, if once alive, is now starting to show signs of drying and the needles are starting to accumulate faster as each day passes. Guests that once were a joy to have are becoming a little less like guests and a little more like intruders. Not to be mean but it’s always nice to get back to some sense of normalcy when the shine has worn off the holiday spirit.

It’s time to think about those gifts you received and, especially, the ones you didn’t. You opened them and were so surprised and happy when you really were thinking, “What in the world am I going to do with that?” or “There’s no way I’m going to be seen in public wearing that thing!” It’s about then you start to think of  ‘re-gifting for next year’. Just don’t forget to label it so it doesn’t go back to the original gifter. How embarrassing is that?

Then you have the gift or gifts you didn’t receive. You thought you dropped enough hints to the right person or people and yet, you didn’t get it. What, are these people idiots. And your husband or wife, as-the-case-may-be, there is absolutely no excuse there. This isn’t like sports people. There isn’t an “Oh well, there’s always next year!” Because next year it will be something else that you wanted that they will have forgotten. It’s a never-ending cycle and it rarely if ever turns out the way you wanted. That’s why shopping for oneself is so important throughout the year. What’s so hard to understand about that?

Then, there’s your presents. The ones you spent so much time on getting just the right things for everyone on your list. It’s, “Did you see the look on her face? I just know she hated it.” or “Some people are so ungrateful. Next year he gets coal. If I can find it. Where do you get coal anyway?”

Yes, it’s over for another year or whenever it is you start your Christmas shopping. The frustration of finding just the right thing for those special someones in your life or, at least what you think is the prefect gift for each. The fun of receiving the perfect gifts selected just for you and having all those wonderful people traipsing through your house for three or four days. Ah, the sheer joy that is Christmas. Maybe someone else will have it at their house next year? Yeah, that could happen.

Well, have a happy but safe New Year. Crack open that bottle of champagne and have a spare on ice. Toast the arrival of 2010 and pray for a better year for all.

HAPPY  NEW  YEAR  EVERYONE ! ! !

We’ll talk again next year.

Ed B.

About The Author

–         –  About  The  Author  –

By Ed Binkley

I guess you might say I was stubborn and that would be an accurate statement most of the time. I tend to like to do things my way even though logic and, yes, good sense might dictate otherwise. This has brought me much to reflect on over the years and not all with happiness. I have been wrong more than I was right and paid a heavy price for my stubbornness but such is life and as the saying goes, “He made his bed now let him lie in it.”

We all have regrets and wish that life had more do-over’s than it actually does (which isn’t many, by-the-way) so however we made our bed in preparation for life, so it shall be when we sleep in it. The only real regret is that we tend to bring others with us on that journey that didn’t aid in the actual making of our beds. We kind of picked them up after the journey began. There are husbands, wives, children, extended families and, of course, friends. None of them had anything at all with feathering the original nest yet they are just as much a part of the final product as the maker of that bed himself.

I could go through a wish list which would more or less resemble a shopping list for success and bore you to tears but my list would be short and to the point. I wanted to make a positive difference in this life. I didn’t. I wanted to leave a good financial foundation for my wife and kids. I didn’t. I wanted to do one great thing that my kids could say, “See that! My daddy did that.” And, once again, I didn’t.

I missed the mark so many times I can’t figure out why the Good Lord has kept me around so long. I just seem to be occupying space and collecting dust. I’ve got one shoe nailed to the floor and I’m walking in circles. Shall I go on?

Well, that isn’t quite true anymore. I wish I could say I woke up one day and low and behold, I had an epiphany. That wouldn’t be entirely true either. What did happen is that I finally realized what it was I wanted to do when I grew up. (I’m now sixty-two, by-the-way.) I want to write. I’ve been doing it kind of hap-hazardously over the years since high school with decades of in activity scattered in-between. I started again about fourteen years ago again sort of hit and miss. I’d start something and then set it aside. I’d write some sappy poems and then set them aside. I started a few novels and rushed to finish them and then never went back to revise or edit them. I couldn’t convince myself that I should take it seriously. I mean I failed at everything else, why should this be any different? My psychologist would disagree with that statement saying something like, “It’s impossible to fail at everything Ed, get real. You might want to rethink that statement.” Well, she’s right, of course, there were many things I did succeed at but they weren’t the important ones. That’s the difference.

The difference with writing versus other things I’ve tried is……… I like it! It makes me happy and other people who have taken the time to read my recent stories seem to agree. They like them too. I have a lot I want to say both on paper and off. I want to share what is rambling around in my head and see if it can fit comfortably in yours or someone else’s. Stephen King, in his novel “Bag of Bones” had his main character use a quote, “A writer is someone who lets their mind misbehave.” I guess that would have to be true for some novelists. I haven’t tried that yet but I might. Right now I just want to share my thoughts, such as they are, and relive some of my past, some of my youth and those experiences that we, of that era can share with those born later who might like to know more about a time that they didn’t have the opportunity to live in, a simpler time. It was a time when the birds sang and people stopped to listen. When the aroma of freshly mown grass was like mother natures perfume. And trees were to be admired for their strength and majesty. Now, what few birds there are left to sing are considered pests. “Why don’t they shut up so we can sleep?” Freshly mown grass just signals it’s time to pay the gardener. And the majestic trees are those things that stand in the way of progress. Oh how I long for the “good ole days”.

