ThinkBob

THE LOCAL, SEASONAL, SUSTAINABLE, TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--PART NINE

2010-04-23T20:04:00.000-07:00

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(These notes and the commentaries that follow are a Facebook project based on Barbara Kingsolver's book "ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE A Year of Food Life." Each week a project member writes a response based on one chapter of the book. Together we read and talk our way through a year in the life of Kingsolver and her family. This response was authored by PAM PRIEST and is prompted by Chapter Eight, "Growing trust.")

Growing Trust

I bought my copy of AVM used. Apparently it was read by a child named Harry, because his name is all over it. I don't know how old Harry is - maybe 11? Here's what Harry wrote in the book:

"I find it interesting that farmers have a lot of terms I've never heard of, like annuals and biennuals. I realized how much I didn't know about plants - I never knew that root vegetables were supposed to last through another season!"

I wonder who got Harry to read this book. Was it in school? A parent? I'll never know, but I think it's great that that it captured his interest.

My post is a little different from previous posts. I have a tendency to look at things critically, but I sincerely don't intend to sound negative at all; I hope that it's not taken that way. I just think that the original purpose of this exercise was to generate discussion, and my inclination is not to just agree with everything in the book.

I have a confession.

I don't know what healthy food is. I know what it's not; Cheetos, those neon orange things that my husband loves. Vegetables are considered healthy, but what if those vegetables are covered in hollandaise sauce? Hollandaise sauce is made with all natural ingredients: 3 egg yolks, 2 sticks of butter and a squirt of lemon, but oh, when those ingredients are emulsified, you have a lush, rich sauce that is pure fat. Put it on asparagus and it's heavenly. But is it healthy? Probably not. I say "probably", because the consensus about what is healthy changes from year to year. It goes in cycles. The media picks up any poorly conducted, biased "study" conducted by the food industry and touts it as fact, and soon everyone believes it. Carbs are bad, protein is good (Atkins). Carbs are good, fat is bad (Pritikin). Then back to Atkins. Then "low glycemic". Who knows? The only concept that has remained uncontroverted is that of calories. Eat too many and you gain weight. Everyone knows that, and yet we still consuming too many. Why? It tastes good! Sometimes a cigar really is a cigar, unless it's one of those chocolate ones...you know, with that crunchy center...mmmm....where was I? But seriously, I think it's because calories are readily available in a way that they never were before. Sugar, in various disguises, is in almost everything that is "processed." Packages are labeled, but in such a way that the calorie level looks much smaller than it is. Who can have just 8 potato chips?

In AVM, Kingsolver discusses the fact that processed food is cheap, intimating that this is why people buy it. I disagree in part. I'm sure money is part of it, but I think that a huge factor is that it's fast and easy. I am lucky to be self employed. I also don't have children. I can take the time to go to the grocery store every day and choose what to make for dinner that evening. I don't need to buy a box of macaroni with powdered cheese; I can buy a variety of cheeses, go home and grate them, make a white sauce, cook the macaroni and saute breadcrumbs for the top. But most people don't have that luxury. They work long, hard hours, have to pick up the kids from daycare, help with homework, do laundry, clean house, get them ready for tomorrow's school and, of course, make dinner. No wonder they choose fast food!

I think that the other reason people buy processed food is because they are genetically programmed to consume the highest calorie food available. If you offer a child one item that has sugar and one that does not, he will take the one with sugar. A secret of chefs in the best restaurants is that they emulsify butter with a tiny amount of water to make buerre monte, and then submerge foods such as steak, vegetables, and lobster in it just before serving. Why? Try and you'll see (but buerre monte requires practice).

People buy high calorie foods even though they know it's not good for them. From an evolutionary perspective, the craving for calories makes sense; it would sustain people through periods of famine. Of course, most of us no longer have famine. Our genetic evolution has not caught up with our present reality of caloric abundance and the consequence is the increase in food related illnesses. (And yes, I know that some people will say they don't crave calories; maybe you're genetically superior!) We know these diseases are caused by an over-consumption of calories. The problem is that we are trying to overcome a biological compulsion with logic and a moral imperative. This is not impossible.

Look how many of you are vegetarians. People can and do change where they buy and how they eat. But they need some motivation. It needs to be easy. And it can be easy. If the goal is to get the majority of people to buy local, then the local farmers do not have the luxury of saying "this information does not fit in a five-syllable jingle" or "The best they can hope for is a marketing tactic known as friendship." Why is that the best they can hope for? Why not hope for widespread education? Why not hope that oh, say, a chef from England would come over to try to improve the school lunch programs in a town - and that his efforts would be made into a TV show?

This chapter is called "growing trust". Kingsolver says "Corporate growers, if their only motive is profit, will find ways to follow the letter of the organic regulations while violating their sprit." I agree; my only question is why she would use the word "if".

She goes on to say that by its nature, locally grown food is trustworthy - that it is transparency and farmers showing up at a community gathering place every week. I agree that this creates trust from the people who go to the farmer's markets, but is merely showing up sufficient to increase the number of people who jump onto the locavore bandwagon? It's fine for us to have this discussion, but what about the rest of the world? Whether you call it advertising or outreach or education, more people need to become aware that buying local is an option, and it does not need to be burdensome or expensive - children love to go to farmer's markets. They are entertaining and they are free. There are even free samples! Local farmers need more customers. Trust is good, but it does not exist in a vacuum.

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THE LOCAL, SEASONAL, SUSTAINABLE, TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--PART 8

2010-04-14T18:17:00.000-07:00

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(These notes and the commentaries that follow are a Facebook project based on Barbara Kingsolver's book "ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE A Year of Food Life." Each week a project member writes a response based on one chapter of the book. Together we read and talk our way through a year in the life of Kingsolver and her family. This response was authored by SUSAN JORDAN and is prompted by Chapter Seven, "Gratitude.")

“GRATITUDE”

Susan Jordan and Friends

If you’re following along with the Animal, Vegetable, Miracle project, you know this chapter (with the title “Gratitude”) takes place around the month of May. It begins with Mother’s Day being celebrated in an interesting and traditional way--by bringing tomato plants to friends and neighbors . In this neck of America’s woods, you’re not supposed to actually say ‘thank you’ when you receive this gift, lest you should fly in the Face of God and cause the tomato plants to wither and die on the vine. Instead, folks thank each other by saying, “Oh, well, goodness”, then, “Well, look at that.” Everyone knows what it really means anyway--even the author, once she’d been properly chastised a few times by the locals to never actually utter the words ‘thank you’ for the gift of a plant.

May is the month they set out their tomatoes (14 varieties), all of them heirlooms with colorful, exotic, beautiful and even funny names (like the round, juicy and voluptuous ‘Dolly Partons’). After the tomatoes came a virtual laundry list of other vegetables being set out, one after another. May kept the family busy, as May is prone to do with people who live close to the land. That May was the author’s 50th birthday too. The family had an invitation list of 150 people – family, friends, and neighbors old and new, and many of them (30?) planning to stay the weekend for the party. HOW would they feed all these people with only locally-grown food AND make it a celebration instead of an oppression and a punishment? If you’ve already read it, you know they not only managed to do it, but did it in a way that brought out all their ingenuity, inventiveness and creativity. It also made them even better friends and neighbors, and dug them even deeper into their commitment to go local. They HUSTLED for that birthday party, which turned out (to me, at least) to be downright legendary.

What struck me most about this chapter is how, when giving their word to themselves and to each other to live (and party!) completely ‘locally-produced’, it COULD have felt like a terrible mistake or penalty, but it didn’t. They threw their hats over the fence by promising, and it turned out great! They learned what else was out there in their adopted community; they got even more inventive, and their love and friendships deepened. Just by promising to live locally!

This made me wonder (especially since I practically felt PRESENT at that birthday party myself)--what could I do as an individual to have even a little ‘morsel’ of a life like this? What could any of us do, to have that? I don’t mean this question hypothetically, either--I mean for it to be answered in a concrete way. Not necessarily a giant, earth-quaking way, just . . . what little things can I do to bring sustainability to the earth (and therefore to my life, my friends’ and neighbors’ lives, and to the lives of small-scale farmers)? I can start buying organic again, and more of it. I did that today, actually. It felt good--like it used to feel when I followed this ‘way’ many, many years ago in my youth.

Susan's "Youthful" Lettuce Patch at Cal Poly

I am moving soon to a rather small-scale town, where I’ll be able to walk just about everywhere. So I’m going to do just that. I don’t need to take my car everywhere. I’ll admit I’ve gotten lazy about that, but this is one more small thing I can do.

More importantly, what do you think YOU can do? What are you willing to start with, I mean? I ask it not as an accusation and not as an empty question meant only to sound good, but as A REAL QUESTION.

I know about five small things I can start with to move in the direction of sustainability--things I’m absolutely willing to do. Can you think of about five yourself?

What did you think during this chapter?

And what are you willing to start with, however ‘small’?

Just wondering.

Truly.

Love & Great Tomatoes,

Susan

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RUNNING LIGHT WITH THE TARAHUMARA

2010-04-11T17:25:00.000-07:00

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Easy, Light, Smooth, and Fast

Tarahumara Arnulfo Quimare and American Scott Jurek in the climactic ultra race described in Chris MacDougall's Born to Run.

I’ve never run with the Tarahumara. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a living Tarahumara, but you never know. As they say, “Indians are everywhere.” But I’d sure like to run with these people, the greatest ultra-distance runners on the earth, not that I’d last very long, because, for the best of them, hundred mile lopes through rugged mountains are casual day trips.

The Tarahumara live in the Copper Canyon wilderness of Northern Mexico. They are a reserved people who stay just about as far away from Western Civilization as they can manage. From early childhood they run. Boys, girls, men, women, they all run astonishing distances seemingly without training, preparation, special diets, or expensive equipment. They rarely run outside of their homeland, and they don’t seek records, fame, or money. They run for the love of running.

The running prowess of these Indians popped up in my awareness from time to time as a kind of mildly interesting trivia, but I didn’t take a hard look at them until I read Chris MacDougall’s best seller Born To Run. The central character in his book is an American known among the Tarahumara as Caballo Blanco, the White Horse, formerly known as Micah True.

