All the wonderful things my Dad did, albeit was mostly for his grandchildren, whom he really adored. Oh he didn't show it with love and kisses. My Dad was not that type. But he did show it by playing with them hours on end, and I mean playing, right down on the floor type of playing. He taught them to sew, color, create images and a plethora of kid stuff that in todays world, with all its technology, seems to be sometimes forgotten. My two daughters , Marcie and Linda, were the chief recipients of his attention. And then there was me. "Handy Andy". That's what he would occasionally call me because I wasn't--- handy that is. But we had purchased an "expandable home' and what that label inferred was it would expand if the owners put enough hard work into it. And I was trying!! I won't go into all the things I did to that house because it now is superfluous. However one thing I did was to purchase a storm door to be planed and cut and painted and hung on the side of our home. It was an all day deal and when Dad came over that evening I saw his eyes glance quickly at my handiwork and I was hoping for some sort of praise. But no, I could see he disapproved of a part of my work. The evening wore on and as they got up to leave I had to find out what was wrong with the door. And so I asked him. Dad, I saw you look at the door. I worked all day on it and apparently there is something you don't like. He looked at me and said, "You should have it open against the wind so that it won't be blown from its hinges". I excitedly said, "I did that Dad . Usually the wind comes from the west and that's the west". Oops, my mistake. He pointed in the opposite direction and said, "No Jim, that's the west". "But Dad, there's the sun and its setting". His reply was a shock to everything I have ever known about the setting sun. He stated, "I don't care what the sun is doing, that's the west"!! I just was numbed by his answer and then said to myself, "What a great story I will be able to tell my kids about the stubborn streak my lovable Dad had deep within his persona. And you know what? I miss him like crazy and I'll take a little stubbornness when its surrounded by love for my kids. But someday I am going to ask him if he remembers my storm door and his answer to my comments. I wonder if he will admit a mistake or somehow convince me I had the wrong direction. We'll see.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
DID I MENTION STUBBORN??
All the wonderful things my Dad did, albeit was mostly for his grandchildren, whom he really adored. Oh he didn't show it with love and kisses. My Dad was not that type. But he did show it by playing with them hours on end, and I mean playing, right down on the floor type of playing. He taught them to sew, color, create images and a plethora of kid stuff that in todays world, with all its technology, seems to be sometimes forgotten. My two daughters , Marcie and Linda, were the chief recipients of his attention. And then there was me. "Handy Andy". That's what he would occasionally call me because I wasn't--- handy that is. But we had purchased an "expandable home' and what that label inferred was it would expand if the owners put enough hard work into it. And I was trying!! I won't go into all the things I did to that house because it now is superfluous. However one thing I did was to purchase a storm door to be planed and cut and painted and hung on the side of our home. It was an all day deal and when Dad came over that evening I saw his eyes glance quickly at my handiwork and I was hoping for some sort of praise. But no, I could see he disapproved of a part of my work. The evening wore on and as they got up to leave I had to find out what was wrong with the door. And so I asked him. Dad, I saw you look at the door. I worked all day on it and apparently there is something you don't like. He looked at me and said, "You should have it open against the wind so that it won't be blown from its hinges". I excitedly said, "I did that Dad . Usually the wind comes from the west and that's the west". Oops, my mistake. He pointed in the opposite direction and said, "No Jim, that's the west". "But Dad, there's the sun and its setting". His reply was a shock to everything I have ever known about the setting sun. He stated, "I don't care what the sun is doing, that's the west"!! I just was numbed by his answer and then said to myself, "What a great story I will be able to tell my kids about the stubborn streak my lovable Dad had deep within his persona. And you know what? I miss him like crazy and I'll take a little stubbornness when its surrounded by love for my kids. But someday I am going to ask him if he remembers my storm door and his answer to my comments. I wonder if he will admit a mistake or somehow convince me I had the wrong direction. We'll see.
THE BEST IS YET TO BE
My Dad was forced to sell our house, something I never understood. This was during the days of depression but I later realized banks were accepting merely the interest on mortgage loans and it may have been my father's stubbornness that wouldn't allow him to accept anything that even resembled charity. But we moved into a "flat" that had three bedrooms. My brother, Burt and I shared a bed---yes I said a bed , in one of the rooms and I would now attend a new school. It was Bennett High School and I was 12 years old. Don't ask why I was so young. I don't remember all the details, but I do recall I skipped a grade, and here I am walking down Fillmore Avenue to Main and on to school. It was about one and a half miles and not one school bus came by. I wonder why?? Because there were no school buses in those days. My freshman and sophomore years passed rather uneventfully. I did play in the band and was active in some of the school plays. But it was in my 3rd year that I began to blossom. I began to get aggressive about getting into various activities that placed me on stage at all the school auditoriums. I began singing in all the stage events. It turned out I was selected to be a cheerleader. I think that was because it became evident that I had the biggest mouth in the school and a megaphone was superfluous. I came to realize this was fun and made up my mind to only take 2 subjects the next two years ----yes that meant I would be in school for 5 years before I would graduate. But, so what? I would still only be 17. It was still during the depression. There were no jobs available and there was no money for a continuing education. So I reasoned, I might as well stay in school. I took two basic subjects each of those remaining two years, was active in every stage event ---sports, plays, musicals and so on. I was on stage and loved it. Down deep there was a ham lurking somewhere. My best buddy, Moon, was similarly active and we made a great couple. I am still in touch with Moon and we reminisce about those long ago years. He flew 30 Missions over Europe in a B17, which doesn't mean much to most of my readers but it was a BIG deal. Well, that is the story of how I went to High School for 5 years and they were the best years of my life at that time. Our motto, "The Best is yet to Be" still resonates with me and when I look back at all that followed I realize the Best was a continuing source of happiness with marriage, children, grandchildren and now great grand children. Certainly things did continue to get better and in spite of a setback here or there, life was great and I am at peace wondering if the best is still yet to be.
