Non-Dental Plaque Removal

 

If you’ve never been a military brat or been in uniform yourself, you might not be familiar with one of the motivating factors that the military uses: The plaque. Each plaque includes your name, what you did, and customization from the presenting organization.  A memento of a certain period of time.

Sure, you get medals for specific things you’ve done or specific goals accomplished, but besides that you sometimes find yourself being presented with either a certificate or a plaque. Plaques are for things that are one step beyond simply completing something but not quite enough to get a medal. Over the course of a career, people normally put these up in their office or at home on an I Love Me wall. When you consider a full career being 20 to 30 years of service, the number of plaques you acquire over that period adds up.

When I transitioned from the military to civilian life, I got rid of a few plaques, but then there were some I just couldn’t part with at that point, so I wrapped him up and stuck them in a box. Recently, I took time to make another cut in my plaque collection, and the ones pictured above are the ones that are now history.

The oldest plaque is for Airmen of the Quarter when I was at Langley Air Force Base. It was the last thing I did before becoming an NCO.

The two similar plaques are from when I attended Leadership School on Guam. One is for being the Class Speaker; the other for being a Distinguished Graduate. Whereas I arrived at the school knowing I was going to take the Class Speaker award, Distinguished Graduate was a surprise. I still remember the school vividly, having learned a lot about leadership there. Also learned the importance of ongoing education; not just for further advancement but because taking time away from the job refreshed the spirit.

The NCO of the month award for February 1986 was while part of the aerial port unit. After completing Leadership School, I changed my specialty from transportation to logistics planning. So, the plaque from the 43rd Bombardment Wing only covers the year I spent there prior to moving back to the US. Yes, the military gives you plaques simply because you’re leaving.

The last two plaques in the picture were simply because I was moving on. One from the 305 Air Refueling Wing at Grissom Air Force Base and another from the 930th Maintenance Squadron (AFRC).

These are not all the plaques that I have. These are the ones that I’ve decided it was time to part with. Saying goodbye to them is bittersweet, but necessary. These were part of the past long ago and served the purpose of recognizing significant things I did but more importantly keeping me motivated during the two decades I spent in uniform.

From this point on, my dentist will probably be the only one doing plaque removal.

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Crew Chief for a Day

When I walked into the Air Force recruiter’s office all those years ago, he asked me what job I wanted. I’d already taken the ASVAB test and the linguistics test as well. I scored high enough that I could have had any job in any of the services. He asked me about becoming an aircraft mechanic. I told him I was okay with that as long as I didn’t have to ride in anything I ever fixed. He stared at me for a minute, waiting for me to explain, and eventually I added, I have zero mechanical skills, and knowing that there was no way I’d board anything I fixed. He smiled, and then we reviewed several other jobs that had nothing to do with mechanics. Thanks to that brief interchange, the Air Force probably saved an aircraft.

Fast-forward years later, I was serving with the 930th Fighter Wing as a logistics planner. I liked the job for a lot of reasons mainly because I was good at it. I was deployed within the A-10 maintenance unit to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Arizona, working out of a ready room near the flightline. Since I’d been part of the unit for several years, I was comfortable enough to step out of my role occasionally and into others I thought might be a good way to pass the time. Standing near the edge of the flightline, watching the morning takeoffs, I was talking to the Chief for maintenance as the crews got planes ready to go. At some point I made an offhand remark that I’d like to crew chief an A10 not as a full career but just as a onetime deal. As is often the case, if you say words in front of the right person, things happen.

The next morning when I walked into the ready room, the Chief saw me across the room and walked right over. Putting his right hand on my shoulder, he said, “Today’s your lucky day; you’re going to go launch and recover an A-10.” Without waiting for me to respond, he waved one of the veteran crew chiefs over and quickly explained that I was going to be doing a launch and recovery of his plane that morning. I half expected an objection since some amateur was going to get to play with his airplane, but he smiled and said, “Let’s go have some fun.”

Before anyone gets upset, I was never just turned loose on a multimillion-dollar airplane. I was being closely supervised by a crew chief with decades of experience, and I carried with me the knowledge of how to operate safely on the flightline where fighters were located having done it myself for several years. The Air Force’s formal program trains an auxiliary workforce to launch and recover aircraft, allowing people not normally involved to assist. It’s called cross-utilization training (CUT). I was getting the abbreviated version.

We walked out to his plane on the flightline, and he quickly oriented me on the steps it took to launch. We walked around each of the positions on the aircraft; he explained what each did and then took me back to the nose aircraft where I’d be working from. He then handed me a checklist, and we started going over each step and what functions had to be performed and verified. We went over the list twice, and I felt comfortable with each step. We spent maybe an hour out there, but when it was done, he declared me ready, and we went off to get a cup of coffee until the pilot was scheduled to show up. I was pretty wired at actually getting to do this. I know it may seem silly to crew chiefs who did this three times a day every day, but for me it was something far different from my normal skill set. We saw the aircrew van headed for the flightline, so we walked back out to the aircraft.