Caballo Blanco, who has lived among the Tarahumara, gave the author, Chris MacDougall lessons in running the Indian way. One of those lessons stuck in me like a burr, and I’ve been working with it recently.

Here’s the quote from Born To Run:

“Think Easy, Light, Smooth, and Fast. You start with easy, because if that’s all you get, that’s not so bad. Then work on light. Make it effortless, like you don’t give a shit how high the hill is or how far you’ve got to go.”

You don’t give a shit how high is the hill or how far you've got to go.

You don’t care how far you've already run or how tired you are.

You don’t care about your pains or your shoes.

You don’t care about your run tomorrow or if you'll ever run again.

You don't care.

I’m talking here about the ancient practice of letting go of worry, of detachment from the responsibility to worry about stuff. Letting those concerns just slip and fall away while you run.

You run down the trail through the forest, along the canyon wall, along the seashore or the river. You start up a long uphill climb. You say to yourself, “I don’t care how high is this hill or how long it’s going to take to run up it.” If you need to, you say it again, you say it again. Soon, you believe it. Soon you really don’t care. You. Don’t. Care.

You just run.

I’m a beginner at this Tarahumara way of running. My success at running “light” is sporadic, and I find myself slipping back into “worry,” but the trance-like periods of lightness are coming easier, coming sooner and lasting longer.

Thirty years of dedicated running, much of it goal-oriented. Races, paces, mileage, trail mastery, that sort of thing. I’ve run a bit over 23,000 miles toward a goal of running 25,000 miles, the circumference of the earth, by the time I’m 65 years old, so I’ve got about two and a half years to lay down those 2Gs.

I suppose I’ll carry on with that project, but I have a new idea, a Tarahumara idea. After I achieve that 25,000 mile goal, I’m going to take off my watch and never wear it again while I run. I’m going to stop recording my mileage. I’m going to see if immersing myself in the Tarahumara way can take me to higher and higher levels of awareness. That should be interesting, don’t you think?

THE LOCAL, SEASONAL, SUSTAINABLE, TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--PART SEVEN

2010-04-08T14:57:00.001-07:00

THE BIRDS AND THE BEES

I have always had a deep love for animals.

Growing up we had more than the acceptable number of pets for a suburban family. At various times we had birds, lizards, rats, fish, and of course dogs and cats. Our pets were always multiple and I can't imagine growing up any other way.

When I was in 7th grade my brothers and I joined 4-H. We choose to participate in the poultry project since we could raise the animals in our back yard. We raised bantam game birds and one psycho drake duck who was affectionately known as Norman Bates. When I went on to high school, I was still interested in animals so I joined FFA (Future Farmers of America), not a club choice of the "popular kids" but I didn't care. I could raise animals and get school credit for riding horses. During my time in FFA, I raised market hogs, lambs, chickens, and one beef steer. I can honestly say I have eaten an animal that I raised and it tasted good. I rose up the ranks in FFA and eventually earned my State Farmer Degree.

I was a pretty hard core carnivore until the fateful day that my brother introduced me to a book called "A Diet For A New America" by John Robbins. This book introduced me to the horrors of factory farms (CAFO's) and the injustices to the animals who are raised in them. I became a vegetarian. That was 20 years ago. I have never preached vegetarianism or tried to "convert" others. If someone asks why I am vegetarian I am always happy to explain. I have chosen to raise my daughter as a vegetarian and we talk very openly and honestly about where meat comes from. She is 4 now and I have told her it is her decision whether or not she wants to try meat when it is offered to her.

I appreciate the Kingsolver's consciousness with regard to the slaughter of animals that they have raised. They do not appear to take this decision lightly. The animals are raised in the best possible environment until they meet their demise (of which we are thankfully spared the details).

I have often thought about raising animals for food as I once did. I live on a farm, I certainly have the room. Could I kill and eat a creature that I raised?

I have to say my answer would be no.

I don't know what changed in me over the years, but I know I don't have the heart to look an animal in the eyes and say "you are going to die so I can eat." I do not judge anyone who eats meat, nor do I think it is morally wrong. It's just not right for me.

This book has ignited a spark of excitement in me about food, however. I am trying to be mindful in my food choices. I am cooking at home more (some successes, some failures) and enjoying doing so. We are shopping more often and making use of the local produce as much as possible. I have no excuse not to, I live in an agricultural community smack dab in the middle of the "Salad Bowl" of America.

We have a few feral hens that live here on the farm, and we recently set out some nest boxes to see if we could get them to lay in a place where we could find the eggs. That plan worked and we have been enjoying fresh eggs almost daily.

Our next project is to build a little hen house. My daughter has requested some hens that can be "hers to pet" and that aren't "so wild."

Now . . . if anyone has any bright (and non-toxic) ideas about eradicating squirrels and gophers, I would love to get a garden planted! My 7 dogs are no more willing to kill than I am, apparently!

p.s I haven't read ahead to find out but I sure hope Lily gets her horse!

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THE LOCAL. SEASONAL. SUSTAINABLE, TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--Part Six

2010-04-03T01:42:00.000-07:00

The Molly Moochers V2.

I could start this thread with an argument about a substitute for tobacco. Marijuana helped ease my son’s loss of appetite, his nausea, his glaucoma for years, as he fought and eventually lost his battle with primary-progressive Multiple Sclerosis (I have been and always will be an advocate for its legalization). We in Alaska are fortunate to have legalized medical marijuana as well as a constitutionally-protected right to possess up to 4 ounces for personal use. Although tobacco is a large part of this chapter, I don’t believe that is meant to be its message.

Shortly after the dawn of humanity, our forebears hunted and gathered food for survival. They taught succeeding generations as they learned new and better methods. They found shelter; they banded together and their cooperative efforts allowed them more successes and they settled in places where food was more easily gathered. They built more permanent shelters, for themselves as well as for the storage of their foodstuffs. Agriculture sprung from these beginnings, as did communal living, and eventually village, towns, cities. Pastoral peoples no longer wandered as they once had, and before long it became necessary to form rudimentary armies to guard their stored harvests from outsiders who would take it from them. We’ve come a long way, baby. Or have we?

In our headlong rush towards the future, have we forgotten how to hunt, how to gather? In mid-February, when you take that package of Romaine lettuce home and rinse the dirt off, do you wonder where that dirt came from? Is it from California? Texas? Or is it from Ecuador, maybe even as far away as Australia? And how much of that dirt actually got onto your hands? From its seeds to our salad plates, how much effort did any of us exert for that produce? How many of us know how to plant vegetables, fruits; or to hunt; or to gather? How many of us had this knowledge passed to us from previous generations? I would submit that the number is small, very small.

Since the Industrial Revolution, we “civilized” Americans have forgotten how to be in touch with our foods. What is now passed down to us from our predecessors is how to save money when buying canned tomatoes, or why it makes more sense to buy in bulk from Costco than to pick thru the bell peppers at the locally-owned grocery or – heaven forbid! – go to a farmer’s market. It appears that we are headed down a path to destruction; a path that we ourselves have not only built, but that we are following willingly.

But, fear not! There is a silver lining to the cloud. I see it here in our own “tribe” as we discuss Kingsolver’s book; I see it in my home community in Southeast Alaska. There, I see the elders of the Tlingit, Haida and Tsimshian Indians teaching the younger generations the ancient languages and the ancient traditions of hunting and gathering the foods which for generations have sustained their cultures. In Alaska, there are separate laws for gathering foods for subsistence as opposed to harvesting for commercial or sport uses.

I live on the waterfront in Juneau, Alaska. The tide goes in and out in front of my living room window twice a day. In mid-February, about fifteen years ago, in the pitch black evening, I saw two lanterns on the beach during an extremely low tide. The temperature was in single digits and I became concerned for the well-being of the persons who were out there. I looked thru my binoculars and, to my dismay, a very young boy was holding one of the lights. He also held a five-gallon bucket. I swept my gaze slightly to the left and discovered that the other lantern was sitting on the ground and that its owner was using a garden rake to dig up cockles from the rocky beach. I watched for the better part of an hour, and eventually realized that the adult was teaching the youngster how to gather food! Last year, again in a frigid and pitch black February evening, I saw three generations digging cockles. (Dare I say “it warmed my cockles”?)

The older of my two granddaughters believes that bananas come “from the store”.

Katelyn and Grandpa Mike

She also loves to eat coconut sorbet, which also comes “from the store”. Her younger sister loves to make jack-o-lanterns, and, in her mind, the pumpkins, too, come “from the store”. Imagine their awe and excitement upon learning differently, although to see it first hand they had to travel far from Alaska.

Could this kid possibly be cuter? (Editor note)

We humans are a strong lot. We’ve been around for quite a while. We can turn this tide; step back from our wasteful ways and learn to be more sensitive of our Mother Earth. She can provide and will do so as long as we allow her to be fertile and to help us along our paths.
Help a child to plant some seeds and to nurture the life that comes forth and bears edible rewards.

Teach that child to harvest, whether it be hunting or gathering or planting, weeding and picking.

GrandMary and Sydney

Play it forward; the rewards are boundless.
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THE LOCAL, SEASONAL, SUSTAINABLE, TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--SURPRISE

2010-03-30T17:32:00.000-07:00

Sam Means and Michael Fleischhauer both wrote on ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE Chapter 5, “The Molly Moochers.” Don’t worry, we’ll get to Mike’s elegant Chapter 5 post (with cool photos!) in a couple of days. But what about sad, neglected Chapter 4, and even Chapter 3, rather glossed over in our thread? What about those worthy Kingsolverian efforts? Well, the old professor just can’t let two significant chapters slide by without appropriate attention. Hence, with Chapter 3 as our first subject, fellow tribe members, get ready for a little . . .

Pop Quiz

1. T.S. Eliot wrote that “April is the cruelest month.” What point is Kingsolver trying to make by opening Chapter 3 with this quote?

2. If you want reliable, year-in-year-out, plant ‘em once and forget about ‘em, early spring “Surprises” leaping forth from the earth to delight you, what could you plant?