Friday, July 27, 2007
THE FALSE TEETH EPISODE
Many years ago while attending High School, I used to work afternoon at my former grammar school and I would help the char-women to sweep the floor, dust around and clean the balckboard. When summer came, of course, there was no school and I hired on as one of a crew to prepare the school for the coming season. My brother was the crew chief and I had an in to the work. Mr Durr was the head custodian and you wanted to stay away from his temper. I had been assigned to work with Jimmie Gassman and clean windows---you know those great high windows where you needed a tall ladder to do them well. Jimmie was a riot and he was regaling me with some rediculous stories and we were sitting each on his own ladder when in comes Mr Durr. We sat quietly while he told us how worthless we were and threatened that if we didn't get to work, we would be fired. The morning time was passing and again Jimmie and I are sitting exchanging nonsense--one of which I still used to impress little kids. This is done by stretching the web of your thumb and forefinger, putting it against your mouth and blowing and the sound of a fog horn would resonate across the room. We did a few of those and were laughing when in come the ogre--Mr Durr Now he is really mad and as he begins to lay it on us he seems to have a problem getting the words out. With that encumbrance, he cups his hand, spits out his upper and lower denture and proceeds to scream at us. Well, here we are at about 14 and had never seen dentures before and instead of respecting his problem, we broke out the most hilarious laughter you have ever heard. How unkind!! Well, I wish this tale had a moral or something to make the story interesting but that was it. We were fired and walked out laughing. I never saw Jimmie Gassman again and always wondered "Is he still so very funny"?
Saturday, July 21, 2007
UPDATE ON DAD
Dad became ill a week or so ago after spending the day boating on the Mississippi River with my brother Rand's family. He went into the hospital and ended up getting three stints placed in his heart arteries. He said the procedure was painless (such a tough guy). He is now supposed to be on oxygen, as his heart was not getting enough. They put him on oxygen seven years ago when he had a stint procedure done. He stayed on it a short while and then decided it was bothersome and went off it. He has arranged to get oxygen delivered to his home in Arizona for when he arrives. Maybe he will take it a little more seriously this time, but probably not. He was back on the boat a week after surgery, no doubt waving at pretty girls and embarrassing his grandsons. If he could, he would jump around and act like a teenager, but his age and condition will not allow it. He finds that very frustrating. It is tough when the mind races forward and the body can't keep up. Yes, he is a very immature 84 year old!
He was planning to come and visit me in Virginia Beach, but decided that it would be best if he went home instead. I am in total agreement, as the flights these days cannot be depended upon, and he could end up racing to catch a flight or stranded. He may try and come here in the fall. Meanwhile, he is going home to Arizona on Tuesday, July 24th . He is feeling good, and that is most important! More later---
Posted by Marcie, his loving daughter!
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Profile Photo
Just so you know, I have been fussing with this picture for HOURS! Trying to get it loaded for Dad's profile picture. I am not a code reader and so I tried every html combination I could conceive of. I finally figured out that I had to make the title of the picture shorter. Instead of reading "Dad at Bear Lake" I changed it to "Dad.jpg". Isn't that nuts? But now there is a profile picture of him. Whew, too much work for something so simple. --Marcie
Saturday, July 7, 2007
A NOTE FROM MARCIE
Today I posted this cute picture of my dad on my own blog and generated some interest from a few people that indicated they were interested in reading what Dad has to say. He actually has a blog on Yahoo 360, but I started this one for him recently because I thought it might be easier to operate. It has some nice features that the other blog doesn't have. Plus, you have to sign into Yahoo to get to the other one, and this blog you can reach from any search engine.
Soooo, I went into his Yahoo blog and copied and pasted his posts onto this blog, for your reading pleasure. I hope you enjoy reading some of my dad's funny stories. He will love it if you leave comments!
From his loving daughter,
Marcie
UNCLE CHUCK
Entry for January 17, 2007 Photo shows Uncle Chuck, Susie and Aunt Alice
When I was a very young lad, probably around eight, I used to be banished to my Grandparents home in Syracuse, N.Y. I was never sure whether my parents wanted to get rid of me or whether they thought I would enjoy this form of punishment. Well, they were rewarded by not having to put up with this kid and they were happy and as it turned out so was I. For, with my grandparents, whom I really loved, there lived my Aunt Alice and her husband Charles Howell--my Uncle Chuck. This combination of little Jimmie and Uncle Chuck was a match made in Heaven---at least from my point of view.