Now that the Good Lord has given me the direction I am to travel, I hope he gives me the time I need to finish that which I have so recently started. Oh, and one more thing, for the first time ever I feel comfortable calling myself a writer. No, not because I have been published that is still a dream and one that may never come true but simply because people have read some of my stories and felt good about them which, in turn, makes me feel good. What can I say? I’m easy to please but I would like to be pleased on a more regular basis. Did I mention I’m just a wee bit greedy as well? Especially when it comes to being pleased that is.

– The New Guy In Town –

I had only been in Lake Oswego, Oregon a little over three maybe four days. Still trying to get my sea legs, so-to-speak. The reason for me being here at all was do to a friend of mine, who I kept in touch with over the years in a periodic fashion, a favor. She and her husband owned a house in what is called the First Edition part of Lake Oswego and they were having some remodeling done. I guess there was a problem with their original contractor and since I did that kind of work, they asked if I wanted to complete the job.

I was living in Phoenix, Arizona and working in telemarketing to be close to my kids. She knew I hated my job and Phoenix so getting me to leave that miserable place was fairly easy. I had no plans of staying any longer than six months or so. Just enough time to finish the job, look around a bit and return to the dry heat of the desert which I loved so much. Yeah, right! That was thirteen years ago.

After getting re-acquainted with my friend and her family and getting settled in general, I decided to take a walk around town, which was only four or five blocks away, and see where things were. The best way to find your way around is to walk it. Especially when the town is as compact as Lake Oswego.

There are two main streets that comprise the main part of town. Highway 43 or State Street and A Avenue which T-bones right into State Street. B Avenue is a secondary main street that runs parallel to A street has offices, the Fire Station, restaurants, pharmacy and things of that nature. First Street through Fifth Street which run parallel to State Street and across A Avenue also have businesses. Like I said, it’s a very compact little town that thinks it’s a city.

I was actually looking for a place to get a good hamburger and a cold beer. I always say, “If you can find a place that serves a good burger and cold beer, just about anything else you buy there should be good as well.” It doesn’t always hold true but most of the time it does.

I walked from my friends house to State Street and followed it down across A Street until I reached a place called Brazil’s. There was a sign in the window that read Hamburgers $3.95. It was a neighborhood bar, dark as pitch inside but that was normal for most small bars. No one really wanted know what the next person looked like drunk or sober.

I walked in through the open door, through the small dining area and through the swinging cafe’ doors to the bar or lounge part of the bar. I looked around but saw no one. I mean no one. No bartender, no patron no cook, no one. I figured the bartender must be in the bathroom so I sat and waited and waited and waited some more. Nothing. I checked the mens room and, reluctantly, checked the ladies as well. Still nothing.

I tried calling out but no one answered. I walked up the back stairs and checked the alley and saw nothing there either. This place was completely deserted. I guess a more dishonest person could have robbed the place but being me, I locked the back door and closed the front door. I didn’t know what else to do.

Come to find out that the old gal that tended bar there usually started drinking when she clocked in and about the time I got there she would have been asleep on a chair in the kitchen. The regulars would have known to wake her up but me being new, didn’t know to look in the blacked out kitchen. Live and learn, right?

After leaving Brazil’s, I went back toward A Street and crossed to the other side where I saw the Pump House. It was another small local bar that catered to the baseball cap and flannel shirt crowd. Don’t get me wrong, basically I am one of those guys but it wasn’t what I was looking for at all. Besides, they only served beer and wine and no real food to speak of. My search continued.

I walked, again, toward State Street and hung a left. I came upon a place called the Gemini Bar and Grill. I did a quick walk through and noted that they had pool tables in the front along with tables and chairs for customers. In the back were more tables, a dance floor and a large stage that stretched across the whole back wall. The bar was long and L-shaped at the front with well stocked liquor shelves behind.

I sat at one of the tables in the front of the bar near the pool tables and waited for the bartender to come over. I waited while he looked at me and placed an order with the cook. I waited while the cook passed the order over the stainless steel shelf and I waited some more while the bartender looked at me as he started to eat the hamburger.

It was then that I walked to the bar and asked if it would be possible to get some service. The bartender, with a half full mouth said, “That section’s closed.”

I asked him, “Well why didn’t you say so? I’ve been sitting there for twenty minutes waiting for some service. You saw me, right?”

His reply was, “Yeah, but I thought you were just resting.”

I figured this place and, especially this moron bartender, didn’t deserve my business so I left for greener pastures. I hoped.

I was about to give up and head back to my friends house when I spotted a white plaster building that I had walked by earlier not knowing what it was. It was kitty-corner from the pharmacy. Looking at it from this direction I could see it was a restaurant and lounge. Lacey’s of Lake Oswego, to be exact. Steak and seafood it’s specialty. I figured one more chance and that’s it, I go home after this.

I walked through the heavy front door, turned right down a short hall and then left into the bar area. There were few if any people inside so there were plenty of bar stools to choose from. I picked one close to the door just in case.