3. What are the benefits of planting heirloom varieties of fruits and vegetables?

4. Why are hybrid seeds more profitable than heirloom seeds?

5. What is a terminator gene? (lots of pun and wise crack possibilities with this one, huh?)

6. What are the four major “breeding” goals of industrially-created supermarket vegetables and fruits?

7. T or F Modern U.S, consumers get to taste less than 1% of the vegetable varieties that were grown here a century ago.

8. T or F In Peru, the original home of potatoes, Andean farmers once grew some four thousand varieties of potatoes.

9. T or F Now, even in the areas of Peru least affected by the modern market, only a few dozen varieties of potatoes are grown.

10. T or F Three quarters of all human food now comes from just eight species, with the field quickly narrowing down to genetically modified corn, soy, and canola.

11. T or F In 1981 about 5,000 varieties of vegetables were available in seed catalogues. In 1998, the number was down to 600.

12. Six companies—Monsanto, Syngenta, DuPont, Mitsui, Aventis, and Dow—now control 98% of the world’s ________________________. (fill in the blank)

13. Why did Monsanto sue (and win!) Canadian farmer Percy Schmeiser?

14. The most common genetic modifications in U.S. corn, soy, cotton, and canola do one of two things. What are they?

15. Monsanto allocates $10 million dollars a year to hunt down and prosecute what kind of notorious North American criminal?

16. Our national food addiction to two crops have made us the fattest people who have ever lived. What are those two crops?

17. T or F The diversity of food crops is again on the rise in the United States.

18. What is the goal of Slow Food International?

19. Why are multivitamins and food supplements not a long term substitute for eating a variety of fresh foods?

20. Which of Camille Kingsolver’s recipes, Eggs in a Nest or Spinach Lasagna, are you going to cook first this Spring? You must, of course, render a full report to the tribe.

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THE ROB PRENTICE GOOF

2010-03-23T16:48:00.000-07:00

THE ROBERT PRENTICE MEMORIAL DEAD TREE AND PISSOIRE SPRING GOOF

You are invited to join Bob Jenkins and Maggie Hollinbeck on Saturday April 10th to visit the ghost of our departed friend at his secret clearing in Grass Valley, California.

After Robert died, four of us found a place in the Empire Mines State Park and planted a tree in Rob’s memory. We called the tree, Rob’s Redbud. We also planted Weird Tokens of Dire Portent and goofed around. The following year, bears tore up the tree. From his bachelor pad in the afterlife, Rob must have guffawed at that. The Weird Tokens are still there, somewhere, and the clearing still carries a Prentice vibe, I kid you not. At least once a month, I visit that place, share a wise crack with Rob, and take a pee. Here’s the cool part: a fresh, young incense cedar is now growing where we planted that first tree.

The four original goofballs were Maggie Hollinbeck, Stacy Stafford, Andrew Kerr, and Bob Jenkins.

The schedule will be something like this, and you can join us at any point during the day.

12:00 Eating Locally (a short class taught by Bob at the Century 21 office)
1:00 Eating Locally (a repeat of the same class--about 15 minutes long)
2:30 Depart for the Secret Clearing
3:00 Celebration with Rob
3:30 Hike or run at Empire Mines, Grass Valley
6:00 Dinner
8:00 “Snow Falling on Cedars” at the Nevada Theatre in Nevada City

“Snow Falling on Cedars” by David Guterson features original goofball and SJSU Theatre Alum ANDREW KERR who promises he will know his lines by April 10. It is, after all, closing night. Tickets cost $20 in advance and $25 at the door. I have reserved 6 tickets. Maggie, her Friend, CJ and I will take four of them, so there are two more available at $20 for the first Friends of Rob who get in touch with me. There are still other tickets available, and you can reserve them yourself at http://www.brownpapertickets.com/ or get in touch with me through a Facebook message and I’ll help you out.

Maggie and Friend will be staying over on Saturday night at my house. You are welcome to crash with us at Lake of the Pines if we have some advance notice. There might be extra beds available or sofas or sleeping bags on the floor. Just let me know. We’ll get up on Sunday morning and cook a big communal breakfast.

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THE LOCAL, SEASONAL, SUSTAINABLE TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--PART FIVE

2010-03-23T15:54:00.001-07:00

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(These notes and the commentaries that follow are a Facebook project based on Barbara Kingsolver's book "ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE A Year of Food Life." Each week a project member writes a response based on one chapter of the book. Together we read and talk our way through a year in the life of Kingsolver and her family. This response was authored by Sam Means and is prompted by Chapter Five, "Molly Mooching.")

Re-Connections

Hello all!

As a man who strives to respect Nature as much as I can, it is refreshing to read a book that champions communion with the land and environment. This communion is a reality that can be accomplished by any of us. We see how the big farming corporations have put the farmer on a "pedestal," so through our low-attention-span apathy, it seems an unattainable realty. Yet, with each page, we see that not only is it an attainable goal, but that through the journey, one's soul grows and flourishes along side the life one grows and fosters.

I think that it is our disconnection with the land, and with the Circle of Life, that has withered our souls and personalities, like the plants that line the highway, choking in car fumes. Around me, I constantly see people running around with deep self-encompassed concern painted on their face. No smile, or even eye contact, passes between us, as if even the slightest token of energy may send their fragile reality into a tailspin. It is as if their inner being is a dry, sun-starved vine, scraping to the sky for a drop of loving sunlight, without care or notice of the symbiotic life all around them.

I theorize that it's this examination of our connection to Nature that is the basis behind the ideal of "Southern hospitality." The southern United States was (I can't say much about today) predominantly farmers and people that lived and worked directly with the land and growing life. This symbiotic connection, and gratitude, for the environment that fosters this communion truly influenced us as humans--much as we say we can influence plants by singing or talking to them. It's not a long leap to see that communion reflected in the way humans treated each other, not just in simple pleasantries, but in truly caring and helping each other through the sharing resources and fruits of labor.

Connection with the land also bleeds into the food we eat. As examined in "Like Water for Chocolate", love, but more importantly, energy is exchanged into the food we prepare, which has proven to enrich us more and even taste significantly better. This connection is lost in our manufactured foods and genetically engineered food sources.

Having said that, I'll focus on Part 5 of Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: Molly Moochers.

We see a wonderful connection to the land in how every spot on the Kingslover Farm was named by some aspect of connection, connection that had been passed down through generations, thereby strengthening the bonds between these generations. When it fell upon the Kingslovers, who were not the original land owners, to assume the stewardship of the farm, these traditions were so alive, that the Kingsolvers too adopted the generations-old area names for the various nooks and crannies of their new land. Through this intimate relationship, they became "in-tune" enough to gather the delicious secrets of their land, especially the mushrooms, that if not correctly identified, could kill a person. Through these connections, they became in tune with their own balance in relation to their land, and began to understand the intricate schedule of when to plant and harvest, a knowledge lost to many of us who can go to the grocery store and consume anything from any harvest period or any environment. Hell, some of us are so disconnected that some call fish or chicken a vegetable.

I know that living the ideal lifestyle of the Kingslovers is a stretch, but I think if there's anything we can take from this book, it is to re-connect ourselves more consciously to the food we consume. Even if we are too poor to purchase organic or free range meals at most times, we should make an effort to research and purchase the types of foods that are indigenous to the land around us in their proper season. We should make an extra effort to cook our food and give it attention in preparation, instead of falling into microwaveable alternatives. It takes a little longer, but any worthwhile relationship does.

I propose that even in these seemingly small efforts, we will make strides in re-establishing the connection we have with Mother Nature, which will reflect in out behavior towards each other! Thank you so much for letting me be a part of this experiment with you all!

Sam

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CONVERSATIONS WITH MY FARMER

2010-03-20T17:24:00.000-07:00

Riverhill Farm

Getting ready to teach a couple of classes called “Eating Locally.” It would be a fine idea to drop in on my farmers and see if I could pick up a few ideas, and maybe a free vegetable. Alan Haight and Jo McProud are the owners of Riverhill Farm, the CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) where I have been a member/shareholder for the past three years. They invited me to sit around their kitchen table for conversation and a cup of tea sweetened with honey from the hives behind the bunkhouse. These hives are actually owned by Randy Oliver. Alan and Joe provide him with a location for his apiary, and he gives them fresh wild honey. Symbiosis. Yum.

I told Allen and Jo the points I was going to make in my class.

Talk to farmers
Join a CSA
Buy as many groceries as you can from nearby farmers markets and food co-ops
Shop at grocery stores that buy local produce and that advertise where their food comes from
Plant your own garden, even if it’s one tomato plant in a barrel
When you dine out, favor restaurants that buy local produce
Join local food organizations so you can keep track of the food production and opportunities in your area
Stand tall and protect your local farmers when their enemies threaten them

As you probably suspect, they agreed with these points and helped me refine my ideas with their hard-earned wisdom. I asked them two questions that I thought might come up in my class:

“Eating locally sounds like a good idea, but isn’t it more expensive than shopping at Safeway?”

Jo responded with these remarks:

“We’re not trying to save the world. We’re business people making a living in a competitive market. Our weekly food boxes cost our members $27 compared to the same food in the same amount from a grocery store that cost $35. Last year we were selling vine-ripened heirloom tomatoes for $1.25 per pound compared to the same product in the stores at $4.99 per pound. Even though we know we are growing something really special, we have to face the economic realities of a free market. Have you tasted the difference between what we grow and what you buy from t the big chain stores?"

Indeed I have.

Riverhill Farm intern and Jo McProud

I asked my second question, “Farmers markets and CSAs make sense during the growing season, but what do your customers eat from November to June? What do they do after the last Riverhill Farm box is gone?”

Alan’s reply:

“They go back to the grocery store. As the winter and spring eating drags on, they start looking forward to the next season of fresh local produce. That makes it really special.”

Alan Haight

Our talk covered a lot of ground. I know a bit about eating locally in south Nevada County, but they are the real deal, the foundation of our local food production. It’s an honor for me to know them and to have the privilege of supporting their important work.
Farmers like Allen and Jo influence people’s lives and the quality of community life in many ways that most of us don’t realize. They provide free food to the local food bank and low-cost food to low-income families. They bring school children out to the farm to learn about the origin and value of food. They provide the very best stewardship of the land.

Through your farmers you come to identify with your community, your home town, as a place that grows your food, a place that is capable of supporting you.

Talk to your farmers.