Chuck never earned much of a salary. For many years he worked as clerk in a hardware store and only had Sundays off. Ah but that was when he headed for the out-of-doors. He was in love with any outdoor activity and I was a recipient of his fondness of his Sunday activity. He loved to fish, hunt, dig potatoes, pick peaches, berries, of various description or anything that would allow him to further his hobby. As a result, every Sunday morning around 5:30 A.M. from my bedroom I would hear the words "C'mon Jim, lets go. I would be up in a flash, grab some breakfast and we would be in his car by 6:00 o'clock. We would often head for the Adirondack Mountains for there would always be something in season, something to shoot, just something to do in the great outdoors.
I first learned to golf when I was about eleven because Chuck liked to golf. I learned to distinguish which mushroom were the edible variety and we often would head for the same gold course he played at because there was always a plethora of mushrooms and puff balls, a usually very large type of that edible fungus in the shape of a ball. I learned a gooseberry from a boysenberry. Picking peaches or apples at his Aunt's farm was fun. I shot my first rabbit with a 410 shotgun and inexpertly shot the tail off a woodchuck feasting near his hole up on the hillside. In short, it was a paradise for a small boy and I came to love hearing his voice "C’mon Jim, lets go". I went to Syracuse every time I had a week off or a summer vacation from school. When I was nine or ten, my parents would take me to the train and I would wear shorts and because I was pretty small then, I could ride a train for the price normally reserved for age seven and under. In those days, it was no big deal to ride the train alone. Who in the world would think of bringing harm to a small boy?
When I was about eleven we moved to the country in a small community on about 2 acres of land and raised a garden each year. I learned to play Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in E(?) Minor there. I also caught a bull frog about the same size as the rabbit I shot. I would hike up to a nearby golf course and caddie for $.75 a round after I finished hoeing the garden. I did many things waiting for the Sabbath morning because then the familiar words would once again be heard and I would be up in a flash.
Unfortunately, as much as I loved being with Chuck, I discovered girls at about age fourteen and that former part of my life lost most of its glamour. But I never forgot what Charlie did for that little kid. In later years I would bring him to Minneapolis and we would drive or fly into various fishing resorts. He would stay with Louise and me for a week or two (This was after my Aunt Alice, Chuck’s wife, had passed away) and I think he really enjoyed being away from the loneliness of his small trailer near one of the Finger Lakes where he still fished, but he was alone most of the time. Some years after, I went to work in New Jersey and drove up to his trailer and we would go to dinner and I would spend the weekend with him.
We never said anything that could be construed as sentimental. Neither he or I could start the words and our throats would close up but I remember one time as I was preparing to go back to Jersey, I heard him say very softly "I'm sure lucky to have a nephew as good as you". I was crying as I got in my car and as I waved goodbye, I thought "No, I was the lucky one for all you did to give me the memories I cherish now". I cry now as I type this once again remembering the joy and happiness he brought into my life with just those simple words “C'mon Jim, lets go".
When I was a very young lad, probably around eight, I used to be banished to my Grandparents home in Syracuse, N.Y. I was never sure whether my parents wanted to get rid of me or whether they thought I would enjoy this form of punishment. Well, they were rewarded by not having to put up with this kid and they were happy and as it turned out so was I. For, with my grandparents, whom I really loved, there lived my Aunt Alice and her husband Charles Howell--my Uncle Chuck. This combination of little Jimmie and Uncle Chuck was a match made in Heaven---at least from my point of view.
Chuck never earned much of a salary. For many years he worked as clerk in a hardware store and only had Sundays off. Ah but that was when he headed for the out-of-doors. He was in love with any outdoor activity and I was a recipient of his fondness of his Sunday activity. He loved to fish, hunt, dig potatoes, pick peaches, berries, of various description or anything that would allow him to further his hobby. As a result, every Sunday morning around 5:30 A.M. from my bedroom I would hear the words "C'mon Jim, lets go. I would be up in a flash, grab some breakfast and we would be in his car by 6:00 o'clock. We would often head for the Adirondack Mountains for there would always be something in season, something to shoot, just something to do in the great outdoors.
I first learned to golf when I was about eleven because Chuck liked to golf. I learned to distinguish which mushroom were the edible variety and we often would head for the same gold course he played at because there was always a plethora of mushrooms and puff balls, a usually very large type of that edible fungus in the shape of a ball. I learned a gooseberry from a boysenberry. Picking peaches or apples at his Aunt's farm was fun. I shot my first rabbit with a 410 shotgun and inexpertly shot the tail off a woodchuck feasting near his hole up on the hillside. In short, it was a paradise for a small boy and I came to love hearing his voice "C’mon Jim, lets go". I went to Syracuse every time I had a week off or a summer vacation from school. When I was nine or ten, my parents would take me to the train and I would wear shorts and because I was pretty small then, I could ride a train for the price normally reserved for age seven and under. In those days, it was no big deal to ride the train alone. Who in the world would think of bringing harm to a small boy?
When I was about eleven we moved to the country in a small community on about 2 acres of land and raised a garden each year. I learned to play Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in E(?) Minor there. I also caught a bull frog about the same size as the rabbit I shot. I would hike up to a nearby golf course and caddie for $.75 a round after I finished hoeing the garden. I did many things waiting for the Sabbath morning because then the familiar words would once again be heard and I would be up in a flash.