Aside from the maintenance folks, nobody knew what I was up to that morning until the pilot walked up to the aircraft. Like the other guys, I stopped and saluted the wing commander as he walked toward the A-10. A look of confusion crossed his face for a moment, and then he asked, “Why are you out here?” I replied I was his crew chief du jour. He looked over my shoulder toward the real chew grew chief, who was standing, and then nodded. “Okay, why?” For the past several months, I had been working on a special duty assignment with the Wing Commander that was going to downsize the unit. So, my response to his question was an inside joke “Looking for job security.” He smiled and turned to climb up the ladder into the cockpit.

With the pilot securely in place, I began running through the checklist with a few other airmen helping me accomplish the preflight of the plane with the pilot. I’ll never forget standing there with the aircraft completely ready to go, rendering the salute to the pilot as he pulled out of the parking space and the airframe I was in charge of – – for the moment – – rolled forward and started heading for the end of the runway. My part was done, but at the end of the runway there were guys who would arm all the munitions. I followed the veteran crew chief back into the break room, and for the next three hours we sat and played euchre while the plane went off to fly its mission at the range.

We walked back onto the flightline as the plane taxied back to its parking spot. I then marshaled it into a perfect parking position and ran the return checklist on the plane. After the pilot shut down the engines, I stood by on the ground as he climbed out of the cockpit and returned to earth. I asked if he had had a pleasant flight and if there were any problems. He smiled and shook his head. “No problems at all, crew chief.”

I turned toward the actual crew chief with a huge grin on my face. A successful mission is one where the takeoffs and landings are equal. I’d done that.

There are many things I did in the Air Force both regular and reserve that I never would’ve been part of if I hadn’t raised my hand and put on the uniform. Once I did that, it was easy to seek other challenges and life experiences within the realm. I am so glad that I can count this as one of them.

Not my launch, but this will give you some idea of the process.

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History In a Can

It’d been sitting on my desk for some time. It also sat on my desk in Michigan, Germany, and Kuwait. But today, I was looking at it a little more intently. The news that Kodak might not be around much longer brought this roll of film more to the forefront of my attention. It had been so long; I didn't know what images were on the roll, or even if they were still viable.

When my dad was stationed in Germany, he was heavily into photography. He had his own darkroom set up in the apartment he shared with my mom. There was nothing he talked about much, but now and then I’d come across boxes full of black-and-white pictures that were obviously self-developed and printed. I was told he stopped printing his own photos at home when the enlarger got knocked off the table and destroyed. I never asked him, so I have no way of knowing. What I did ask him was to teach me how to take pictures and develop them. 

Fortunately, the base we were at had a photo lab in the recreation center. So, we bought some film, took some pictures, and then went to the rec center to develop and print them. By the end of the day, I had 10 photos that were worth keeping that had survived the manual photo process. I also got to hang out with my dad all afternoon. 

He eventually gave me his old 35mm camera to replace the 120mm fixed-focus camera I had been using. The Agfa he gave me had a built-in rangefinder, but it was still hit or miss if I could get the subject in focus. I worked hard at it, burning up a couple of rolls of Kodak Tri-X film a week. Eventually, I got interested in other things and set the camera aside.

When I was stationed in Germany, I picked up my camera again because there was a camera shop right across the street from the dorm where I lived. I used to walk through the aisles and drool over the equipment. I eventually bought a fully manual Pentax camera and started taking pictures. Black-and-white got boring quickly, so I moved on to shooting with Kodachrome and having to pay somebody to develop it. Photography can be an expensive hobby. I got back into black-and-white, including processing my own pictures when I was in Berlin. The rec center there had not only a darkroom but a full studio, so I started shooting pictures of people. 

Later, when I went to Guam, I taught a course in photography that included darkroom processing of black-and-white film. It was a lot of fun, and I had full access to the equipment anytime I wanted. I was still using my trusty Pentax. 

Eventually, I passed the camera on to my son, and I bought myself a Nikon. Actually, I bought two — one digital, one film. I still use those when I want to take a serious picture with creativity over and above what my phone will allow me to do.

Hearing that Kodak might go away, I was pushed to take the roll of film in and get it developed. Surprisingly, some frames contained images good enough to see. As you can tell, light leaked into that camera canister and gave the photos a halo effect you see around the edges of pictures. As for when and where they were taken, in Venice around 2003. That means the film had been around waiting to get developed for right at 23 years. I’m impressed any image showed up at all. I expected to get a note back telling me they couldn’t print the pictures because there was nothing to print. Getting actual photos back was a pleasant surprise.

I think maybe I need to break out my Nikon and throw in a roll of film and then go take some pictures. It would cost too much to set up a darkroom, so I will do the developing, but that’s okay.

874,630

More Than Being a Good Loser

 

Just because I'm not a sports fan, doesn't mean that I don't appreciate the lessons sports teach, in particular the root of good game play — sportsmanship. Usually this means a team or individual not pitching a fit after losing, but seeing it as a lesson about things to improve for future play. People usually view those who blame outside factors or claim unfair gameplay as poor sports. 