(Oh yes, I did get the free vegetable, a bag of winter carrots right out of the ground. Gonna stop now and get dinner ready: fresh asparagus, sweet potatoes, local cheese, Truckee bread, California strawberries in cream, and the CARROTS! Wish you were all here to share it.)

http://www.riverhillfarm.com/

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SPENCEVILLE DOGS

2010-03-18T00:56:00.000-07:00

Spenceville Dogs

Spenceville Wildlife Refuge is a divine expanse of golden-haired hills where ancient oaks erupt like massive mushrooms. The Refuge is adjacent to Beale Air Force Base in the lower Sierra foothills. I like to run there, but only when I’m nearby on business, because the Refuge takes some getting to, and I feel guilty spending so much gasoline driving all the way out Waldo Road, my jump off point. Not guilty enough, however, to prevent me from enjoying, a few times each year, its grace and beauty.

If you want to run the Spenceville trails, you have to know when to go. At dangerous times of the year, the Refuge is intensely hunted. Deer, turkey, water fowl, and pigs. During the Fall it sounds like Omaha Beach on D Day. Better you should go running there when it calms down in the Spring. The paintball crowd also likes to stage their own brand of mayhem out among the oaks. They’re kind of lazy, and kind of drunk, so they mostly stay within a mile of their vehicles. I am through their war zone in less than 10 minutes. They hide their smirks from me, and I don’t let them see how I roll my eyes at them. Then, paintballers eat my dust, the Refuge is all mine.

Well, it’s mine and the cows. There are a gazillion free-range, pasture grazed, grass-fed cows wandering around everywhere. I think the local ranchers traded trail easements for grazing rights throughout the preserve. It seems to work. The cows ignore me even when I say nice things to them.

Today I parked out at the end of Waldo Road, by the old bridge, and began my run about four o’clock. It had been one of those irksome, arrhythmic work days, and, baby, I wanted some time alone. Solitude, quietude, and anonymity; three of the attributes I need for a contented life.

Solitude, quietude, and anonymity.

There were two other cars parked near the bridge, but I soon intercepted both parties on their way back in. The second group, a young couple, were chaperoned by a dignified short-haired pointer. We were happy to make each other’s acquaintance, me and the dog, I mean. Very polite he was. Maybe I should get a short-haired pointer? Just a thought. Leaving the dog and his people behind, I turned on the afterburner and began to feel the buzz that rises in me when I know I am finally running alone and in the wilderness. The Refuge belonged to me, to me alone. Oh yes, and the cows. Lots and lots of cows.

After a mile along the service road that winds through the hills, I turned through a cattle gate and entered an area of sun-lit, cattle-daubed pastures. Another mile, and I followed the path as it broke left and wandered upward into scrub forest and rock outcroppings. Before too long, I could hear the distant roar of the Falls. On maps they are usually labeled “Feather Falls,” but the old timers still call them “Fairy Falls,” and they are referring to the little forest spirit fairies, not some other kind. The Falls, by any name, are one of the secret treasures of the Sierra Foothills. They ain’t Moseoatunya, the Smoke That Thunders, but they’re still dramatic enough to catch you by surprise.

Fairy Falls is one of my favorite places on this earth.

At the bottom of the Falls is a gorgeous deep pool, just the right size for cooling off in the summer. Both Falls and pool are fenced, so you really oughtn’t climb the fence, but if you should happen to climb the fence, and I’m not suggesting this, you would then face a rather dicey climb down the rocks, and you probably oughtn’t try that either, but if you did, just saying, if you did, and it was a hot day in July, you might find some weathered old runner down there skinny dipping. You have been warned.

Continuing along the path above the Falls, you will come to a place where you can cross the creek. You’ll recognize the crossing by the remnants of steel cables that still swoop from one embankment to another. Now, you have to make a decision. You can turn around and go back the same way you came, a round trip run of about six and a half miles, mostly down hill on the return, or you can take your shoes off, sling them around your neck and wade across the creek. When the water is high and fast in the Spring, try not to slip. If you do reach the other side, put your shoes back on, take a breath and attack the forty-five degree upslope right in front of you. Yes, it does look like something out of a movie. Mount Suribachi on Iwo Jima, perhaps. If you do make it to the top, you can run around for a while until you get hopelessly lost. So, unless you take me along to show you the twists and turns to loop back to the bridge, you could be in for a long, thirsty afternoon. Maybe you should exercise the first option, and just return the way you came. Capiche?

That’s what I did today, chickened out, turned around, and headed back the way I came. Oh, don’t give me any attitude. That section of trail across the creek is tough. Someday I’ll take you out there, and we’ll see just what happens to your attitude.

When I ran down and out of the scrub and rocks, I discovered that the cows had deserted the pastures. I could hear them for a while, faintly in the distance, giving udderance to their sundown moos. (Udderance, c’mon wake up!) Now, it became profoundly silent. Even my footfall on the soft dirt trail was muted. Glorious, late sunshine still warmed the open pastures, crisscrossed with indigo gullies that foreshadowed the evening’s arrival.

There! There in a patch of sunlight, I saw him watching me.

Old Man Coyote.

About a hundred feet away, he stood, getting along in years, but still fell and fearless. Handsome old devil. He turned his back on me and trotted off, but just a few steps. He had a thought. You could almost see that thought as he stopped and cocked his head. He turned around, facing me, and sat down on his haunches, watching. This was his place, and he wasn’t planning to skedaddle for the like of me.

I kept running, watching him, watching me. The curve of my path took me closer to him, but I didn’t stop.

“Buenos Dias, Senor Coyote.”

He didn’t move, not a blink.

I was now as close to him as my path was going to take me, passing right in front of him.

“Ey, Ese! Que paso!”

Nothing.

For some reason still unknown to me, I began to play the idiot. I jumped and bounced my way down the path, yipping and barking in my best Coyotese.

Nada.

I tried a few howls.

“I am your brother the WOOOOOOOOLLLLLF!”

That got me one twitch, of one ear. Only one. Other than that twitch, he was frozen, watching me make a fool of myself. I was laughing now, laughing aloud. The distance between us slowly increased, the path reached a clump of brush, I turned a corner, and then, he was gone from sight, never having moved. He had held his ground.

I loved him for that. Loved him beyond expression in words.

A few more minutes of delirious running and I was back to the truck. Running into that coyote was the coolest thing that happened to me all week. Probably it doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, just two old dogs sniffing each other, out in the Spenceville Wildlife Refuge.

THE LOCAL, SEASONAL, SUSTAINABLE, TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--PART 4

2010-03-12T13:00:00.000-08:00

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(These notes and the commentaries that follow are a Facebook project based on Barbara Kingsolver's book "ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE A Year of Food Life." Each week a project member writes a response based on one chapter of the book. Together we read and talk our way through a year in the life of Kingsolver and her family. This response was authored by Lezlie Antoncich and is prompted by Chapter Three, "Spring Forward.")

Chapter 3--Hierloom Seeds

Ahhhh, Spring!

In my younger days I picked co-op veggies and then canned tomatoes with a baby in my backpack and my two-year old son coloring at the kitchen table. Overseas we took all 5 kids out to glean apples and almonds left from the harvest--for free. I had no way of preserving them, so Eat Lots/Eat fast and share-share-share!

Lezlie Antoncich and her brood gleaning almonds near Tiberias, Israel

Lezlie with her Isreali "sabra look" thinking about apple fritters, apple pancakes, apple pie, apple butter, applethauthe.

By the time we returned from Israel and #6 was born, I had fallen captive to "convenience & discount packaging." We had been warned about the "spirit of busy-ness" that had engulfed America. Now we were held hostage to it. Help . . .

For a moment, let's focus on the "Indestructable Fruits & Veggies." What a sad breed! In our pampered life styles, we have unknowingly asked for it's creation. Mega-businesses have herded us like animals to slaughter thru the blinders and gates of "Time-Saving." They successfully control how we grow and what we eat. Sadly, the menu is un-fulfilling and grossly lacking in all attributes. Today's dog and cat food have more flavor and nutritional value than most processed foods for people. In our lack of taking the time "because we are too busy with life" we have surrendered our heritage of farming and gardening to the Agribusiness Monster, who is all too happy to take over. We spend more time carting our kids to events than teaching them the arts of cooking. I am guilty as well.

But there is a break in the clouds . . . Spring thaw is here . . . Wake up Time . . . a movement is underfoot and rising! People are tired of few choices and cardboard flavors. Seed Saver's Exchange and others like you, people with real food to share, and the knowledge of that real food. . . . We Welcome You! A global interest is picking up speed.

Precious seeds are handed down thru generations, like folklore, protected from corporate genocide. A new breed of dealers is trading these precious commodities worth more than gold - in pursuit of survival. A black market for a green world?

For our own good we need to slow down and take back the rewards that come with fresh chemically-free, locally grown food wherever and whenever we can. We are 21st century creatures with a global palate, living in overgrown cities. Change isn't easy, and guilt isn't necessary. This is no longer the Garden of Eden, but there's plenty we can do to change the sad ending . . .

one seed at a time.

THE LOCAL SEASONAL SUSTAINABLE TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--PART THREE

2010-03-07T16:23:00.000-08:00

Waiting for Alys: Confessions of a Procrastinator

Loving the idea of this project and among the first to jump on board, I wanted to get it right. That said, it still took some time to get my hands on this book. No drama: just the day-to-day life of a busy, Facebook-loving mom.

Alys's Mac

Fascinated by the concept and in love with the writing style and author’s turn of phrase, I was delighted with my assignment of "Waiting for Asparagus." My earliest years and meals were in Ontario, Canada with the requisite long cold winters and the culinary influences of a British father and Nova Scotia-raised Mom.

Asparagus?

Never heard of it. I was a young adult before it first crossed my plate, and I wasn’t the least bit impressed. Luckily for me I gave it a second chance.

I love the discovery in this book: both mine and the Kingsolver Clan. Learning the cultivation ritual of a vegetable I’ve come to enjoy seems a mini-miracle in the making. I’ve embarked on my own personal food journey this year, so this book is synchronistic with my own health-improving goals. Changing our long-held behaviors around food is among the more challenging because they are so deeply seated in our youth.

The line that Lily would “already be lobbying the loopholes” resonated to my core. I know what I should do, but the inner give-it-to-me-now frequently won sway. Hershey’s with almonds are a good source of protein, right?