Unfortunately, as much as I loved being with Chuck, I discovered girls at about age fourteen and that former part of my life lost most of its glamour. But I never forgot what Charlie did for that little kid. In later years I would bring him to Minneapolis and we would drive or fly into various fishing resorts. He would stay with Louise and me for a week or two (This was after my Aunt Alice, Chuck’s wife, had passed away) and I think he really enjoyed being away from the loneliness of his small trailer near one of the Finger Lakes where he still fished, but he was alone most of the time. Some years after, I went to work in New Jersey and drove up to his trailer and we would go to dinner and I would spend the weekend with him.
We never said anything that could be construed as sentimental. Neither he or I could start the words and our throats would close up but I remember one time as I was preparing to go back to Jersey, I heard him say very softly "I'm sure lucky to have a nephew as good as you". I was crying as I got in my car and as I waved goodbye, I thought "No, I was the lucky one for all you did to give me the memories I cherish now". I cry now as I type this once again remembering the joy and happiness he brought into my life with just those simple words “C'mon Jim, lets go".
THE OLD TIMER
Entry for February 15, 2007We moved to Appleton, Wisc in 1960. Little did I know then we would have three very happy years there. I began as a merchandise manager of Mens and Boys in a Department store and one of the people I would meet shortly after my arrival was a young fellow named George Kubisiak. In one of our conversations he asked if I liked fishing. I replied, "I used to love it when I was young but I haven't been in since I was a kid." He told me we would go that week.
He picked me up one night and as we were driving out he said "Now we are going to fish on a farmers private lake. The farmer is very particular who he will let on his property so try top make an impression so that he will like you." We proceeded through the gate, down through the lane past several cows who looked at us in a disinterested manner and finally found John, kneeling in a freshly plowed field. We walked over to him and George introduced me to John who grunted a rather cold hello. While George and the farmer talked I kneeled down a few feet away and when I could see I had his attention, I began running my fingers through the loose soil. I then picked up a small handful and smelled it. I now had his full blown interest and with that I picked up another handful and stuck my tongue out and tasted the soil. Then in a rather pontifical I said "Needs little lime doesn't it?" He looked at me in some astonishment and replied "Thats just what a I was thinking---needs a little lime!!" Shortly after that George and I walked down to the lake and George exploded "Geez Jim, I didn't know you were a soil expert". I said "Hell George, I'm a fraud. I don't know anything about soil but I thought I might get him to think I do". At which point George said "Well, you certainly impressed him. He will let you come out and fish any time you want."
We then got into a small boat and rowed into the middle of the lake and began casting with fly rods. We were using what was called a "popper" because when the fish inhaled the lure, it would make a popping sound so that even though we were fishing after dark, if you cast out into the deepening shadows and began to twitch the line you would be rewarded with a fighting small bass who would come leaping out of the water. It was a fisherman's delight and George and I spent several evenings enjoying John's private lake. George had a radio program every evening through out most of the year and his gravelly manner of speaking to his unseen audience earned him the title of "The Old Timer". He died a few short year later after we had moved to Minneapolis. After hearing of his death, I was reminded how he had taken part in making those three years such happy ones. He was a character that has always occupied a special place in my memory bank.
CURRENTLY...
Entry for January 29, 2007
Now that I am mature I was told by a noted authority that I need to say something of myself at this stage of my life. Actually, its a bit boring because now that I have grown up, things around me are not that stimulating. However, to bring you upo date, I have now retired in a gerisatric form of an apartment complex. Everywhere I look, I see wheel chairs,mechanized scooters and walkers. I tried to make one of my smooth approaches last week and this nice looking lady hit me with her walker. I must really look like a shady character because 50 years ago when I first used that approach, it always brought good results. My apartment is quite nice for a old guy living by himself. I have my sister in law Frieda and her two daughters to thank for that. My daughter Linda lives here in Mesa as do my grandsons Matt and family, Renn, Marcie's youngest boy--now 27, and Jonathan Call, Linda's youngest son of 25 or thereabouts. I also enjoy the company of Hoyt and Kathy -Louise's sister, and I didn't mention Bruce, Louise's brother. So I am surrounded by family and I couldn't do anything wrong if I wanted to, heh heh, heh. I get 25 meals a month here at my apartment complex which I supplement with terribly fattening foods at every opportunity. The food is quite good and I am one of the few that walks, unassisted, into the dining hall.I feel definitely superior with this capability and try not to look smug when I walk in. I am a movie fan and have joined the library and already, in the space of five days have gone through 5 movies. So you see my life is not of excitement and debauchery. I also sing in the church choir and this seems to be in contrast to the preceding sentence, Maybe it is more in keeping with the previous statement, "I couldn't do anything wrong if I wanted to. So this gives you some idea of what is happening in my life. I miss Louise greatly and she has been gone 7 years now. It just goes to prove the old adage, "Only the good die young." Hope all is well with you. You carry my love wherever you are.---Oh, some wag when looking at my picture which I posted with my first blog, said "Who is the young guy"? In reply, I say, "You don't want to see a picture of me that is current. I look like my father who has been dead for 50 years."