Walking toward me behind the bar was a good looking blond with a very pleasant smile. She placed her elbows in the stainless steel drip edge on the back of the bar top, smiled an even bigger smile and said, “Hi, what can I get ya?” It was then that I knew I was home. This was going to be my watering hole of choice. My home away from home. My spot.

And so it was for almost ten years. There were blue collars who mixed with business execs who mixed with millionaires who mixed with whoever. For a good number of those years, all pretexts, for the most part, were hung on hooks just inside the front door. There was no class distinction in Lacey’s. The owner, Ed Lacey, wouldn’t allow it. Everyone was equal when they walked in and remained so until they left and even then, many remained friends regardless of there educational or economic status on the outside.

Like everything else, change is inevitable and change came to Lacey’s as well. Ed Lacey sold out to someone who really didn’t care about maintaining the business. It was run into the ground, the new owner evicted and the name of Lacey’s removed once and for all. Even though I was no longer a regular, the thought of Lacey’s being gone leaves an empty spot somewhere in my soul.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times but it was our time, good or bad.

I’ll catch you next time.

Have a really nice day!

– Annabella Esterella Theodosha Bean –

It was the summer of 1966 and I was sitting in my car, a 1959 Pontiac Bonneville 2 door hardtop painted a beautiful metallic Kelly Green. I was at Oscars drive-in on the traffic circle in Long Beach, California. It was the local cruising hangout in that part of town. The cruisers and the racers would all congregate there to show off their cars. It’s what we did then. Among other things. The parking lot was an L-shape with the racers on one side and the cruisers on the other.

I can’t swear to what others were drinking in their cars but, I was known as Mr. Quarter-a-cup. The coffee was 25 cents and I would always leave the carhop a 25 cent tip per cup. I didn’t use the door tray because it might have scratched my paint or kept me from exiting the car or the lot when I felt like it. Behind the drivers seat was piled with coffee cups that I had driven off with from time to time. I would return most of them, eventually, but some ended up in my kitchen cabinet, I must admit.

I was one of the cruisers. My car was as far from a racer as you could get. I wasn’t a low-rider either, just a pure cruiser. We, my friends and I, would drive to Hollywood Blvd. and cruise up and down the Blvd. turn down Vine and continue on down Sunset Blvd. then turn around and go the other way.

The traffic caused by custom cars, racers and the curious in general would keep everything at a crawl for hours on end. You never knew what or who you would come across either walking or driving down those Hollywood boulevards. Famous cars or famous people were everywhere. It was quite a time back then.

We would drive from one end of the boulevards to the other and repeat it all over again until we either hooked up with some girls or ran low on gas. Usually it was the gas that got us first.

Trips to Hollywood didn’t happen every week-end. Most of the time we would just go to Oscars, get a good front row seat, drink coffee and watch the cars drive by. Between Hollywood Blvd., Oscars and the other drive-ins in the Long Beach area, it was like a car show every night of the week.

One night, while parked in the front row, I saw a red Ford T-Bird convertible, a ’56 or ’57 I believe,  come cruising around the end of the parked cars to my right. You always cruised from right to left. It was the rule. Sitting on the hood of the T-Bird was a cute little thing who seemed to be having quite a time for herself. She was holding something in her hands but I couldn’t tell what it was. As her driver proceeded in front of her captive audience, the little gal on the hood started shooting everyone in their cars with squirt guns. This, she thought, was very funny. Not everyone agreed.

As they made their second or third pass, several of the once spotless custom cars they were soaking decided enough was enough and left. At least for the time being or until they could wipe them down to sparkling condition again. It was a pride thing.

The space next to me had become vacant and, low and behold, the two young ladies chose that spot in which to park. They backed in, as we all did, for a little rest, I presumed. I introduced myself and thanked the shooter for the impromptu shower. We all talked for a while and, being a gentleman even then, I bought them both a drink. You know, coke or coffee, something like that.

Just before they were getting ready to leave, I asked the gunslinger her name. She said, “Do you really want to know?” and I replied in the affirmative. She said her name was Annabella Esterella Theodosha Bean but everyone just called her Ann for short. Well, I could see why!

We talked for a short time longer when she said it was time for them to leave. I said my good nights to them both, the driver started her car and put it in gear. Now, sometime while they were sitting there, the driver must have reloaded the squirt guns because as they pulled out, Annabella Esterella Theodosha Bean got me with both barrels. She smiled and said, “See you next-time.” I thought to myself, “Yes, you will. You most certainly will.”

When they left, I talked to a few of the other guys who got blasted with the squirt guns and we devised a little plan. Over the next couple of nights, we waited for the return of the squirt gun girls. We were beginning to think they weren’t going to come back but, sure enough, they showed up one night and we were ready for them. As they pulled into line to make the circuit around the parked cars, we, in the front row, got out of our cars and waited. When the little red T-Bird got right in the middle of the front row we all ran out, surrounded the little convertible and opened fire.They never had a chance.

Annabella Esterella Theodosha Bean and her accomplice were soaked from head to toe and laughing to beat the band, as were we all. The whole parking lot was in an uproar with laughter as they got out of the car and surveyed the result of our retaliatory attack.

After that, most of us kept squirt guns in our back seats although they were seldom if ever used again. But as they say, better safe than sorry, right?