A few weekends ago, I traveled an hour away to watch a teenage grandson Ian's soccer team play in an end of season tournament. Because of traffic, I arrived a little late, and the game had already started by the time I got parked. After getting comfortably seated, I paid attention to the game going on in the field in front of me. I know the basic rules of soccer, but there are a lot of nuances and strategy that I don't know. It didn't take more than a few minutes to realize that the team I came to watch was simply not doing well. They seemed to be more interested in passing the ball back-and-forth rather than moving it forward or going for goals. Occasionally, the other team would make a drive downfield and score.

Because I arrived late I was not sitting with other parents that were also there to watch Ian's team. With that, and the lack of scoreboards (because of the asinine theory that kids don't need to know how well anyone is doing) I did not know what the score was. Based on what I had witnessed, only the other team that scored so my assumption was our team was losing.  

As play continued in the second half, the boys seemed a little more energetic but still were not scoring. When the game was over. I walked to where the teams were having a final meeting with their coach, knowing that with this loss they were out of the tournament. As the team meeting broke up, I heard people telling the boys on the team what great sports they were and how it'd been a great season. I really expected them to be more upset, but you can still hold your head high after losing to a superior team.

When I finally got Ian away from the rest of the crowd, I asked him what the final score was, and he told me his team had won by a sizable margin. Then he explained, in the first 10 minutes of the game they scored over 15 points. At that point, they could've just ground the other team into the dirt, but rather than doing that, the team took it easy and simply defend the lead. So, when they had possession of the ball they would just pass it back-and-forth, giving you the team a chance to steal. They were slow to run downfield to give the other team a chance to make a goal here and there. Ultimately, they did all this to spare the other team's pride, since their victory was assured. In fact, because of the win, they were going to play the final tournament game in about two hours. I told him I'd hang around for that.

It was a different lesson than the one you normally hear about sportsmanship. This was about how to be a gracious winner and taking the victory without demolishing the other team just because you can. I was proud of him and his teammates. They let the other team leave with their heads held high because they had played their best, despite being significantly outmatched. It feels good when you can walk away with something like that.

The last game? The opposing team was equally skilled, which made the game exciting to watch. Both teams left it all on the field doing their best making goals when they could and trying to hold the other team's scores as low as possible. In the end, the team I was rooting for one that game too.

Note:  The pix are from a few years ago, not this tournament.

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Start Your Engine, Mine's Running

 

Many of my memorable childhood experiences took place with me sitting on the living room floor watching TV with my family. Many significant and impactful events marked the late 60s. Space launches (to include the first moon landing), the assassination of MLK and RFK, Woodstock, Prague Spring, Viet Nam, and of course sporting events. My dad was a big football fan, so on Sundays the TV was tuned into whichever game he had an interest in the day. But one Memorial Day weekend in 1969, the TV was showing something I had never seen before––automobile racing. Not just any kind of racing, Indy car racing.

I was nine years old when I plopped down in front of the TV after the singing of the national anthem and Back Home in Indiana then I first heard the command “Gentlemen start your engines.” Thirty three cars took off and spent the next three hours turning to the left. It was exciting to me, and even though I was aware of what a race looked like I had never seen one quite like this. The cars looked like the ones that came with the racetrack that I got for Christmas a few months before. My toys had come to life.

As the race went on, I got used to hearing the announcer blurting out a play-by-play using vocabulary I was unfamiliar with and intermixing that play-by-play with facts and figures from today’s race and those in the past. I vividly remember the pit-stop problems AJ Foyt, the predicted winner, had. Those problems led to Mario Andretti winning his first Indy 500 after leading 116 of the race’s 200 laps.

I found things to get excited about in the race, pit-stops, almost crashes and the conversions with the crew chiefs during lulls in the action. The announcers explained about the wings on the front and their function. Before the race was over, I’d learned a layman’s lesson about speed and racing–and I found it interesting.

I’ve mentioned before that I have zero athletic talent and as a result, watching sports never held my interest. Looking back, this was probably because my ego demanded I win those things I took part in, but winning was rare so my attention quickly waned before I got better. Not sure if practice would’ve helped, but maybe. Of course, I’ve always enjoyed the Olympics, but never as a fan of a single sport. It was just a chance to root for the home team. But on the Sunday before Memorial Day in 1969, I found something that was called a sport that I liked.

One of my grandfathers was a big baseball fan. Specifically, the Atlanta Braves. He could quote stats on all the players, games, and who won what game going back eons. I always thought that was kinda cool, and it became one of those things that I saw as being a fan of the sport. Because the end of May is not the season for much else, most sports news turns to the event about seven days before the race. This includes a lot of history, as well as all the new rules and improvements to the cars since the last time the race was run. This made being a trivia maven for the race easy. By the time the race whirled around 1970, when Al Unser, Sr won, I was equipped with the knowledge to truly enjoy the race for the challenge of man and machine that it was.

Along with all the race science and safety information, I also learned about the traditions. From the quart of milk at the finish line, to kissing the track’s Brick Yard after winning, and of course the victory lap with the hand up and out of the cockpit raised in victory. I also learned about the importance of a good pit crew and why 1969’s race should never have ended the way it did.

From that first race, I’ve watched almost every Indy 500. Sometimes in the US, sometimes overseas, I’ve even listened when I couldn’t watch the race. The 109^th race was viewed at my local American Legion with some other veterans. Mostly, watching the race has been an almost solitary endeavor, so it was different being with a group of folks.