My earliest food foundation was a solid one. Our father was a horticulturist. He worked on a tea plantation in Darjeeling India before the war, later moving to Canada where my parents owned a pair of flower shops. He lovingly cultivated an amazing garden in our own back yard, short growing season and all, and filled it with cherry tomatoes that moved from garden to dinner plate in short order. What a delight it was to be sent out back by our mom to gather food for our meal. I inherited my own green thumb and love of gardening from those early days.

So how, you may wonder, did I drop and roll so far from the tree? Our family moved to the US in 1966, and by 1969 my father was dead, victim to the cancerous crop known as tobacco. My mother went to work full time, with three young girls at home to fend for themselves. It was around the same time when “TV dinners” had come into fashion. Mom was impressed with the idea that her daughters could have a hot meal in her absence, but with limited cooking or use of the hot stove and her fear of one of us getting burned; convenience food at its finest. Strapped for funds she scraped together the cash for our Friday night treat: a can of coke from Safeway and a bag of chips or nuts shared among the four of us. Both rituals were loving ones: gathering fresh garden tomatoes from our vast garden and slurping high fructose corn syrup from a can in our ratty little two bedroom apartment.

"Waiting for Asparagus" is a bit of a metaphor in my own personal journey. I wonder what all gentle readers of Animal, Vegetable, Miracle are discovering along the way?

Mac's Carrots

THE LOCAL SEASONAL SUSTAINABLE TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--PART TWO

2010-03-04T00:34:00.000-08:00

Interlude

Before we settle in with Barbara, Steven, Camille, and Lily on their Virginia farm, I wanted to highlight a couple of threads in Chapter One “Called Home.” To streamline this and future discussions, I’ll call them the “Kingsolvers” or the Kingsolver Clan. Giving a deep bow of respect to hubby, Steven Hopp, it’s Barbara Kingsolver who is the principal voice (and force) of this story.

Nervous rats, the Kingsolvers scurried down the ropes of their (literally) sinking ship, Tucson, Arizona, and fled toward the green hills of Appalachia. Like the other great desert cities of America (Salt lake, Vegas, Santa Fe, Albuquerque and so on), Tucson was (and is) surviving on “borrowed” water and food trucked in from far away. The billions of gallons of water used by these “urban space stations” can never be replenished by a few inches of annual rainfall.

Are these cities viable, or perhaps the question could be asked, how long can these cities remain viable, sucking up a nearly exhausted aquifer with one straw and foreign fossil fuels with another? And that question leads to a deeper question, a question so terrible that no one wants to look at it straight in the face. For how long will any of our major metropolitan centers be sustainable?

Sustainability, a most complex and slippery topic, wafts its way through our book. “Localism” and “seasonality” are difficult constructs, but they are much safer to approach than “sustainability” with its highly charged political and social currents. You can get zapped telling people that their city and lifestyle, plans, dreams, and hopes are not sustainable.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is about good food and good family. It’s about poking a stick in the eye of the megalithic, corporate food marketers. It’s about growing your own, and loving your neighbors, and learning how to live close to the land and the food that grows on it. And it poses, ultimately, this provocative question: can sustainability itself be sustained? Maybe we’ll come back to this at the end of the book.

If food production studies, agricultural awareness, commodity subsidies and other downer topics like these are unfamiliar to you, Chapter One provides a quick orientation, but don’t fret, “Coming Home” is also full of hope, courage, and Kingsolver’s drop-dead funny imagery.

“The tall, dehydrated saguaros stood around all teetery and sucked-in like prickly supermodels.”

OK. I’ve stalled long enough. By now all you tribal players, you rowdy rogues and fallen women, should have your book. Be ready for the next “prompt,” Chapter Two, “Waiting for Asparagus” to be written by . . .

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GRACE NOTES AT SCHOOL CROSSWALKS

2010-03-01T14:50:00.000-08:00

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Old-timey yellow school bus bumps to a halt ahead of me, flashing red lights, stop sign swinging out. Shit! Stuck behind this thing all the way up Lakeshore. How many stops is that? Four? Double shit! Door opens. Driver gets out with her red hand-held sign, taking her time. Doesn’t she know I’m in a HURRY?

Deep breath.

Little girl with big pink backpack is the first to climb down. Wearing a tiara of some kind, Fairy Queen Day at Cottage Hill Elementary? Giggling and chirping with the other fairies. More small fry get off the bus. There’s the obligatory red-headed twerp with a zillion freckles, every neighborhood has to have one of those kids. Probably a hellion.

Young moms are clustered at the corner, chatting and waiting. Damn, they are all so pretty. One of the moms has brought a puppy. Kid sees puppy, puppy sees kid, puppy licks kid. Everyone is laughing. Momma bears hugging their cubs.

The driver, standing in the middle of the street with her sign, gives stern looks to those of us in our idling machines. When she catches my gaze, I wink. She ignores me. With every loose kidlet safely across, the driver swings back into her rattletrap conveyance. The flashing lights are extinguished, the red stop sign creaks back to its resting place on the side of the bus. Good job, sign, mission accomplished.

I realize I am grinning, wall to wall. I’ve relaxed, breathing easier now.

How many bus stops on Lakeshore before my turn off? At least four. Is that all? Well, if I have to wait at these aggravating stops, I plan to enjoy every one of them.

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THE LOCAL SEASONAL SUSTAINABLE TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT--PART ONE

2010-02-28T22:13:00.000-08:00

Angie Kahler's Response

Chapter One--Called Home

(These notes and the commentaries that follow are a Facebook project based on Barbara Kingsolver's book "ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE A Year of Food Life." Each week a project member writes a response or prompt based on one chapter of the book. Together we read and talk our way through a year in the life of Kingsolver and her family. The first response is authored by Angie Kahler and sent to us from her home in rural Australia. Angie, born in the United States, has dual American/Australian citizenship.)

What interested me (a historian-in-training) in ‘Called Home’ was thinking about our nation’s transition from rural to urban and the loss of knowledge from one generation to the next, resulting in an ignorance- even disdain – that allows the health problems and environmental problems that have run amuck in the American (and increasingly globalised) system. How do we prioritise time and spaces for learning from our elders, or at least learning old knowledge? How do we elevate old knowledge to a level where it influences our choices and is not merely nostalgia or anachronism? How that ignorance and our lack of a deep (other than deep-dish) ‘food culture’ has manifested in such low standards is also intriguing. How did we let it get so BAD?

Living abroad, I often meet potential travellers leery of visiting the US for fear of food quality. Sometimes, on their return, they report that the food wasn’t as bad as they had expected, but all remark on the heavy amount of cheese in restaurant meals, the fact that it is ORANGE (Australia’s cheeses are white), and the abysmal coffee.

Kingsolver points to nations with strong ‘food cultures’ – Italy, Japan, Thailand, etc. The problems are there too – when I lived in Japan a decade ago, society was concerned by rising rates of childhood obesity – but not as bad or as rapid as in the US. In Japan, as in other Asian nations “Gosh, you’re fat!” was still only as impolite as “Hey, you’re blonde!” a statement of obvious fact. For Tibetans, “You’ve put on some weight!” is a compliment – you must be doing well if you’ve had plenty to eat since last we met, and you’ve not been worked to the bone.

America’s fat poor are unique in a hungry world, and it’s those gruesome, sneaky additives, the tax-subsidized “commodity-crops” pushing soy and corn into us in unrecognisable forms. This is scary and infuriating, but I feel I need to know more before I get on a soapbox. Lookout, Washington, I’m reading up.

I am over-prompting, and yet I’ve skipped that whole, main point of oil consumption… somebody wanna pick it up?

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THE LOCAL SEASONAL SUSTAINABLE TRIBAL FOOD PROJECT

2010-02-21T19:09:00.000-08:00

The Local Seasonal Sustainable Tribal Food Project

Your comments on my Facebook post “Could you eat locally for one year?” indicate that there may be genuine interest in this question among our sprawling, unruly tribe of Facebook friends. I have in mind a project lasting about 3 months so that a rowdy group of us can play with this idea.

Barbara Kingsolver, the noted writer, and her family attempted to live out the challenge posed by our question. Packing up the car and leaving their home in the Southwest, Kingsolver, her partner and their two daughters moved to a run-down farm in Virginia. For one year the family lived only on food that could be grown or raised within a hundred miles. (Yes, each family member was allowed to choose one favorite food that could be imported from a further distance!) The month-to-month failures and successes of the family experiment were recorded in her delightful book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.

The book is divided into Monthly chapters and includes technical commentary by Kingsolver’s partner, Steve Hopp, and recipes by her elder daughter, Camille. (One evening a couple of years ago I prepared dinner for CJ and her book club using only Camille’s recipes and locally grown organic food. Did I score serious hubby-points or what?)

Here’s the “game” I propose:

Get your hands on the book by March 1st, 2010. You can get a used copy for about $4.

We’ll read a chapter a week.

Each week a different one of us (I’ll set up a calendar) will write the main prompt and send it to me. I’ll publish this weekly prompt in my blog and tag everybody so the prompt doesn’t get lost in the Facebook daily deluge. The prompt can be a question, opinion, whatever you want.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle was one of the most personal books I read in the past five years. It’s light, breezy reading. Overwhelming issues such as sustainability, organic farming, vegetarianism, and making cheese (not cutting it!) are brought down to the intimate, often hilarious, level of a family struggling to find yet another way to cook squash. The Kingsolver year of local survival was tough and demanding and courageous and delicious.

I suspect that many of you have already read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (as I have). It feels good to me to go back for a closer look. If you haven’t read it, you are in for a treat. Kingsolver writes with intelligence and humanity.

http://www.animalvegetablemiracle.com/

So, do you wanna play? Let me know in your comment to this Note or in a private message if you prefer.

You in?

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SOLAR PANELS AND WELL PUMPS

2010-02-16T18:03:00.000-08:00

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Our most usable energy is the conversion of sunlight into calories through photosynthesis by plants. This transformation of energy approaches true sustainability (it’s not, but it’s very, very close). Can we also capture and use solar energy through a sustainable technology over the long haul (forever) and without reliance on fossil fuel inputs, that is, without petroleum?