Annabella and her friend were regulars after that and became one of the cruiser crowd. Shortly after summer had passed, my friend Phil and I were inducted into the service of our country  for the next two years and we kind of lost track of the Oscars crowd. We had other things on our minds.

When we got out in September of 1968, things didn’t seem quite the same. We were different, the times had changed or, whatever had happened, just happened. Who knows?

One thing that hasn’t changed are the memories of those days. When we think of them, we are still in our youth. Young and curious and adventurous to whatever extent that might be. Everything is fresh again. The girls are just as pretty, the cars are just as shinny and we, old men now, are just the way we were then. There’s a lot to be said for memories.

One, in particular, that has stuck with me is the memory of Anabella Esterella Theodosha Bean. That name will stick with me till the very day I die. She may never know what an impact she had on me that one summer night in 1966. Oh that name. Oh that girl. I hope she had a good life because she is still giving me enjoyment to this day. Thanks Annabella, wherever you are, for decades of smiles.

Have a nice day and pleasant memories!

– Memory Meltdown –

I was walking through my mind one evening and realized I must be having some kind of crisis or something very much like a crisis. I was thinking back on some of my most recent dreams and realized I have been dreaming about murder and mayhem. Not just dreaming about it but actually committing murder and mayhem.

Now, anyone who knows me will tell you that this is not possible. I’m just not wired that way at all. That being said, where are all of these strange thoughts coming from then?

Last night, for example, I was stalking people, with my father at my side. A man who I did not even recognize to be my father, by-the-way, and we were both dressed like Indians in buckskin pants and shirts. What makes it even more strange is we were in modern day America not back in the days of the settlers or the great range wars.

We would indiscriminately kill people and move on to the next. No apparent rhyme or reason to it all. I think the Indian get up was a product of a TV series I saw just recently, The Closer, where the serial killer dressed up like a Ninja. That might explain one nights dreams but what about the other three nights?

I was a killer in all of my dreams for three nights running and, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out. This morning, I think I just might have a handle on it.

I suffer from a form of depression, plus, I like to write and therefore have an unusual imagination. While taking my morning pills for heart, blood pressure, cholesterol, etal, I noticed my anti-depressant was missing from the mix. Apparently I had forgotten to put it into my little pill box and hadn’t taken it for the passed few days. Now I know why my doctor told me never to go without that pill, ever!!

I think that, perhaps, I should start watching comedies again instead of Law and Order (all three series), Raising the Bar, Bones and the other dramas that feed my dream time imagination.

Of course, it won’t help my sleep pattern if I wake out of a sound sleep and start doing a stand-up routine either. Breaking into uncontrollable laughter wouldn’t be good either.  All I can hope for is a happy medium and for the meds to kick in quickly.

You need not nail your windows shut or hire extra security on my account. I’ll stay home nights and behave myself, I promise, no more murderous thoughts. But, if you hear uncontrollable laughter in your front yard, that just might be me.

Have a nice day!

– Bathtub Beer –

During the time of Prohibition from 1920 until 1933, alcohol made for drinking purposes was banned from use in the United States. Americans were not to be denied there libations simply because the law said so. Gangsters imported it through any means possible and at a high cost in lives.

Bathtub Gin was manufactured in apartments and homes throughout cities and towns nation wide. Underground distilleries and breweries were popping up all over. No, a nation of drinkers are a nation of drinkers forever. Where there is a will there will always be a way. That good ole American can do spirit lives on.

My dad and his friend, Jim Stephenson, were no different than anyone else. They enjoyed a cold beer now and again and, during the dry spell of the late twenties, it wasn’t necessarily hard to get but it was a bit pricey for the boys back then. You see, they only earned roughly 25 to 30 cents an hour working for Dow Chemical in Denver, Colorado. And that was considered pretty good wages for that time period.

Out of that $12.00 to $14.40 for a six day work week, had to come rent, food, clothing and entertainment. Most of us today wouldn’t even get out of bed for that piddly amount. My dad and Jim did it every day and were glad they had the opportunity to do so. Jobs of any kind were scarce back then.

The boys liked to have a few beers, like I said, and they were trying to figure out just how they could cut down on their entertainment costs. One of them came up with the bright idea of making their own beer. After all, how hard could it be? That would surely cut down on their drinking bill and they could make as much as they wanted, whenever they wanted. The plan had been hatched now, all they needed were the supplies.

Within the next few days they got themselves a recipe and bought all the ingredients. They bought the self-sealing bottles with the metal clip and cork that snaps down on the side of the bottle neck and a few cases to hold them. The brew was mixed in a washtub which they covered and let sit for a week or so. When the time was right, they siphoned the beer into the bottles and sealed them up to age a few days. The final instruction before bottling was to put two teaspoons of sugar in the bottom of each bottle before putting in the liquid.

Now dad and Jim looked at each other thinking, after all the sugar they put into the mix itself, why put in more now. They wanted regular beer not sweet beer so they omitted the two teaspoons of sugar and capped the bottles anyway.