Alex Palou was this year’s winner. He made a pass 14 laps before the end of the race that allowed him to dominate the final scramble for the finish. As usual, I felt bad for the guys who wrecked early on, including Scott McLaughlin who crashed before the race even got the green flag. I didn’t hear of any injuries and that’s always a good thing.

For now, I'll tuck away all of my racing knowledge into the back part of my brain where it'll remain unused until next May when I prepare to watch the greatest spectacle in racing, that starts with those words Drivers, start your engines.

819,894

The Magic Transporter. Why Should Kirk Have All the Fun?

 

I don’t remember the specific date when I used the Magic Transporter for the last time, but I think I was about eight or nine. I do remember the events that were going on the night it happened. 

My dad was very interested in the space program. So, if some event was going on, he’d call me into the living room to watch it on TV. I’d sit on the floor and listen to Walter Cronkite as I watched whatever NASA was up to on that particular mission. On that evening, the lunar lander had landed safely on the moon, but there was a lengthy delay between landing and when someone actually stepped out of the capsule. That knowledge narrows it down a little, since there were six crewed landings between 1969 and 1972.

I recall laying on the floor in front of the TV, and covered up with a woobie my dad had brought home. I remember Cronkite talking with his cast of experts and broadcasting live audio from Mission Control. Every radio transmission ended with a distinctive beep. 

At some point, I no longer heard the beeps as exhaustion overtook me and I fell asleep. 

What happened next was something almost everyone can relate to. Somehow, after falling asleep in one place, you mysteriously found yourself in your own bed, tucked under the covers, when you awoke the next morning. Of course, folks who were kids before Star Trek began in 1966 had to call it something else besides the Magic Transporter. Whatever you call it, it was an experience many of us share and I count this among the many wonderful memories I have of my childhood.

When I became a father, I found out what it was like on the other end of that magic, when I served as Magic Transporter for my children, taking them from wherever they fell asleep to their bed. Just like me, not one of them questioned how that magic happened. They just accepted it as part of life and went on.

Night before last, I served as transporter again. I had rocked my youngest granddaughter to sleep and with that mission accomplished I picked her up, put her in her bed, and covered her up. The next morning, she made no mention of the magic that moved her from one place to another. I know at some point in the future, she will take over my role and I hope that when she does, she remembers her rides on the Magic Transporter fondly.

By the way, something is simple as my dad sharing his interest in space, led to my own interest in it. Which, probably led to me taking my son to Space Camp. Yes, it is a real place.

808,074

It Started By Staying Gold

 

Whenever a discussion takes place about what and when you began reading, I’ve always said the first book I ever read was Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham. It was the very first book I ever read by myself, and, since we are far beyond any statute of limitations.  I'll admit it was the first book I ever accidentally stole from the library. I had the book checked out from the  Ft Ord Elementary School library, then a few days later my father got orders and we were moving to a new base. Somehow, the book got packed with everything else in my room and I never returned it. My bad.

Even though Dr. Seuss’s book was my first book, it wasn’t my first novel. It never really occurred to me which complete novel I read first into low was writing my last entry. The very first novel that I read from beginning to end and owned several copies over the course of my life (not stolen from a library) was S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders. It wasn’t something we studied in class; it wasn’t something I read in the report on for extra credit, nor was it something that anyone recommended to me. While I was looking through the books in the Scholastic Books flyer, I discovered it and ordered it.

I am far beyond doing a report on that book now, so if you’re not familiar with it I would recommend you check out the write up on Wikipedia. It is kind of amazing that the book was still in the flyer considering it was released originally in 1967, and I discovered it in 1973. 

The book’s Tulsa, Oklahoma setting coincided with my time living on Ft. Sill, but aside from that and the fact that I was also fourteen, there was not really a lot of similarity between my life and Ponyboy Curtis’. I did not have older brothers; I was not in a gang, and both of my living parents were alive. What drew me into the book was the things he was going through emotionally and the common situations that all junior high school students run into. All the way down to the girl named Cherry who was from a different part of town but somehow ended up with Ponyboy. It was exactly the right book at exactly the right time. The next year, I was dealing with a similar situation with a girl from the civilian side of town. I’m sad to say I don’t remember if her name was Jennifer or Jessica, but I’ll never forget her beautiful, long, red hair.

What the book provided to me during that period of my life was reinforcement that all the things I was feeling were not just being felt by me. Those years can be difficult for some, and confusing to all. A little reassurance that you are not alone in what you feel is beneficial and helps you move forward. Books like movies sometimes just come to you at the right time.

Immediately upon finishing the first reading of the book, I read it again. There’s only been a few books that triggered immediate second reading. The thing was, I needed to know the characters and situations better. Not that I had poor reading comprehension, but the book was so important to me, I wanted to make sure I had missed nothing. Looking back, I don’t remember if I discovered anything or not. Since that time, I’ve read the book a few more times, and I took time to see Francis Ford Coppola’s movie version of the story. While the movie was okay, I’m glad I discovered the book first.