One solar panel drives a pump that brings drinking water up from a deep well. Take it from one who knows about these things, we are having to drill deeper and deeper wells, and the only way to get the water up is with an electric pump. Once the solar-powered system is working, the water is practically free and does not rely on petrochemicals. It leaves no carbon footprint. It is about as safe, environmentally friendly, and sustainable as you can make a system for retrieving deep water.

Until the solar panels wear out.

A good panel may last twenty or twenty five years, maybe longer, though they begin to degrade as soon as they’re installed. Doesn’t everything? Every human generation, then, is going to have to replace its solar panels. Where do the panels come from, most of them?

China.

How do we get solar panels from a factory in China to our home or farm? On a boat or a plane or a truck or some combination, all powered by petroleum, dragging along a huge carbon contrail. If we are going to have solar panels in a post-petroleum world, we are going to have to learn how to manufacture them locally. Can you imagine a world in which the “panel maker” is as important to the community as the blacksmith or the doctor?

If solar panel fabrication can be localized, other possibilities for the future open up, because electricity can be used for lots of swell things besides driving well pumps.

Well pumps?

Well pumps wear out even faster than solar panels. With luck and decent water (not too much iron and other minerals), we might get twenty years out of a pump, though most of them are rated for ten to twelve years. For a generation or two we might be able to repair pumps with parts from other pumps. Then what? Do we have to manufacture well pumps locally? Yes.

I am trying to get my head around the idea that there will be no trucks on the freeways delivering the stuff we need. None. No trucks at all. When will that happen? When will the trucks stop rolling for good? Sometime this century.

Trucks and petroleum.

We usually think about trucks blasting down the interstate consuming vast amounts of petroleum fuel. But that’s a tiny part of the story. Think deeper. The truck is also using petrochemicals as engine oil, brake fluid, lubrication and other direct applications. Acknowledge the fossil fuels in the tires, the plastics, the synthetics. How about the steel? The steel? With what kind of energy is the steel mined, transported, forged, transported again, processed, fabricated, transported again, assembled, and transported again. More fossil fuels. It ain’t just the gas in the tank. It’s everything.

Every damn thing.

Our world floats on an evaporating reservoir of petroleum. When it dries up at last, finally, completely, zilch, kaput, sometime in this century, what the fuck are our kids and grandkids going to do? This question even our most noble leaders can not face. Obama plays Nero, fiddling with Congress while Rome burns.

Only a few, the poets, philosophers and lumbermen, have the guts to look down the line, way, way down the line, five hundred years, a thousand years, ten thousand years, and make plans. Ten thousand years! Can we still be here in ten thousand years?

OK. Let me get back to our grandkids. If they are going to have safe water to drink, light to read by (Light bulbs! Shit, forgot about light bulbs.), and the other swell uses of electricity, we are going to have to learn how to manufacture well pumps and solar panels locally.

Locally.

(Poets and lumbermen. Lumbermen?)

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INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART SEVEN

2010-02-13T16:04:00.000-08:00

Gunny

Cunningham. Gunnery Sergeant, USMC. I don’t remember, or I never knew, his first name, but Erwin or Walter, or something like that is stuck in my mind. If I featured him as a character in the film of my memory, I’d cast a big man, James Gandolfini, Tony Soprano, in the role. I’ll tell Gandolfini he has to lose 50 pounds and transform himself into a lean, mean, fighting slab of quick-twitch muscle if he wants to be my Gunny.

Cunningham was the original and, until my arrival, the only member of the newly-formed Delta Battery, 3rd LAAM (Light Anti Aircraft Missile) Battalion. My orders were to report to Delta Battery, my first duty assignment, at MCAS (Marine Corps Air Station) Cherry point, North Carolina. I arrived at the main gate and gave over my orders. The OD (Officer on Duty) made a phone call and told me to cool my heels. In a few minutes a jeep roared up, screeched angrily to a halt. Can jeeps screech angrily? This one did. The jeep’s only occupant sat there for a minute shaking his head and muttering to himself, then swung out of the driver’s seat and looked around.

I got a first look at the man who would become my private tormentor. Cunningham was a spit and polish Marine, every inch of his 6’2” frame shined and glittered. The creases in his uniform were so sharp you could shave with them. There were enough colorful campaign ribbons on his blouse to make a tropical salad. His eyes were piggy and mean, his face pock-marked and scarred from some childhood malady. He was terrifying.

His eyes landed on me. His jaw jutted out as he scowled. And from that moment, all of Cunningham’s elegant malice was concentrated on me. There was nothing about me, absolutely nothing, that Cunningham liked, not my hair cut, my uniform, my college boy vocabulary, or my face. He was Old Corps Infantry, transferred unwillingly to the Air Wing. He hated everything about his re-assignment, particularly me, Jenkins, Private (not even PFC Private First Class), lowest of the low.

His first words of greeting:

“Looking at you makes me want to puke. If I had to be around you for more than a day, I’d shoot myself in the head. But don't worry, Private Shitpie, I’ve got big plans for you.”

That’s how, the next day, I found myself on mess duty for one interminable, miserable month, a tour of frustration that climaxed when I dumped a full pan of hot pork-chops-in-gravy across the legs of four high-ranking BAMs (women Marines) who declared, for all to hear, that they would have my balls nailed to the door of the mass hall. Well, I still have them, my balls I mean, so somebody must have interceded on my behalf. Certainly not Cunningham. He would have watched the castration and cheered.

As the other members of Delta Battery began to arrive, I hoped Cunningham’s gaze would move along to some new sacrificial sap. Not a chance. Cunningham still had his “prize pupil” to pick on. Me. Every disgusting detail, arduous, spine-cracking, footsore humping, motherfucking, pissant crap job landed on yours truly.

Cunningham reserved his Special Jenkins Show for the PRT, the Marine Corps Physical Readiness Test, the highlight of which was Jenkins’ Fireman Carry. Step right up and pay your nickel, you won’t want to miss this.

Strolling to the other end of the field, Gunny would wail:

“Jenkins, Oh Jenkins, stinking shitpie, your beloved Gunnery Sergeant is sorely wounded. Would you be so kind as to come and save his beautiful Marine Corps body from grievous harm?”

He would then drop to the ground in a slow motion, melodramatic display, clutching his chest and screaming. The other men would laugh. Gunny was just SO funny. When he was picking on someone else.

I would race down the field where Cunningham was sprawled on his stomach, chewing a piece of grass, “grievous wounded,” and I would attempt to hoist him up on my shoulders and race back down the “battlefield” to deliver him into the loving care of the medics.

Or try. I weighed about 170 pounds. Like I inferred, Gunny was a big man, probably 225 pounds. He was also floppy (goddamn you Cunningham) dead weight which is the heaviest weight there is. The correct Fireman Carry technique is to roll the “wounded” on to his back, grab him by the front of his shirt, and smoothly lift him up and across your shoulders, get him balanced, and then run like hell. Or waddle. Or stagger. But, YOU WILL NOT LEAVE HIM BEHIND.

I pulled Cunningham up to his waist.

“Oh, oh it hurts.”

I got him up to his knees, him melting and limp.

“Save me, Jenkins, I don’t want to die.”

I squatted and wrapped my arms around his chest, we were cheek to cheek.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

I stood up, hugging him, his knees were buckling. Now I had most of his weight. What now?

“Are you going to carry me or fuck me?”

I tried to get under him, my right arm between his legs, but I lost control and he flopped back onto the ground.

“You’re killing me? Why is Jenkins trying to kill his Good ol’ Gunny?

I tried again and again and again, getting tired and more tired, exhausted. I could not get him on my shoulders. I was bent over, hands on my knees, panting. Gunny got up and bellowed at me.

“You fail, Jenkins! You fail the fucking PRT! You will take it again tomorrow and every day after that for the rest of your fucking life until you pass it!”

“Yes, Gunny, but . . .”

“You have something useful to say?”

“I passed the PRT in boot camp.”

“How the fuck did you do that?”

“The guy I had to carry was my own size.”

“Oh, well then, that explains everything. I am so sorry I ever doubted you.”

(Shit. Me and my big mouth.)

“You are saying that everything will be A-OK as long as the other Marines are just your size, but if some Marine bigger than you gets hurt, you will just leave him on the fucking ground? YOU WILL LEAVE THAT MARINE BEHIND?”

(What can you say to that?)

“I’ll do better next time, Gunny.”

He gave me a look of utter distain, and turned to the other men.

“Tomorrow, Jenkins here, and these other three shitpies will take the PRT all over again, while you . . . real Marines will stand at attention in this beautiful North Carolina sunshine until they get it right. Dismissed.”

“Except you, Jenkins, I’m not through with you.”

The rest of the Battery walked away shooting me dirty looks. Cunningham turned to me.

“Come here.”

I followed him back down the field.

“There’s a technique to the Fireman Carry that you got to get down if you have to lift somebody a lot bigger than you are. Lay down.”

I got down on the ground.

(What the hell was he doing?)

“Pull your man up to the waist. You did that part fine. Then, get him up to the knees. OK, so far, but that’s where you lost it. He’s nothing but floppy meat, he’s going to sag at the waist, and he’s not going to stay upright while you get ready for the next step. Understand?”

“Yes, Gunny.”

“So, first, your feet can’t be spread apart parallel to you shoulders, they have to be angled with your strong leg slightly in front, and in between his feet.”

He demonstrated.

“Now here’s the secret. You can take a second to rest after you pull him up to his waist, take a deep breath, and then you CAN NOT STOP AGAIN until he his across your shoulders. You pull him up, you squat low, you twist your strong side into him, get your shoulder under his center of gravity, and push up with your strong leg, ALL IN ONE MOTION. If you hesitate, you will lose him.”

Gunny squatted down over me, jerked me up to sitting position, then pulled me up to the knees and kept going. In a second I was across his shoulders, my upper torso and head hanging down behind him.”

“Take a moment to bounce him into balance.”

He bounced me.

“Get your Marine to safety.”

He ran a few steps, then dumped me, hard, on to the ground.

“Now, you do it.”

I tried. I tried. I was getting him a little higher, but I was also getting tired and frazzled.

“This time, I’m going to help you a little bit with my legs, so you can get a feel for it.”

I tried again. I could feel him give a last little shove off with his legs, just a tad, but enough for me to get him up and over my shoulders. Whew.