Dad and Jim shared a single room with one bed, one dresser, a table with a  couple of chairs and that was about it. It was cheaper than if they got one room a piece besides, that’s the way you did it back then. A room wasn’t meant to hang out in, just for sleeping and getting ready for another days work.  In those days, they weren’t so hung up on the I gotta have my own space thing like we are today. Two grown men would share the same room, the same double bed and be glad they had their own side let alone the whole bed and think nothing of it at all.

The beds back then were crude to say the least. The headboards were thin metal rails and the springs were exposed and coiled and squeaky. The mattresses were thin, about 4 inches in all, and just barely protected you from the springs but after a hard days work, it felt pretty damn good.

Dad and Jim were proud not only that they had brewed their own beer but that they hadn’t drank it before they bottled and aged it. A feat in itself, I might add. After the bottling and boxing, they slid their soon to be refreshments under the coiled springs of the bed to age.

Now, either that night or the next, while dead asleep in the middle of the night, the bottles started to go off like shotgun blasts right under their mattress. The tops of the bottles were blowing of the bottle bodies and hitting the bed springs and the bottom of the thin mattress like rounds from a cannon.

Dad and Jim were scared out of their wits not knowing who was shooting at them and why. They both jumped out of bed and into the spreading, frothing mess coming from under the bed. The shotgun blasts continued until all the bottles had erupted and the floor was covered with their precious beer.

After they had gathered their senses about them they realized what had just happened. The next day they found out that the sugar added before bottling was meant to keep those eruptions from happening not to make the beer sweeter. Live and learn, right?

Dad and Jim gave up on trying to save money by brewing their own beer and went back to the old fashion way. Buying it from the bootlegger or some one who had. Sure, it was more expensive that way but it was definitely safer and a lot less messy. Besides, this way all they had to wait for was  payday.

See you next-time and have a nice day!

– My Stay In The Orange County Jail –

Now, I’m not proud of the fact that I was picked up for driving under the influence but, it happens to the best of us as well as the worst. It was just my turn in the barrel, so-to-speak.

I was at a place in San Juan Capistrano called The Swallows Inn. It’s a country western bar on the main street in town just a couple blocks from the freeway. I really didn’t have that much to drink. Three scotch and water tall and I didn’t even finish the last one. Plus, I had been dancing most of the night.

About an hour before closing, I decided I had had enough fun for one night and packed it in. I got in my wifes car, we were still living together but we were spliting up so, why pretend. I drove across the bridge over the freeway and turned into the Denney’s parking lot thinking I might get something to eat before driving back to Huntington Beach. Once in the parking lot, I changed my mind and reversed course. Mistake number one.

When I got to the exit, I noticed a sign that read “NO LEFT TURN”. There were two Highway Patrol cruisers sitting in the gas station directly across the street and the guy in front of me was going to make a left turn right in front of them. Instead of paying attention to my right turn, I watched his left turn. In-so-doing, I ran over the edge of the driveway and dropped the right front tire off the curb causing a loud bang as the bottom of the car hit the pavement. Mistake number two.

Instead of continuing on, I pulled into the Chevron station right next door and got out to check for damage. The Highway Patrol, being curious, came over to check and see if everything was okay. Mistake number three.

The first patrolman asked if I needed assistance and I told him what had happened and that it was my wifes car and the story behind that, etc, etc. He said, “Do I smell alcohol on your breath sir?” I had to say yes. I mean, what else could I say?

He made me say the alphabet, do the numbers thing, walk the line and blow. I registered .o8, right on the legal limit. He said, “You know, a couple three months earlier and we’d had to let you go. It just changed from point one to point oh eight a few months ago.” “Plus, I gotta admit, if you hadn’t pulled in here and stopped, we never would have stopped you. Funny, huh?” Yeah, I was thinking, hilarious.

They cuffed me and stuffed me in the back of the cruiser but they didn’t have my wife’s car towed. They figured I had enough to explain all ready. They moved the car behind the station and put the keys with the rest of my belongings. Honestly, that was quite decent of them and I told them so.

On the ride back to the jail, they spotted another drunk that was way worse off than me. He was driving half on the curb and half on the street. He was only a few blocks from the jail as it was so, the Highway Patrol decided to give him a ride as well. Might as well go with a full load if your going at all, right?

The officers wrote on their reports that I was fully conversant and was a complete gentleman throughout the whole process. They wished me a short stay and said that I would probably be released OR (on my own recognisance)  shortly. This, I would soon find out, was not to happen. We three shook hands and they wished me well. I wished they would have let me go but, that was not to happen either. The hand shake would have to suffice.

The jail, itself, was staffed by what appeared to be ex-Marines on steroids. All seemed to be around five foot ten inches with arms and chests bulging under their custom fit uniform shirts. They all looked cookie cutter the same. It’s like they all came out of the same mold. And, they all had attitudes and I understand that. It comes with the territory but, that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And, I’m pretty sure that’s the way they want it.

Getting booked into the Orange County Jail is nothing like you see on TV. It’s a long drawn out process that literally takes hours to accomplish. Not to mention the constant shuffle from one glass cage to another. They give you two slips, one pink and one yellow. They bang on the glass and yell, “When we call your name, hold your yellow slip in your left hand, move into the hallway and place your right shoulder against the wall. No moving unless we say so and no talking.”