Now that I am mature I was told by a noted authority that I need to say something of myself at this stage of my life. Actually, its a bit boring because now that I have grown up, things around me are not that stimulating. However, to bring you upo date, I have now retired in a gerisatric form of an apartment complex. Everywhere I look, I see wheel chairs,mechanized scooters and walkers. I tried to make one of my smooth approaches last week and this nice looking lady hit me with her walker. I must really look like a shady character because 50 years ago when I first used that approach, it always brought good results. My apartment is quite nice for a old guy living by himself. I have my sister in law Frieda and her two daughters to thank for that. My daughter Linda lives here in Mesa as do my grandsons Matt and family, Renn, Marcie's youngest boy--now 27, and Jonathan Call, Linda's youngest son of 25 or thereabouts. I also enjoy the company of Hoyt and Kathy -Louise's sister, and I didn't mention Bruce, Louise's brother. So I am surrounded by family and I couldn't do anything wrong if I wanted to, heh heh, heh. I get 25 meals a month here at my apartment complex which I supplement with terribly fattening foods at every opportunity. The food is quite good and I am one of the few that walks, unassisted, into the dining hall.I feel definitely superior with this capability and try not to look smug when I walk in. I am a movie fan and have joined the library and already, in the space of five days have gone through 5 movies. So you see my life is not of excitement and debauchery. I also sing in the church choir and this seems to be in contrast to the preceding sentence, Maybe it is more in keeping with the previous statement, "I couldn't do anything wrong if I wanted to. So this gives you some idea of what is happening in my life. I miss Louise greatly and she has been gone 7 years now. It just goes to prove the old adage, "Only the good die young." Hope all is well with you. You carry my love wherever you are.---Oh, some wag when looking at my picture which I posted with my first blog, said "Who is the young guy"? In reply, I say, "You don't want to see a picture of me that is current. I look like my father who has been dead for 50 years."
ME AND MY PBY
Entry for February 15, 2007
Many of you might recall the legend of the little Dutch boy who, by putting his finger in the hole of the dike, saved the country of Holland. Now while this story I am about to tell is not quite parallel to the above, I am drawing a bit of poetic license to make the analogy. I was sitting out on the Bay of Pensacola one sunny afternoon, having finished my tour at the "Yoke" in an attempt to fly a large water craft called a PBY. I had already received my "wings" and was wearing them proudly after showing off my prowess by taking off and landing this monster three times with an instructor at my side and coaching me through my training. Now some of you, born after 1950, might ask what is a PBY? In reply, I tell you it was a twin engine flying boat. You may have seen some of the heroics on your television screen of these aircraft picking up Naval aviators that were in the water. Its two large engines were high above your ears on each side of the boat and their roar was significant. It was the darling of the Naval pilots because it was hinted that it would climb at 90, dive at 90 and you would live to be 90.---- not necessarily true, but it served the purpose of giving bragging rights to those that flew them. A stiff breeze had come up and the instructor had decided to sit a while to see if the wind would go down. I was sitting amidship when I could hear him say, "It's not getting any calmer, I'll go ahead and take off". As he began to increase the engine speed, we hit a large wave head on and the old boat shuddered, slowed and then proceeded forward. Gathering a bit more speed we hit another wave and once again the plane shuddered and moved forward some more. I thought to myself "If we hit another with that impact, I don't think this plane will staand it". Sure enough, another large wave once again burst on the bow of the vessel and with a crash, water began flowing into the nose of the ship. By way of explanation, in the nose of a PBY is a steel shuttered window with reinforced plate glass for added protection. It was commonly used for photography. Water is pouring in. The wind coming through what was practically a wind tunnel, was fierce. Trying to be of some assistance, not knowing what, I began to fight my way forward. The boat was close to flying speed but with about a 30 knot wind and airspeed now attaining about 40 knots. It meant I was fighting my way through a airflow of about 75 mph. I hung on to anything I could and gradually got up into the nose of the aircraft. Water was flowing through at a good amount and was now sloshing around my ankles. How do I help get the craft airborne? Then in a magnificent display of courage, I turned around and sat down in the broken window, thereby sealing off the water and allowing the instructor to get the plane in the air. We are now airborne. The wind is beating against my rear-end. The water, although sealed off, is still quite deep around my feet and my butt is being battered with the cold air. I can hear the instructor radioing the flight tower that he is going to put it up on the beach back at the air station. That gave me pause to think "Wait a minute. My butt is hanging out the window and he wants to put it on the beach??" I have visions of a not so pleasant ending to my tail bone. I now hear the engines being pulled back and feel the nose lifting up in preparation for a landing. I can see the pilot and I point to myself and then indicate "Should I jump out of the nose bay"? He shouts at me "No! Stay there." Once again visions of a scraped butt go through my head. Suddenly he shouts down to me "Out" and I leaped away. And that is how I was almost awarded the Order of the Purple Bottom".