I read the sequel to the book, That Was Then, This Is Now, but I've never read Rumble Fish, the next S.E. Hinton book. I went from those books to My Darling, My Hamburger, which I thought was written by S.E. Hinton, but it was by Paul Zindel. From there, I moved on to topics that varied widely. I remember reading Go Ask Alice, and several other books about teenage drug abuse and teen pregnancy. Luckily, I guess these books served as warnings to me and I avoided those pitfalls.

It was somewhere after I started high school in Virginia that what I read became wide and varied, limited only to what I could find in the library. At that point I had become such a ferocious reader there was no way I could afford to buy everything and at some point, during this period Scholastic Books flyers disappeared. I also went through stages, reading only biographies or history, then on to horror, then fiction set in the present day. Even now, I have a tendency to read three books at once: one self-improvement or philosophy, one history, and one just for fun. I can we hope that kids in middle and junior high school are discovering the joy of reading in whatever way they can. It broadens the possibility that they will find a wide range of topics that interest them and makes for a more well-rounded life.

When my son was attending H.H. Arnold Middle School in Wiesbaden Germany, his teacher assigned the book not only as required reading but they spent an entire semester trying to understand the nuances of what it meant to be a Greaser or Soc. Because I wanted to discuss the book with him knowledgeably, if he chose to, I bought a new copy of the book and read it again. I could connect with him about the book, and that made it even more special to me. I’m wondering now if he will turn his kids on to The Outsiders.

Finding our that S.E. Hinton is a woman wasn't a disturbing revelation. I never really thought about it back then and when I found this out years later, my reaction was no reaction. She captured the emotion and I could relate to it. That’s what matters. Check here for more on S. E. Hinton. 

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Lesson Today, Appreciation Later

 

In my last entry, I talked about one of the who contributed to my enjoying reading and writing, Mr. Przygocki. The other was my 8th grade literature teacher, Ms. DeLong. I talked about them in the foreword to my book POMSILv2, but it was pointed out to me I never mentioned them here. Today, I fix that.

Ms. DeLong, my eighth-grade Literature teacher, introduced me to my favorite kind of written storytelling––the short story. I was attending Central Junior High in Lawton, Oklahoma (Go Cougars!) and like most 8th graders I was gradually turning into the human I’d be versus the kid I’d been until now. As I mentioned before, I had no great athletic talent, but I had a love of reading.

We spent a lot of time in Literature class reading passages aloud from our anthology. Since I was good at sight-reading, I’d get bored waiting on my turn and thumbed ahead through the book, looking at the other titles. Because of the short time between having to read segments and waiting for others, I sought titles that were not overly long.

The book contained an extensive mix of literary types, including excerpts from novels, poems, plays, newspaper articles. I focused on the short stories because I could skim a couple of pages and get away with it. I tore through the macabre and suspense stories first and then on to humor. When the Scholastic Books flyers came around every month, I sought short stories and soon had a dogeared collection on my bookshelf. I also read the unwritten required novel of my generation, The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton. Throughout my life I’ve spent thousands of hours discovering in each a new world and finding myself immersed in the joy of reading, thanks to Ms. Delong. 

Harold Przygocki was my high school English teacher at Denbigh High School in Denbigh, Virginia (Go Patriots!). On the first day of class, he made us learn to spell and pronounce his name properly, then he assigned a weekly 500-word original essay. This met with much moaning and groaning from the student side of the room. After all, we are being told we needed to write an essay the same length as War and Peace every week. In truth, 500 words are about five or six paragraphs of three or four sentences each. Not even close to the number of words Tolstoy wrote. 587,287 words to be exact.

After a few weeks, the initial shock went away, and I got into the routine. It gradually came to like the assignment. I figured out that an essay could be a story and sometimes could be longer. I enjoyed writing stories and trying to fit them into a 500-word container. Some were good, and some weren’t, but it didn’t matter. The assignment taught me that if you were going to write; you needed to write. Writing is a muscle that needs exercise to use it optimally.

Before I wrote my first novella, I prepared myself by writing 500 words a week to get my writing skills in shape. It was one of those lessons you don’t appreciate at the time, but you realize its value years later.

Both teachers affected the reader and writer I am today. I appreciate both.

NOTE:   One other teacher I wrote about was Charlotte Naffin who I had for four years of Latin. Last year, Mr. Przygocki celebrated his 100th birthday. He’s still going strong. I used his name for one of the characters in my book Ferdinand's Gold.

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Lava Lamps, Rick Neilson's Autograph, & 500 Words

 

Every Monday, I take a seat in my writer’s garret and with keyboard in hand try to capture things that have been wandering my mind from the week before. If I find myself without a topic, I have a list of things I thought about before; on weeks when multiple subjects came to mind. Today is a rare exception. I lack a subject and nothing on the list interests me enough to devote my time and energy to explore the nuances that interested me to begin with. In short, I’ve spent the last three hours surfing the web and listening to music.

It’s not a bad way to pass the time, but getting my blog entry done is serious business. After all, there are not millions of dollars at stake and if I cannot get something written, calamities will not befall all of humanity. Or will it? Maybe so, maybe not, but is it worth the risk? Probably not. I mean I’m still troubled by occasional memories of things I did in the third grade which should’ve ended with my apology — guilt for adverse reactions as result of my actions or inactions is a given for me. So here is sit.