This went on once every hour or so. Just when you might be getting comfortable, or maybe just numb, they would start the banging on the window thing again. It was hard enough to sit in one of those all concrete cells without the constant harassment by the guards banging their big brass keys on the glass walls and doors. I’m pretty sure they didn’t want you  to go to sleep. They keep you tired so you won’t cause problems. You can always sleep when they place you in the general population. Oh joy, something to look forward to.

I was on my second cage shuffle when a young Mexican, I presume a gang member because of the various tattoos he sported, asked if this was my first time. I said, “Is it that obvious?” He told me not to worry. I’d be getting out soon enough. His advice was just follow his lead and do what they told me to do and I would be fine. I couldn’t understand why this young man was being so kind to me but, I was sure grateful for the friendly advice and, someone to talk to.

On our third or fourth move, one of the prisoners fell on the floor, curled up in the fetal position and started moaning. The inmate that worked in the mess hall had delivered the midnight snack which included a flattened ham and processed cheese sandwich, a small carton of milk and an orange. My new found friend said that the guy on the floor was a junkie and was going into withdrawls. Doing what was called the fish because they looked like a fish out of water flopping around on a pier. He told me that the juice from the orange helped with the pain until they could get medicine to counteract the let down from the drugs. Something the guards were supposed to have given him hours ago but didn’t. A little game of control they like to play. Sadistic bastards. I’ve never seen anyone eat an orange as fast as that junkie did. He downed three or four in no time at all. Amazing.

Up to this time, we had been in smaller eight to ten man cells in between getting mug shot and finger printed. Now, we were going to the larger detention cell that held twenty to thirty men. Still all concrete and just enough seating for everyone if no one tried to lay down. The bigger and the tougher did lay down so, some had to stand or get their asses kicked.

There was one guy who everyone seemed to know and left alone. He was a biker and was laying down occupying four or five spaces. no one seemed to mind as I recall. The only thing was, he was using the only roll of toilet paper for a pillow. Now, going potty in jail is an experience in itself with a four foot cinder block wall around a solid stainless steel commode with no seat. Not much privacy and clean, well, I think not.

Now, I’m a vet and the privacy thing is not an issue but the cleanliness thing is. I went to the window of the big cell and asked one of the guards for an additional roll of toilet paper. He said, “What for? You got one in there and I can see it right over there.” He pointed to the biker and his pillow. “Go ahead and ask him to borrow it. I’m sure he won’t mind.” He walked away laughing. I decided I could wait.

It was going on seven or eight hours since I got there and I was starting to wonder why I wasn’t getting out. I asked one of the guards to check for me which, much to my surprise, he did. He came back and informed me that I had two active warrants out for me and I wasn’t going anywhere soon.

Two active warrants? I was never in trouble before. How could this be? I flagged him down again and asked what the warrants were for. He said, “Expired dog licenses.” Expired dog licenses, he has to be kidding. I’m stuck in the Orange Country Jail with druggies, bikers and gangsters because I failed to pay for a dog license or two? What next?

More shifting from cell to cell. No sleep at all up to this point but, I was assured that once I made it into the general population, a big barracks type set-up that housed around a hundred inmates in one huge room, I could get some sleep then. Fat chance of that. I could all ready feel my life slipping away.

Next was the showers. A large room with tile floors and four or five stainless steel showers in a row. There were no curtains and a guard would stand outside the showers so he could see inside all of them at once. After the shower, which was quite refreshing after twelve long hours in those hellishly hard cells, I was one more stop away from the general population. They gave me the orange jumpsuit and the county issue tennies and put me into a holding room. Not a cell but a room with a chair that had a cushioned seat. Heaven.

A guard, much nicer than those I had met up to this point, told me that my wife was here and had paid the fine. As soon as I could get dressed in my own clothes, I be free to leave. For the first time in many years I didn’t worry about not being shaved or that my hair was a mess or that my clothes were wrinkled and dirty. I just wanted out.

I found out from my wife that she had paid the fine hours ago. Apparently the Orange County Jail wasn’t quite ready to let me go any earlier. Well, that was July 3, 1993. I have not been back to any jail since then. Not even for a visit. Oh, did I mention, I was a Military Policeman in the service. I didn’t like jails then either.

Have a nice day!

– Little Furry Aliens aka The Indoor Cat –

I have two large couches in my living room one of which I like to think of as my own. My large Norwegian Forest Cat, Smokey, disagrees. The couch is large enough for us both if she stays at one end and I at the other. This seldom happens. The thing that really gets me though is she will be sitting right in front of the couch, on the floor, right where she will end up laying. All she has to do is jump up and lay down. Too easy, right. She walks to the far end of the coffee table and jumps up. Then she walks the full length to where my feet are perched, climbs across my legs and down on the couch where she started. She does this every time. Why?

Cats have ears like radar dishes. They swivel at the base and lock on to any sound within range. Plus, they move independently. How sweet is that. We all could have used ears like that in our teens, couldn’t we? That way we could have payed attention to the teachers and our friends at the same time. Would have cut down on those pesky detention hours at the library, huh?