Many of you might recall the legend of the little Dutch boy who, by putting his finger in the hole of the dike, saved the country of Holland. Now while this story I am about to tell is not quite parallel to the above, I am drawing a bit of poetic license to make the analogy. I was sitting out on the Bay of Pensacola one sunny afternoon, having finished my tour at the "Yoke" in an attempt to fly a large water craft called a PBY. I had already received my "wings" and was wearing them proudly after showing off my prowess by taking off and landing this monster three times with an instructor at my side and coaching me through my training. Now some of you, born after 1950, might ask what is a PBY? In reply, I tell you it was a twin engine flying boat. You may have seen some of the heroics on your television screen of these aircraft picking up Naval aviators that were in the water. Its two large engines were high above your ears on each side of the boat and their roar was significant. It was the darling of the Naval pilots because it was hinted that it would climb at 90, dive at 90 and you would live to be 90.---- not necessarily true, but it served the purpose of giving bragging rights to those that flew them. A stiff breeze had come up and the instructor had decided to sit a while to see if the wind would go down. I was sitting amidship when I could hear him say, "It's not getting any calmer, I'll go ahead and take off". As he began to increase the engine speed, we hit a large wave head on and the old boat shuddered, slowed and then proceeded forward. Gathering a bit more speed we hit another wave and once again the plane shuddered and moved forward some more. I thought to myself "If we hit another with that impact, I don't think this plane will staand it". Sure enough, another large wave once again burst on the bow of the vessel and with a crash, water began flowing into the nose of the ship. By way of explanation, in the nose of a PBY is a steel shuttered window with reinforced plate glass for added protection. It was commonly used for photography. Water is pouring in. The wind coming through what was practically a wind tunnel, was fierce. Trying to be of some assistance, not knowing what, I began to fight my way forward. The boat was close to flying speed but with about a 30 knot wind and airspeed now attaining about 40 knots. It meant I was fighting my way through a airflow of about 75 mph. I hung on to anything I could and gradually got up into the nose of the aircraft. Water was flowing through at a good amount and was now sloshing around my ankles. How do I help get the craft airborne? Then in a magnificent display of courage, I turned around and sat down in the broken window, thereby sealing off the water and allowing the instructor to get the plane in the air. We are now airborne. The wind is beating against my rear-end. The water, although sealed off, is still quite deep around my feet and my butt is being battered with the cold air. I can hear the instructor radioing the flight tower that he is going to put it up on the beach back at the air station. That gave me pause to think "Wait a minute. My butt is hanging out the window and he wants to put it on the beach??" I have visions of a not so pleasant ending to my tail bone. I now hear the engines being pulled back and feel the nose lifting up in preparation for a landing. I can see the pilot and I point to myself and then indicate "Should I jump out of the nose bay"? He shouts at me "No! Stay there." Once again visions of a scraped butt go through my head. Suddenly he shouts down to me "Out" and I leaped away. And that is how I was almost awarded the Order of the Purple Bottom".
YELLOW DEMON
Entry for March 11, 2007
I arrived in Glenview, Illinois on December 31st 1943 and remember being in my bunk, the only one who had reported for duty. I could hear the church bells in town tolling in the New Year! 1944 was here and now my flight training would begin in earnest Here we would begin flying the "yellow demons", a bi-winged single engine plane with a tandem open cockpit. We would receive instructions from Naval pilots and washing out became a genuine threat. We had started out with 150 of us cadets from Buffalo and I don't think any of them were now in my present squadron. This was not a concern. Other things such as Chicago winters and the uncompromising instructors we were now facing was the greater concern. The severity of the demands thrust upon us was something to be feared. Life was tough but thank goodness for the resilience of youth. I slept in the top bunk at the far end of the barracks and soon developed a reputation for glib remarks and witty or maybe even coarse comments--always loud enough so the entire barracks could hear me. It seemed that after lights out my humor became amplified. I found a soul mate in Jersey Lawrence, another cadet, and between the two of us we amused the other 60 or so guys that completed the barracks. One night while sharper than usual with my cutting remarks, I suddenly found my bunk heaved skywards mattress and all and found myself on the floor. I knew it was Jersey and in my haste to get out tried to squeeze between my bunk and the wall. I had forgotten about the very hot radiator there and branded myself on the metal. I carried that mark for many months before it faded away. Continuing down the middle of the barracks, I realized Jersey would be waiting for me and devised a plan to get back at him. I got under the bunk of the Big Swede a very large, 240 pound, humorless man and heaved him into the air. I knew he would never figure little Jimmy Winspear would be able to lift his weight and my plan worked perfectly. With a roar he went after Jersey, complacently snuggled in his bed. Absolute chaos broke out and soon every cadet in the barracks was heaving and throwing bedding at anything that moved. Mattresses were strewn all over the place. Some of the others were even running into the snow to escape the turmoil. Everyone was finally laughing hysterically at the absurdity of what had taken place. Even the Big Swede was laughing. We finally calmed down about 1:00 A.M. and I went to my bed thinking that if the Officer of the Day had happened by we would have all found ourselves at boot camp. But he didn't and weeks later they were still talking about my devilment. I was the hero of the Glenview air base.