“OK, you got the feeling. Do it again. This time, no help. DO NOT HESITATE!”

Suck it up, Marine. He got on the ground. I pulled him up to the waist. Squatted low. Took a deep breath (OK you sonofabitch), ducked down, twisted, pushed up with my legs, and smoothly he was across my shoulders. I bounced him into balance and took off running.

“That’s enough. Put me down.”

I shrugged him off my shoulder and dropped him on his back. Not a sound. Not a smile. Not a word of encouragement or congratulations.

“Dismissed.”

The next morning Gunny ordered me and the other three failures out to formation 30 minutes early.

“Private Jenkins will teach you fuckwads the correct technique for the Fireman Carry. You better not screw it up.”

For a half hour I taught the tricks and secrets of the Fireman Carry, and by the time the rest of the Battery formed up, the Sad Sack Trio were prepared. Gunny announced that we losers were going to forego the early elements of the PRT and go directly to the Fireman Carry.

“Delta Battery, TEN HUT!” (Attention!)

The men snapped to attention.

“At Ease!”

The Marines relaxed but stayed in position in formation. Gunny must have got laid last night, he was in a “kindly” mood, or else he wanted the men to be able to watch and enjoy the show.

We four “performers” paired up. One rescuer, one wounded. The rescuer picked up the wounded, delivered him across the field, then switched roles, and the same pair executed the carry and run back across the field. All four of us were successful, we had passed the PRT. Thank God, that’s over.

No, it’s not.

Gunny trotted down the field, way down the field.

“Jenkins, Oh Jenkins, your beloved Gunnery Sergeant is hurt and bleeding.”

(Please, dear Lord, let it be true, bleed to death.)

“If it’s not too much trouble, would you run down here and save my sweet young self?”

Now I was pissed. I ran down that field, jerked him to his waist, then ducked, twisted, lifted, bounced, and ran back toward the men of Delta Battery with Cunningham on my shoulder. When I got back to the formation, I didn’t stop, I ran right through the formation, Cunningham bouncing up and down. Let me tell you that performing the Fireman Carry is tough, but being the wounded man banging around on that carnival ride is no fun either. Cunningham didn’t make a sound. He could have pushed himself off my shoulder at any time, but he endured the punishment as I ran beyond the parade deck, across the street to the unit barracks, to a little patch of grass, where I finally stopped, and dropped him on his ass.

The Marines whistled and cheered. Gunny didn’t even look at me. He just walked back to his place in front of the formation and took control. I knew I was probably going to be in some kind of fix for the “extra effort” I put in to my little demonstration. But I didn’t get in trouble. In fact, a few days later I got my promotion to PFC, and, glory, glory, Cunningham found new recruits to torture.

A year later, you can imagine my unease finding myself, once again, the NFG, this time in actual combat. I had arrived, early and unexpected, at Bravo battery, Chu Lai, Viet Nam, to find waiting for me, once again, Cunningham. Last night, at the E Club he gave me that nasty smirk.

What was Gunny up to this time?

At morning formation, my first formation in my new unit, I was mildly hung over, but looked more or less presentable, thanks to the generosity my hooch mates. Cunningham slammed out of headquarters hooch. A squad leader yelled, “Ten Hut!”

Gunny was adorned in a T-Shirt, cut-offs, combat boots, his salty, weathered fatigue cap, and a stub of a cigar clenched in his teeth.

He spoke about the soiled reputation of the unit and how he was going to clean us up or kill us. He announced that we were going to devote the first two hours of this sweltering, humid, steaming day in beautiful Chu Lai, VET Nam (that’s VET Nam not VIET Nam) to one of our favorite Marine Corps entertainments . . . the Physical Readiness Test.

Oh, Sweet Jesus. I knew what was coming.

We worked through the early events, the push ups, pull ups, and sit ups. Now for the moment we’ve all been waiting for, you got it, the Fireman Carry. I already knew the script, so I just waited in the rear of the formation until everybody else had their turn. Cunningham walked down to the far end of the encampment.

“Jenkins!”

“I’m coming, Gunny”

I ran down to him and stood over him.

“Are you wounded, Gunny?”

“Grievous.”

“Would you like my assistance?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much inconvenience.”

“Not at all.”

I hoisted him up into the Carry in one clean motion, settled his balance, and ran back down to the men. I rolled him carefully, precisely, to his feet in the exact spot where he gave orders in front of the formation. Again, he didn’t look at me or say a word.

“Get your weapons, and fall out for the run.”

At that time, the standard rifle for the Marine Corps was the M-14, a beautiful, reliable, and robust piece of ordinance. If you ever ran out of ammunition, you could beat somebody to death with it. But you really don’t want to run long distances with the M-14, long distances such as the 3 mile Physical Readiness Test run, under the tropical sun.

We formed up, rifles across our chests, and launched the PRT run, the entire battery, about one hundred Marines, in step, down the red dust road, out the gate, and into VET Nam.

“I don’t know but I’ve been told”

“I DON’T KNOW BUT I’VE BEEN TOLD.”

“Russian pussy is mighty cold.”

“RUSSIAN PUSSY IS MIGHTY COLD.”

Everybody we passed looked at us like we were out of our minds, running, chanting, with rifles, in the heat and dust. But you know what? It was fun, really a kick in the pants, the raw sound of a Marine unit running, two hundred boots, slamming down in perfect unison. It always gave me a thrill, and it still does.

We finished our run and returned to the camp, our rifles filthy, ourselves, golems of red dirt and sweat, each of us about two swaggering inches taller.

Gunny wasn’t quite through.

“We are ordered to provide one Marine for a temporary assignment to Vietnamese language school at Camp Sukiran. They want someone who still has a full tour in front of him, and they want a volunteer. Jenkins!”

“Gunny?”

“You’re going to volunteer for this assignment.”

“But Gunny . . .”

“Did you hear what I said, you are going to FUCKINGVOLUNTEER! The rest of you, take what’s left of the morning to clean up. After chow, report to your section leaders at thirteen hundred hours (1 o’clock in the afternoon). Sergeant, dismiss the men.”

“DISMISSED!”

I followed Gunny back to his hooch.

“You got something on your mind?”

“Gunny, what the fuck is going on? I just got here yesterday. I haven’t even unpacked or washed my clothes. Why are you still on my ass? Why are you sending me away?”

He looked at me for a moment, figuring how to respond.

“For the next month, maybe more, this place is going to be crawling with every JAG investigator, every Colonel’s flunky, for all I know the God Almighty IG (Inspector General) himself. You don’t want to be caught up in this pile of vomit, and some how, Jenkins, you will manage to get the stink of this fragging thing on you. I know you. Your big mouth always leads you into the exact middle of every shit storm that blows in. But, you don’t need this. You don’t deserve to be a part of it. I’m putting you out of sight where you may, I say “may,” be able to keep your nose clean. And if you do keep your head down and stay out of sight, I’ll have use for you when you get back. You get me?”

“I guess so.”

(sigh)

“How long is the assignment?”

“Five or six weeks.”

“Where is the school?”

“Okinawa.”

“OKINAWA! I just left Okinawa a few days ago. I hate Okinawa.”

“Oh, Boo Hoo. Need a hankie?”

(sigh)

“When do I leave?”

“This afternoon. Get your gear together. See Crisp for your orders. He’ll take you to the strip to get your flight.”

(deep breath)

“Aye, Aye, Gunny.”

As I walked back to my hooch to clean up and pack, it started coming together. I had completely misinterpreted Gunny’s plan for me, the tough assignments, the glare of his spotlight, the endless ass-busting. I actually was one of his “prize pupils.” Saving my balls from the wrath of the BAMs? The promotion to PFC that followed so closely my triumph with the Fireman Carry? All of it, Gunny! It had to be. Even this morning’s reprise of the Jenkins PRT was Gunny’s way of showing me off in a way that established my credibility with the other Marines.

“Did you see Jenkins snatch that bastard right off his hard ass and trot him back down the hill?”

Now, Gunny was putting me out of harm’s way, protecting me from the stench of the impending investigation. His whole strategy came into focus, it all fit together. I understood something, something I have carried with me for the rest of my life.

You have to be toughest on the ones you love most.

That’s the way it works.

.

INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART SIX

2010-02-02T22:11:00.000-08:00

Jenx

Crisp walked me over to the hooch where I’d be living. He told me to take the unoccupied rack (cot) in the middle, along the back row, the least desirable location as befitting a newly-arrived FNG (you already know what that means). My hooch mates were still at work, so I had the place to myself for a while.

Hooch. These temporary quarters, also called “hardbacks,” had been built for us by the Seabees (Navy Construction Battalions). More like Jarheads than Squids, the Seabees can also fight on foot when necessary, so we Marines respected them. Military lore holds that Seabees, in timed contests, can build a hardback hooch from start-to-done in less than forty minutes. Snappy salute to those guys who can put it together fast and get it right the first time.

Our hardbacks were 16 by 32 feet with raised plywood floors and screen doors at both ends. Plywood walls about waist high provided the rigidity. These solid walls were topped by screen all the way up to the roof plate. The roof itself was a waterproofed (mostly) tent with the sides rolled up and tied so that whatever confused breeze might accidentally wander by could blow right through the screen walls. If it rained hard enough, the tent sides could be rolled down. The brick barracks at Cherry Point alternated between equatorial swelter and tundral permafrost. Let me tell you, Seabee hooches are a lot more comfortable.

The guys in my hooch had decorated their personal spaces with lamps, hooks, end tables, footlockers, closet poles, souvenirs, and posters of women. One Marine had an enormous lizard on a string that watched me unblinkingly from its perch up on a rafter. The hooch had a homey feeling about it. Cool.

As I started unpacking my sea bag a stench wafted upward, rank and fetid, like the gasses that seep out when grave robbers open an ancient tomb. I felt like I was on an archeological dig. “What the hell is this,” I queried, unearthing the first repulsive artifact. “Ah. Primitive humans of the Twentieth Century called these objects . . . socks!”

The guys started drifting in and introduced themselves. I knew a couple of them from Delta Battery. They advised me to get my shit together before the next morning’s formation and then pitched in to help me.

“We have a new Gunny.”

“You do NOT want him on your case.”