My writer’s garret contains many toys, lights, and various other things that I enjoy having around. I've talked about my Zoo, and on days like today sometimes let my imagination room as my eyes move from one figure to the next. I have three lava lamps that, after a few hours provide visual entertainment as lava moves up and down within the colored oil. These lamps were on my wish list since I was an adolescent, and as is with many things I eventually bought it for myself when I was able. I’m pleased I finally have them. Autographed mementos line the walls. I can trace each one back to a specific concert or movie which lies somewhere on my list of favorites.

One productive thing that happened while I was sitting here was that I finally ordered a replacement set of speakers for my computer system. After all, the ones I have and use came with the Dell computer I bought back in 2000. After 25 years, it was time for an upgrade, plus the subwoofer had failed several years ago, but because of the way the system works I still had to keep it in place or the speakers wouldn’t work. I do not know who manufactured the speakers I have, but the ones coming in are Bose, which guarantees they will be a step up.

It’s about time to get up and fix myself some lunch. Then I need to get ready to take my recyclables to the recycle place so that they can be recycled. In short, it’s time I close out this entry.

In the forward to POMSILv2, I talk about my high school English teacher, Mr. Przygocki, and his weekly assignment of a 500-word essay. In the years since school, I believe such an assignment is a good way to keep writing muscles in shape. So, all in all I have completed something today. I did my workout. 542 words worth.

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Nock, Draw, Loose...

My daughter recently mentioned she felt it was important for children to travel. I couldn’t agree more. I think travel is one of the most mind and spirit expanding things a person can do.  

Growing up as a military brat, traveling was just part of the way life was lived. The major benefit of doing it that way, opposed to vacation traveling, was you usually got at least a year at a location. There was time enough to feel at home and enjoy it. 

Since travel was a given, my parents made sure I got whatever opportunities were available at each location. One of the most unusual was archery. My Dad was a bow hunter (standard longbow), but we lived anywhere he could teach me that skill. However, on Fort Benning (one of the most opportunity rich environments for dependent, or at least it was) the Youth Activity Center (YAC) had an archery class. So, among the other things I was signed up for while we were stationed was that class.

Every Saturday, me and about 20 other brats got together at the archery range. This was a dedicated archery range, not a multi-use field, with in-ground quivers at one end of the field and huge targets on the other. The first couple of classes were in a classroom, and we learned about different bows, various arrow tips, and how important the arrow’s feathers were. The instructor also covered basic safety rules to avoid accidents and emphasized the importance of the Range Master.

The Range Master owned the range and his commands were absolute. He told us when to load the arrow into the bow (Nock), pull back the bowstring (Draw), and fire (Loose). In general, he maintained order and told us when it was safe to retrieve our arrows from down range. Many years later, I learned the military rifle range management practices mirrored the Archery Range Master’s practices. I will say, at no time while I was there was anyone shot with an arrow accidentally. 

When we finally got onto the range, we learned how to use elevation to get our arrows into the center of the target and how to adjust aim for wind. It may sound kind of trivial now, but at the time they were all important lessons to putting that arrow into the center of the target. My memory may just be sweetening the experience, but I don’t recall ever completely missing the target. Of course, that doesn’t mean it was in the bulls-eye every time either. 

Years later, it became popular to give everyone a trophy just for participating, but in order to get a patch from YAC had to earn it. Military bases then were big on rewarding with a patch versus a trophy. I earned a patch for hitting the bull’s-eye x number of times. I recall getting quite a few patches growing up, but few of them got sewn on.

I can recall only a handful of times since that archery class when I picked up a bow and arrow. It’s just something that went by the wayside over the years, but still remains a fond and vivid memory. An experience I had when I was a kid that not everybody gets to do.

My fondest memory of my time in archery class was getting my first kiss from the blonde daughter of my dad’s Commanding Officer. I’ll never forget Mary Ellen Anderson. Maybe a combination of the two experiences is where my admiration of Robin Hood began.

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Theatre Hand Off

In May 1990, I walked off the stage of Havens Auditorium in Kokomo for the last time. I never expected to reenter the theatre as I was about to move, but I felt immense satisfaction when I took my last curtain call as King Arthur in Camelot. Now, 34 years later, I walked back into Havens through the front door versus the stage door. I was going to see my granddaughter begin her performance journey.

I wasn’t really familiar with the audience side of the theater, but I don't think there had been any major changes. Havens was full of parents, siblings, and grandparents who’d come to see their family member perform. My pride is why I called this her performance when, in reality, it was a performance of several groups of students from the local dance studio. That meant there’d be several performances before and after my granddaughter’s class made their appearance. That’s okay, young kids performing for the first time publicly need all the applause they can get.

As a people watcher, this was an entertaining environment. You could easily tell which parents and relatives had kids currently on the stage. Loud applause, cheering and calling their child’s name, as they leaned forward in their seats enraptured in the performance before them. As someone who didn’t do team sports growing up, it was great to see parents giving the same energy this as those who might sit in the bleachers watching their kids on the field.

When I watched my granddaughter dance with her group of peers, it'd be expected for me to claim she was the most talented kid up there. However, I realized that objectively a lot of what I was seeing was simply her genuine talent, not just my familial pride. 