FATHERS AND SONS
I gave a talk in church last week and it was suggested that it might be something I should put in my blog and so here tis. Because I changed from the original subject and managed to escape the wrath of the Bishop, my talk was on the bonds that may or may not be between a Father and sons. As a child of the depression, I never saw much of my Dad, He was working in any field he could to try to keep food on the table. We managed to eat although some nights it was oatmeal once again. As a result when I grew older and wondered if my Dad loved me, I excused him knowing he was constantly working. However, as time went on it became more of an un-answered question that concerned me. One night late, I returned from my Navy base and surprised my Mom when I went into their room. She awoke and we were talking softly when my Dad also awoke and instinctively reached over, grabbed me and gave me a hug saying, "Oh Jim, I'm so glad to see you. That answered the question of whether my Father loved me or not. Having that knowledge, I became aware of relationships that I could see were evident between other Fathers and their sons. Two events brought that home to me with amazing clarity. One was when Harmon Killebrew was accepting his award when entering the baseball Hall of Fame at Cooperstown He said, of his Father , who had passed away a few weeks before, "I wish my Dad was here. No, I know he is". I was very impressed with that obvious bond. Another was when the U.S. hockey team beat the Russians in 1980 to win the gold during the Olympics, The spectators went wild and the first words the goalie said when he left his net were "Where is my Dad"? This again gave evidence of a strong bond that existed between the two. Those two singular events allowed me to think of the question I once held "Does my Dad love me". In retrospect I ached for the answer and was so grateful I had found that the bond I had wondered about was there even though it went unanswered for so long. Relating to those events, a talk was given in church,by a person I held in high regard, entitled "Breaking the chain". The chain he referred to was the chain that stated I shall not show love for my son. That relationship was exemplyfied by his Father and the Father before him. And my friend said I will break that chain and declare my love for my son as often as I can. That attitude now permeates many many Fathers and link by link the chain is being broken. Its acceptable for a man to show emtion and I am content knowing my Dad loved me.
NIGHT FLIGHT
Entry for April 11, 2007
I wish I had a picture of the bi-winged plane called the Yellow Demon we used to fly out of Glenview, Ill. It was adjacent to the land on which our Chicago temple now stands and was then surrounded by farmer's fields. We had been stationed there for a few weeks when it became time for us to do a night flight. None of us had been permitted to fly at night because we didn't fly instruments and we needed a brightly lit sky so that our depth perception could be more effective. The eventful night arrived and we began our taxiing to the take off area with an instructor assigned to each plane. We were flying 2 passenger tandem seats with about 80 horsepower engines in front of us. I think bicycles have almost as much power as did we in those days.I am now at the take off line and am told to advance the throttle and begin my charge down the runway. I quickly became aware the instructor had his hands on my flight stick and his feet on my rudders. Realizing he had no intention letting me fly that aircraft, I took my hands and feet off the controls. We circled the field and began our descent into the base. Landing we then taxied back to the original take off place, when he left the plane with the encouraging words "You did O.K. You won't have a problem". Being a little at ease, I nevertheless had enough confidence to begin to advance the throttle again and shortly after that I was airborne. I loved the night. The stars were bright as diamonds and the moon was exhilarating. I was smiling to myself,although a bit insecure, knowing I now had to land the plane by myself. It was all very unspectacular and I landed safely and made my way to the parking line. I remember as I got out of the plane thinking to myself "That dirty begger wasn't going to take a chance on a kid pilot killing him". At the same time I was quite proud knowing I didn't need his help and could do my own flying. That evening was quite exciting for me and many others. However, the excitement was chilled on hearing two of our friends were killed that night when one plane landed on top of the other and they both burst into flames. This was the first of seventeen more deaths that I knew of that followed over the next two years. I have often wondered how many of the original 150 I enlisted with made it safely through the war. I was very fortunate to go from base to base and was only closely involved in one climactic adventure. But that's another story--and maybe another blog!!
I wish I had a picture of the bi-winged plane called the Yellow Demon we used to fly out of Glenview, Ill. It was adjacent to the land on which our Chicago temple now stands and was then surrounded by farmer's fields. We had been stationed there for a few weeks when it became time for us to do a night flight. None of us had been permitted to fly at night because we didn't fly instruments and we needed a brightly lit sky so that our depth perception could be more effective. The eventful night arrived and we began our taxiing to the take off area with an instructor assigned to each plane. We were flying 2 passenger tandem seats with about 80 horsepower engines in front of us. I think bicycles have almost as much power as did we in those days.I am now at the take off line and am told to advance the throttle and begin my charge down the runway. I quickly became aware the instructor had his hands on my flight stick and his feet on my rudders. Realizing he had no intention letting me fly that aircraft, I took my hands and feet off the controls. We circled the field and began our descent into the base. Landing we then taxied back to the original take off place, when he left the plane with the encouraging words "You did O.K. You won't have a problem". Being a little at ease, I nevertheless had enough confidence to begin to advance the throttle again and shortly after that I was airborne. I loved the night. The stars were bright as diamonds and the moon was exhilarating. I was smiling to myself,although a bit insecure, knowing I now had to land the plane by myself. It was all very unspectacular and I landed safely and made my way to the parking line. I remember as I got out of the plane thinking to myself "That dirty begger wasn't going to take a chance on a kid pilot killing him". At the same time I was quite proud knowing I didn't need his help and could do my own flying. That evening was quite exciting for me and many others. However, the excitement was chilled on hearing two of our friends were killed that night when one plane landed on top of the other and they both burst into flames. This was the first of seventeen more deaths that I knew of that followed over the next two years. I have often wondered how many of the original 150 I enlisted with made it safely through the war. I was very fortunate to go from base to base and was only closely involved in one climactic adventure. But that's another story--and maybe another blog!!