When you listen to any program about UFO’s, the narrator will more often than not mention how impossible the turns are at the speeds these crafts are traveling. If  humans were inside during these turns, the g-forces at those speeds would be enough to kill them instantly. Well, have you ever watched a cat when it suffers from a slight touch of the crazies. They run around the house, up and down hallways, bouncing off walls and furniture with this crazed look on their face and their ears pulled back flat against their heads (makes them more aerodynamic, no doubt). Then they stop, hanging precariously off the side of an arm chair or something and stare at you with glazed over eyes that look wild and questioning. As if they’re saying, “Why the hell did I do that?” Not to mention that they acheived all of the starts, stops and right angle, high speed turns without the aid of a G-suit. They have to be aliens.

I walked into the kitchen one day and there was Smokey sitting and staring at the refrigerator like she was watching a full length feature film. I sat at the dining room table to finish some paperwork I was working on. Some thirty minutes later, Smokey was still sitting and staring at the refrigerator. Must have been a double feature. Or, is there something cats can see that we humans can’t? Are they communicating with a power we are not privvy to?

Have you ever noticed how cats hate to follow but love to lead, even if they don’t know where you’re going? They will run in front of you and then stop every few feet to look back and see if you’re still going their way. And, of course, every time they stop, you almost trip over them. It would be so much easier if they would just learn to follow.

Both of my cats must have very busy schedules. I say this because every so often they will wake out of a sound sleep, dart across the room, sit down and lick their back leg or something like they were late for an appointment. Then lay back down and resume sleeping. Very strange behavior. I’ve only seen humans act like that when they were under the influence of something slightly stronger than aspirin. Ahem.

I was laying on my bed one day playing with my two year old feral Calico cat when I realized she couldn’t see my arm. I mean she could see it all right but at that particular moment, it didn’t exist, for her. It was as if my hand was detached from my body and completely foreign to her. She would chase it as I rubbed it across the bedspread back and forth and under the pillows. She would attack my finger tips as they protruded from under the pillow case and get all excited when they would disappear again. Then, when playtime was over, that same hand would come out from under the pillow and pet her or scratch her head and it was like that creature she had been chasing just a second or two ago never even existed.

Have you ever noticed that when a cat screws up like falling off of something, they will smell the first thing their nose gets close to  and try to look aloof or disinterested or give you that, “I planned that.” look? We know better, don’t we?

Cats, be they from outer space or right here on planet earth, they are a great  form of entertainment. If I didn’t have cable, I could always watch my cats or, stare at the refrigerator with Smokey. I wonder if her movies come with sub-titles?

– Racing The Radio –

In the late 1950’s and on into the sixties, about the only way the police could catch a speeder was, in many cases, to actually chase them down. What if the car they were chasing was faster than the patrol car? Well, another one probably got away.

Many states started supplying their county mounties or Highway Patrolmen with highway pursuit cars. These were especially built to catch those elusive speeders that just refused to slow down so they could be caught. Go figure!?! All were equipped with two way radios made by Motorola.

For those unlucky cops that didn’t have the luxury of having been supplied with the faster pursuit vehicles, they still had their radios. It was said that you may out run the squad car but you can’t out run Motorola.

The officer in pursuit would radio a description of the vehicle they were chasing to the next town down the road with a police force and have them stop their prey. The ticket would be issued, the unhappy motorist would go on his merry way and the two officers would go have a much deserved donut and coffee. I just couldn’t resist that.

This little bit of background is all leading up to a road trip my dad and I took in 1957. We were on our way to Denver, Colorado to visit his friends the Stephenson’s, Jim and Josephine. I called them Uncle Jim and Aunt Jo.

Dad had just bought a 1954 Buick convertible and was anxious to try her out on the open road. We were starting from Chicago and would drive the 1,009 miles to Denver on old Highway 30. It would take us through the northern part of Illinois then through central Iowa through Cedar Rapids and drop into Nebraska just south of Sioux City, Iowa.

Now, if you’ve never been to Nebraska, bring a book. When I went across that state at the tender age of ten, all I remember is flat, grass covered nothingness lined with aging and rusting barbed wire fences. I often wondered, are these fences here to keep unwanted strangers out or the greater population of Nebraska in? I’m thinking ……………. the latter.

Dad and I were starting this little field trip in late July. It was going to be very hot going across Iowa and Nebraska and the old Buick didn’t have air conditioning. Oh goodie!! We loaded her up and filled the tank with gas, hung the canvas water bags one on the hood ornament and one on the door mirror on the drivers side. The water wasn’t so much for drinking, that is unless you had a hankerin’ for the taste of wet canvas.  It was more for the radiator. Just in case it decided to boil over. We were going to put the top down but not until it got so hot inside we could no longer take it. Something else to look forward to. Sweltering.

We always started these little jaunts early in the morning. Dad liked to make hay while the sun shined. One of those old sayings I still use to this day. So, off we went. It would take us two days driving to get there. The interstates were still in the planning stages. None had actually been built yet.

The roads were good but most were of the two lane variety. Semi’s and cars danced around each other with care and you could always depend on a trucker to stop and give aid if you got a flat or had some other kind of mishap. It was still a time when people still looked out for the other guy. It’s not like today where most people just look out for numero uno and turn a blind eye to the woes of others. I miss those days, don’t you?