She held her head up and looked at the audience. You could tell she was concentrating on what she was doing by the expressions on her face, but that was also an outward reflection of the inner workings driving her performance. She radiated calm and confidence. While some kids were a bit confused and stopped between various routines to prepare for the next action (which is normal for a first performance on stage) she flowed fluidly from one thing to the next. Did she remember all the routines, or was it just that she knew her motions needed to be tied together rather than seen as separate bits? She has stage presence.

When the show was over, we met backstage to present her with flowers; she had done an exceptional job and deserved the praise. More than that, she now owned that stage and I was okay passing it on to her, as she deserved to be there.

From the first time I took the stage as a Kindergartener (toy soldier in a Christmas play) I felt the electricity that is live performing. Throughout my life, I have found great joy being on stage, and it has been my go-to place for recharging and rebirth. Be it a theatre with a large cast, a club or coffeehouse with just a friend or two, or in a train station or around a campfire with just my guitar I have found great satisfaction in that connection with an audience be they large or small. Some of us have been fortunate enough to thrive on the exchange of energy that feeds the performer while entertaining the watcher. 

The only two things I wanted to do on stage which I never got around to were sword fighting and tap dancing. Not sure I will ever get around to those, but that’s okay. As I hand off the spotlight to my insanely talented granddaughter, I know she will do that and more.  

The highest praise I ever received came from a fellow performer, years after we had on stage together. She called me a natural on stage. Thanks but I’m not really one to judge that, Susie. However, I have no doubts that my granddaughter is a natural performer.

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Every Song In My Life Soundtrack Has A Backstory

Start the music, then read the background tale.

Terri was my first adolescent crush. Her brown hair was long and straight, her eyes a dazzling blue, and she possessed a beautiful smile, which was in the process of being made into an awesomely straight smile by sets of braces on both top and bottom. Her solitary imperfection was being my best friend’s girlfriend — until it happened. One magnificent Friday afternoon, he broke up with her. Later, he confided in me he did this because he wanted to go out with a different girl. Since Mark wished to ensure a smooth transition from one girl to the next, he felt breaking up with Terri hours before his first date with the other girl was the smart way to make it all happen while leaving everyone happy about it. His logic, not mine. Looking back, still pretty stupid.

 Since Mark was on a date and I was not, my Friday evening was completely free, which was a good thing because Terri invited me over. For those of you who were unaware, life on a military base is incredibly structured, and much of where you can go and what you do is age based. My friends and I were too young as ninth graders to go to the Teen Club, so instead, we usually hung out in someone’s backyard listening to music and talking. This activity would go on from sunset until parents ran us off. I’m not sure why or how, but on that evening, it was just the two of us alone on her patio under the light of some bamboo tiki torches. Having just been dumped, she was melancholy. We listened to music on the radio, and I told jokes to cheer her up. My entire repertoire then was borrowed from George Carlin with a bit of Richard Pryor thrown in; not exactly appropriate for the situation, but I got her to laugh and took her mind off things for a while.

As luck would have it, the King Harvest song "Dancin’ in the Moonlight" came on the radio. Terri leaped out of her chair and grabbed my hand, pulling me into her. It was one of her favorite summer songs, and she always made it a point to dance whenever it was played. Even though I was little more than a target of opportunity, I accepted my fate with a good amount of grace, letting my ego be stroked since my crush was now in arms. At fifteen, I’d slow danced with girls many times, but never one who’d first danced through my mind first. It could have been that, or it may have been any number of other things, but the way she danced was something I never felt before, as she seemed to be caressing my body with hers while we moved to the music. At fifteen, it was a mind scrambler.

Midway through the song, she began speaking softly to me––almost whispering in my ear. I’m not sure if she was actually talking to me or not. Terri seemed more to be having a conversation with herself about why she chose Mark to go out with rather than me on the day when we all first met. As if she came to some sort of decision, she lifted her face to mine and kissed me. Considering both of us wore braces, there was a certain amount of subconscious caution on both our parts, but it was still a beautiful and memorable kiss.

Before the weekend was over, we shared more than a few walks holding hands, enjoyed two sunsets, and more than a few terrific kisses. It was the best weekend of the summer. On Monday, I left for summer camp and was gone for two weeks. When I got back, I found she and Mark reconciled, but fortunately at the same time I was also told my father got orders to Virginia and we’d be moving in a couple of weeks. At least I wasn’t forced to stay there and dwell in the aftermath. I never had contact with either of them again.

When I wrote my book “Moonlit Silhouette,” I patterned the heroine after Terri. Part memory and part fantasy. It’s okay, I hold a valid Poetic License so I can adapt reality at will when needed to fit a story. One thing I wanted to include was a few of the lyrics from “Dancin’ in the Moonlight” as part of the book, so I contacted the composer Sherman Kelly for permission.  He provided me with the contact information to get approval from Sony and we swapped a few emails about memories the song brought back for us both. A really nice guy. The folks at Sony were not so nice, making me wish I used the song and then asked forgiveness rather than permission. In the end, I didn’t use the song but wrote lyrics to a new song just for the book.