HARVEY
Entry for May 01, 2007
I'm going to try this one last time. I have already lost two of this blog but will have another go at it. It is one of the smaller triumphs of my childhood but I should take them when I can get them. It all took place in the corner lot that was euphemistically called a baseball field. Now mind you Little League had not yet appeared on the scene and we scrounged any field we could to play the game. Broken bottles, bricks, stones, rough ground was all a part of the hazardous conditions in which we played but play we did using pieces of cardboard, flat rocks, anything that simulated a base. The game was in progress when Harvey showed up. He was a big kid, similar in age as most of the rest of us but we were the Davids to his Goliath if it came to an arguement. And it did! Now I was the loudest of the kids in the game and it seemed only right that I should reply to the derisive shouts Harvey was making. I, having the biggest mouth around, finaly reached a point of exasperation and made a comment aimed at Harvey that he took violent exception to. He began to charge at me. I knew I was dead if he caught me so I took off running. Now you would think with fear permeating every muscle, I could stay ahead of him but my worst nightmare was about to come true. I had gone too far and Harvey was going catch me. Fortunately my mind took over and just as he was going to pounce on me I dropped to my knees and he tripped over the top of me and landed hard on his stomach. I quickly jumped up and landed with both knees on his back and in affect gave hime a blow to the solar plexus. The breath went out of him in a big whoosh and he collapsed. All the other kids had now gathered around shouting words of encouragement to me but it wasn't necessary. All the fight had left Harvey and he got up slowly and trudged toward his home in the middle of the block. I was accorded the team's adulation and instantly became the hero of Warwick Avenue. I often wondered whatever happened to Harvey for I don't ever remember seeing him again -- The bully had gotten his comeuppance and never bullied us again.
I'm going to try this one last time. I have already lost two of this blog but will have another go at it. It is one of the smaller triumphs of my childhood but I should take them when I can get them. It all took place in the corner lot that was euphemistically called a baseball field. Now mind you Little League had not yet appeared on the scene and we scrounged any field we could to play the game. Broken bottles, bricks, stones, rough ground was all a part of the hazardous conditions in which we played but play we did using pieces of cardboard, flat rocks, anything that simulated a base. The game was in progress when Harvey showed up. He was a big kid, similar in age as most of the rest of us but we were the Davids to his Goliath if it came to an arguement. And it did! Now I was the loudest of the kids in the game and it seemed only right that I should reply to the derisive shouts Harvey was making. I, having the biggest mouth around, finaly reached a point of exasperation and made a comment aimed at Harvey that he took violent exception to. He began to charge at me. I knew I was dead if he caught me so I took off running. Now you would think with fear permeating every muscle, I could stay ahead of him but my worst nightmare was about to come true. I had gone too far and Harvey was going catch me. Fortunately my mind took over and just as he was going to pounce on me I dropped to my knees and he tripped over the top of me and landed hard on his stomach. I quickly jumped up and landed with both knees on his back and in affect gave hime a blow to the solar plexus. The breath went out of him in a big whoosh and he collapsed. All the other kids had now gathered around shouting words of encouragement to me but it wasn't necessary. All the fight had left Harvey and he got up slowly and trudged toward his home in the middle of the block. I was accorded the team's adulation and instantly became the hero of Warwick Avenue. I often wondered whatever happened to Harvey for I don't ever remember seeing him again -- The bully had gotten his comeuppance and never bullied us again.
GETTING TO KNOW RACHMANINOFF
Entry for May 31, 2007
It all happened one night at the home of my Grandparents in Syracuse N.Y. Although my home was in Buffalo N.Y., Syracuse was where I went when my parents wanted to lose me. My cousin Bob Dodd was an excellent pianist and was playing a classical number of some great difficulty. He completed the piece and amidst the cheers from those assembled there, my Grandmother Dodd leaned over and said to me "Jimmie, don't you wish you could play like that? I replied, peevishly, "I could if I wanted to". Ah, that was my mistake. Now I had a personal challenge to prove me right. When summer approached I, somehow, acquired the number entitled "Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C# Minor". It had more notes than I had ever seen in my life and although I had been taught piano by Mrs Mueller from ages 7 to 10, never had I looked at a piece that was so scary. Nevertheless, I had issued to myself an obstacle which now looked to be way over my head. This piece began with three ominous notes that sounded like a frightening horror movie and went Bong, Bong, Bong, each note descending on the keyboard. Some of the chords had more notes than I had fingers on both hands!! But I practice religiously every day and some times twice a day and that Bong, Bong, Bong, must have driven my Grandparents crazy and yet they permitted me to continue my project without a word. Of course whenever I made a mistake I had to go back to the beginning and do the Bong Bong Bong again. However, after several weeks it was beginning to come together and I had reached a point where my fingers automatically went to the proper chords without having to read the page and think about it. So, Summer had concluded and I was enrolled in High School, attending parties and finding a piano there. I would sit down and play to the attending cheers the piece I had spent many weeks perfecting it. Then someone would say, "Play something else, Jimmie". In an embarrassed voice I would reply "I can't!. Thats all I know." In retrospect it was my love for my Gramma Dodd that propelled me to finish the task and validate my words "I could if I wanted to." I had accomplished my purpose and although I never did learn another piece of music with that degree of skill, I did get to know Sergei Rachmaninoff and he didn't turn out to be so bad after all.
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