Anyway, dad and I are flying low down the highway. The top is down now and I’m sitting in the back seat shooting my BB gun at crows on the phone lines. I couldn’t hit anything going sixty on those rolling roads but it kept me occupied and out of dad’s hair. That was back when he had some.

Speaking of those phone lines, I always found them to be a little hypnotic. Picture yourself sitting in an open car, a convertible, staring sideways at the passing telephone poles. The wires sagging in the middle forming a hammock like picture in between each pole. Now, as your eyes move from right to left to catch the next pole in line, eventually your eyes will start to follow the sagging lines as well. Before you know it, your whole head is bobbing up and down in rhythm with each passing pole. You’re in a trance-like state at this time. What you need is a good thwack on the back of the head to shake you out of it. If my dad had been driving, you would have gotten just that. I loved my dad and miss him a lot. Thwack or no thwack.

I don’t know where exactly we stayed that first night but, we were well within the Nebraska state line. Probably half way across, if I remember correctly. I do know, the next day went pretty fast. Everything went pretty fast that next day. We were out of Nebraska and into Colorado before I even broke a sweat. You’re about to find out why.

The place we stayed was probably one of those new roadside motels that had the half tent bungalows. They were fairly common along the roadside in those days. They were cheap to build and fast to put up. With the number of people going on driving vacations they had to go up quick.

More and more families were going on driving vacations than ever before. As the roads continued to improve and accommodations were springing up in more and more locations. Tourist attractions like snake farms, cowboy towns, National Parks, everything you can imagine and a lot more you would never ever have dreamed of were popping up over night. It was a wondrous time to live and travel.

Back to the tent motels. They all had wooden floors on the bottom with half walls up to about three or four feet and the rest was a tent from there up. There was a regular entry door that was completely framed in which gave the half and half tent an even stranger look. There was a community washroom that looks similar to the rest stop restroom of today except they were smaller and made of wood.

I remember staying at a lot of those roadside motels. In the southwest, the tents were made to look like tepee’s and the restaurants and offices were designed that way as well. I think there’s still one of those restaurants in business on the old main highway just of I-25 near Garden Of The Gods Avenue in Colorado Springs. At least, it was there in 1993. I know, I ate there. You can ask for directions.

Sorry, got sidetracked.

Most of these roadside motels either had a restaurant right there or there would be one – “Just down the road a piece on your left. You can’t miss it.” That’s what they all said but they would always forget to tell you, “Now don’t blink for the next ten minutes or you just might miss it.”

I guess we didn’t miss it ’cause I don’t remember going hungry.

After we had eaten whatever meal it was, probably lunch, the heat of the day was well upon us. We put the top down and dad pulled around the back of the building. When he got out of the car and took his pants off, I just looked at him. Finally he said, “Well I’m not going to cook going across this damn state if I can help it. Get in and let’s get moving.”

I had seen my old man take his pants off once before while driving but that was in Wisconsin and he had just spilled a hot cup of coffee in his lap. This was a bit different but, after all, he is my dad and he’s been known to do some strange things in his time. This just might be one of them.

Once again, we were merrily tooling down the highway with me in the back seat shooting at crows and dad blissfully driving to Colorado in his underwear. All of a sudden dad was yelling to get down, put the gun down, now. Since I was just ten and had not yet gone through any formal combat training, I may have been a little slow to respond. The “Huh? What did ya say?” didn’t help any either.

There, right behind us and making a u-turn, was a Nebraska State Trooper and he was comin’ after us. The single red bubblegum machine on top of his car was rotating and flashing red with each revolution. I heard dad say, “Well I’ll be God damned if he’s going to pull me over in my underwear.” And the chase was on.

Dad dragged me over the seat back and told me to hold on tight. “We ain’t stoppin’ till we cross the Colorado border. he said, They can’t follow us across the state line. It’s out of their jurisdiction.”

Even though dad told me not to, I kept looking back to see if the cop was catching up. If anything, he was steadily loosing ground. The old Buick was just too fast for him or, my dad’s embarrassing situation was gaving him extra incentive. Either way, we were winning.

I could see the officer holding something up to his face but I had no idea what it was. I as my dad and he said, “Oh for Christ sake. I forgot about the damn radios.”

He told me about how they could call ahead and stop speeders. I remember how unfair that seemed at the time. Dad was determined to race the radio and win come hell or high water. Another old saying I still use.

We saw a patrol car pulling up to the main road in front of us but not in time to get in front. He had to fall to the back of the line.

I remember dad saying, “We’re gettin’ close Eddie, we’re almost there.” Another patrol car had now joined the Conga line. Where he came from and when he joined our little sightseeing group, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was we were still winning and, this was the most fun I had had the whole trip.

Another few minutes and we were over the Colorado state line. We could see the Nebraska escort we had stop short of crossing that line. Dad didn’t stop right away to put his pants on. He wasn’t too sure whether one or more of those cops would just be mad enough to cross the line anyway. We continued on for a ways, obeying the speed limit this time. That was enough excitement for one day. Heck, for the rest of the year.

The rest of the trip to Denver was pretty uneventful but the story tellin’ when we got to Jim and Jo’s, well, it went on well into the night. I went to bed. It had been a long but exciting day.

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