Here’s the King Harvest original:

This song still holds memories of the weekend with Terri. It is one of the many vital parts of the soundtrack of my life.

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Live From Nowhere In Particular...It's Saturday Night!

I'd just turned 16 and started working at Baskin-Robbins. It was a time when changes in my life were speeding up and I was doing my best to not get left behind. I'd just come in from work on a Saturday night and found myself alone downstairs, my parents asleep upstairs. I turned on the TV and started flipping through channels. 

The news was just ending, and it was at least a half-hour before Dr. Madblood’s Movie came on. Howard Cosell had a new show, Saturday Night, and even though I was not a sports fan; I thought it might be a way to fill the thirty-minute gap. After flipping the channel to NBC and plopped down on my dad’s recliner.

Then something different happened. A person I had never seen before was on screen talking about something, then he tripped and fell before saying “Live from New York it’s Saturday night.”  

What the hell was this? 

As you may have guessed, it was October 11, 1975, and I was on hand for the birth of something that is still alive, well, and kicking. I wasn’t sure what it was, but again

I was just looking to fill half an hour, so I left the TV tuned to it. The announcer reeled off names of people I’d never heard of, but then got to people I had heard of before. Billy Preston was the musical guest, as was Janis Ian. I liked Billy and Janice was okay, too. Jim Henson was billed as being on the show, and I knew that meant Kermit the Frog. I liked Kermit. (BTW no Kermit) Then came the clincher, my favorite comedian George Carlin was hosting. Maybe I was going to skip the replaying of The Horror of Party Beach on Dr. Madblood. There was also Andy Kaufman. Who?

Carlin did a great monologue that included a discussion of the blue food that I still remember. In all the years since, I still have never found a blue food. Then came the sketches. I was quickly introduced to comedians that would fill my next few years with laughter. Dan Aykroyd, Gilda Radner, Garrett Morris, Jane Curtin, Laraine Newman, and John Belushi. Because he started the show, and then later did the Weekend Update newscast, Chevy Chase struck me as being the leader of the cast, but he also struck me as being a real jerk. It was hard to tell how much of that was an act and how much of that was him. Over time, I found it was pretty much him. 

I did not know what I was part of that night, but I knew it was significant. The show I was watching turned into a heavy part of my life for several years as I always tried to make it home on Saturday nights to watch it - as this was before VCRs and DVRs. In between the sketches, the music of Billy and Janis provided a nice mind cleansing to prepare you before the next comedy bits. Then Andy did his Mighty Mouse bit. At first I was perplexed, but before it was over I was laughing out loud.

The show became the instant topic for Monday mornings at school. We shared various lines from the show that became part of our lexicon, and because it was live, we also talked about the mistakes we caught. Plus so many recurring characters and tag lines -- Never mind. The comedy and music became part of my life, as evidenced by just a small sampling of blog entries:

• Got Cat Class & Got Class Style With a Christmas Twist
• With Paradise In Sight, She Cried Out "Stop Right There!"
• Your Other Most Important Vote of 2012
• My Year In Live Music 2018, Act II: Paul Simon -- Tell Me That Crazy Story One Last Time
• I Got a Fever, and the Only Prescription...Is More Cowbell!!

Oh yeah, and an obsession with cowbell.

When I heard they had made a movie about Saturday Night Live, I was immediately excited. I wanted to see what it took to put on that show. It was lucky that I could never catch in the theater or even watch it streaming until recently. This allowed me to sit down and take time to watch the movie uninterrupted and then follow it immediately with the first episode from 1975, since it is exactly where the movie ends.

I think the movie is well made; the people portraying the various cast members, writers, and even Lorne Michaels did a great job. As a theatre kid, I understood and shared the underlying electricity as they prepared to go on stage for the first time. The props that were in the wrong place, people who were suddenly missing minutes before the curtain went up, and more. I think the movie perfectly captured what it must’ve felt like that first time. It also gave me insight into a lot of things I was unaware of.

I admit I knew Chevy was a jerk, so that was not a surprise but things like Garrett Morris questioning why he was there I was unaware of. The same with Lorraine Newman. The trio of extremely talented women who were on the show was amazing, yet they all questioned their own talent. John Belushi’s failure to sign his contract until the last minute was an interesting revelation. No doubt he could’ve made it without the show, but would the show have made it without him?

Learning what Lorne Michaels went through to get this on the air was also surprising. I’ve always looked at TV as something that was carefully scripted and choreographed. Maybe so, but from the show itself to the way it wound up on the air instead of a rerun of Johnny Carson proved that perception was another a bit of Hollywood magic. Should we talk about Michael O’Donoghue? No, we shouldn’t.

If you haven’t seen it yet, I would advise you to watch the movie but only if you can follow it immediately after with the first episode. Seeing how they got there and what they eventually delivered together like that is perfect. In fact, I think it should be required watching for anybody doing anything on stage. It shows you how you go from that mass confusion of high energy to delivering a product that the audience raves about without ever knowing what it looked like just a minute before the curtain rose.

PostScript: I haven’t watched the show in years. It has morphed into something I no longer recognize nor enjoy -- but that’s okay. I am not 16 anymore and that’s who the show is for.

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