One of the Delta Marines added, “Cunningham.”

“Yeah. He already knows I’m here.”

“Shit.”

Another Marine asked, “You know Cunningham?”

“Like Janet Leigh knows Norman Bates.”

It went right over their heads.

“Who’s Janet Leigh?”

“Just a girl I left behind.”

“Well she’s probably already fucking your brother.”

Marines. Always ready with a kind word. But I laughed, acknowledging that he had won this small verbal engagement. The same Marine told me to give him my belt. What? Shrugging, I took off my belt and gave it to him. He procured a can of paint, took my belt outside and sprayed the buckle and tip black. No reflective brass. Right.

One of the benefits of membership in the Corps is the help freely given by your brothers. Everything I owned was either on me or stuffed into my sea bag, wrinkled and filthy, so one guy loaned me a clean T shirt, another guy loaned me an iron so I could get my least dirty pair of trousers into presentable shape. I washed my cover (fatigue cap) by hand, borrowed a cover block (imagine a four-inch length of stovepipe) and starched my cover into the personal style I had artistically evolved back in “the world.” The blocking process required the sheet metal block, spray starch, and several clothes pins, all of which I borrowed. My personal style featured hard, straight sides terminating in a sharp rim that encircled the crown of the cap, creating a small crater on top, a shallow declivity into which a mother sea bird might construct her sturdy nest. Every Marine had his own cover fashion, the goal of which was to make the starched cap as outlandish as possible without forcing one of the officers to call you on it.

I also noticed that most of the Marines possessed sexy, canvas-topped “jungle boots.” I sinfully coveted a pair for myself so that I could launch my style journey from FNG to “salty.” But that would have to wait.

Supply guys are good to know. Every hooch should have it’s own Supply Buddy. Our “procurement specialist” arrived with a blanket, a canteen cup and a few other odds and ends for me to begin building my kit.

In quick time my hooch had me sorted out enough to survive the morning formation without you-know-who embellishing my rear end with a new asshole.

The guys started getting out of their fatigues and into swim suits, flip flops and Hawaiian shirts.

“He can’t go like that,” complained Newcomb, a Motor T ape. Bert Newcomb and I would later collaborate on several enjoyable, if stupid, excursions out in the boonies.

John Boocher, on whom I would eventually hang the nickname, John-The-Baptist-Boocher ordered me to give him my worst pair of trousers. Well, OK. I tossed over a pair of fatigues.

“Nurse Davis, scissors!”

Private Roger-Dale-Davis-from-West-By-God-Virginia moued like Betty Boop and obeyed with a falsetto giggle.”

“Yes, DOCTOR Boocher.”

Taking the scissors like a melodramatic surgeon, Boocher cut the legs off my trousers and proudly presented me with a rather uneven pair of cut-off shorts.

“OK. Let’s hit it!”

“Hit what?”

“The fucking Club, Jenx! The drinking lamp is lit!”

Jenx?

I followed the guys out of the hooch, down a path heading south, around a little hill to a ramshackle open-air shack fondly known as the E Club. Some one (not a Seabee!) had whacked together a bar of sorts and a few benches. Up-ended cable spools served as tables. A few bare light bulbs, assorted posters of women, and a South Vietnamese flag completed the décor. That was it except for . . . the view.

Bravo Battery occupied a point that jutted out into the South China Sea. Stretched out below us was all of Chu Lai, a James Michener wet dream vision of Old Hawaii. Miles, I mean MILES of sandy beach, palm trees, and surf. As I was taking it in, a mellow tropical breeze blew across my face. I took a deep breath. One of my new buddies walked up and handed me a cold (cold!) Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Bravo. Breeze. Beer. Beauty. Buddies. Bobby.

I’m starting to like this war.

The E Club filled up with all the lower-ranking Marines, everyone who was not on duty. One guy showed up with a guitar and began to play (appallingly). We joined in, singing along with the few songs he almost knew. The beer was cheap, but not free, and you could run a tab. The proceeds were designated for club “improvements,” the specific details of which were a closely guarded secret of the Club Committee. We started drinking, seriously drinking, to support the Club improvements, of course. We drank, and sang, and told stories, stories about Nutcase fragging the CO, stories about Cunningham, the baddest of all bad-asses in the Corps, stories about the women we left behind, and the women were going to meet on R and R (Rest and Relaxation) in Hong Kong, or Tai Pei, or Kuala Lumpur, or . . . Bangkok. Bang. . . cock! Just the name, Bangkok, brought a smile to every face.

Eventually the noise died down. We told stories of home. Some of the guys were homesick.

Not me.

I asked the “musician” if I could borrow his guitar. He passed it over. What a piece of shit, a no-name junker from Da Nang or Saigon. It was de-laminating and buzzy. The keys were corroded, but they worked, after a fashion. I was able to tune it, more or less. The strings were so rusty they left brown lines on my fingers. I ran through a couple of fast scales and a few chord progressions. The club was dead quiet. Everyone was starring at the FNG.

Show time.

At Cherry Point I had perfected a couple of recent tunes that the guys seemed to like. I hit the opening chords of “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”

Bump bum . . . ba da bum . . . ba dum bum
Bump bum . . . ba da bum . . . ba dum bum
Bump bum . . . ba da bum . . . ba dum bum
Bump bum . . . ba da bum . . . ba dum bum

I can’t get no . . . o . . . satisfaction . . .

The Club went nuts. Every swinging dick was on his feet or on the benches or on the tables screaming the song at the top his lungs. When the song was finished, after many repeats of the chorus, the Marines yelled and clapped, howled and stomped.

“More! More! More!”

This was 1966, and most of the songs I knew, the ones that could actually be played on a single de-laminating Vietnamese guitar, were folk songs, and that was just fine with these brothers. I plowed through my Peter, Paul, and Mary (Lemon Tree) repertoire, and slid over to The Kingston Trio (Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley) canon. Bob Dylan tunes were a big hit, especially Like a Rolling Stone and Mr. Tambourine Man for which I knew all the lyrics (and still do). I finished the first set with Wake Up Little Susie by the Brothers, the Everly Brothers. You may not know this, but the Everly Brothers were Marines from 1961 to 1963, and they are, as you can imagine, beloved of the Corps.

I had a couple more beers. By this time higher ranking enlisted men, Corporals, Sergeants and above, who had their own quiet little club somewhere else in camp, began to drift in and were welcomed with beers on the house. The great event was the arrival of, you guessed it, Gunny Cunningham who shot me a self-satisified little smirk that only I could see, (What is he up to?)

The guys were begging me for more contemporary stuff. Gunny Cunningham gave me a small public nod of encouragement (what is he up to?). I assayed California Girls, Wooly Booly, Hang on Sloopy, My Girl, and Mrs. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter. It all worked. Another get-up-on-the-table destroyer was We Gotta Get Outta This Place. Can you imagine how loud we screamed that sucker? By this point I was beyond the songs I had mastered, the guitar work was horrible, but nobody cared, and if I couldn’t hack a guitar bridge, we’d just sing it.

We gotta get outta this place
(singing) Ba da da DUM!

If it's the last thing we EVER do
(singing) Ba da da DUM!

More beers.

My finger tips were killing me so I slowed down and dropped us into the depths of melancholy with two of the best tunes by the other Brothers, the Righteous Brothers, Unchained Melody and You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling.

I had reached the point where I could no longer even feel my finger tips. I thought I could squeeze one more out of those rusty strings with a simple first position C, A minor, F and G chording. I chose an oldy-but-goodie, the tune Judy Vance and I most loved for our slow dances at Florida High . . .

Moon River.

Everybody joined in, and we sung that sentimental lullaby so sweetly, with such sincerity. So beautiful. So drunk. When the last chord died away, we sat there together, silently looking out at the stars above an alien sea, so very far away from home.

I won’t speak for anybody else, but I was happier in that moment than . . . well . . . happier than I could ever remember being. I was doing something I thought was noble, in the company of my brothers, in this spectacular place. I had been fully accepted by these Marines and was already one of them. I even had a new nickname, Jenx, and a reputation. They loved me, and I loved them.

Well, maybe not Cunningham. What did he mean with that secret little smirk?

RUNNIN’ GOALS for RUNNIN’ PEEPS.

2010-01-31T15:30:00.001-08:00

Progress Report

Well, gutsy guys and galloping gals (you know who you are), here it is the end of January. How are you progressing with your running goals for 2010? My goal for the first month was 84 miles. I made 78 miles, about one run shy of the mark, close but no medal. My running doppelganger, Kinsey Milhone, that darling girl, made 93 miles, but you know she’s just relentless (bitch). So, 78 run to date, 922 to go. I am going to have to make up some additional miles in February regardless of weather. Oh, yes. Bad weather is MY excuse.

But, back to you.

No, you are not off the hook. How are you doing? If your progress is disappointing, what has been holding you back?

.

RAISING THE STEAKS

2010-01-29T17:06:00.000-08:00

Growing and Eating Sacred Cows

Think about raising your own pasture-fed beef cattle. How could you do it? How much would it cost?

My old Marine Corps comrade, Gary (not his real name), paid a visit last week to “talk story” about our time together in Viet Nam. I asked him how he was making a living, and among several answers he mentioned that he was raising cattle for his own table and for retail at the local farmers markets. Holy shit! His response really got my attention.

Cattle ranching would seem to be an strange match with which to fire up a vegetarian, but I am interested in all things related to sustainable farming, localism, eating seasonally, and organic food production. Though I have no intention in ever eating beef myself, I understand and applaud well-reasoned agriculture based on pasture and ruminant symbiosis. When Gary pitched his story across my plate, I just had to take a swing

I ask him to break it down for me:

$400 Purchase a feeder or stocker calf of good breeding. Nevada County is mostly agricultural so there are plenty of locally raised calves available. You can buy them from a rancher or at the County Fair from the FFA kids.

$315 Rent pasturage from a local rancher at $17.50 a week for 18 weeks. Gary is a stand-off cattleman. He doesn't own the land or breeding stock himself.

$50 Medications, vaccinations and worming, but not the heavy dose of antibiotics or hormones given to CAFO (concentrated animal feeding operations) cows.

$1320 Cattle feed (mostly corn) to “finish” them off. $11 a day for 120 days. Finishing is the process of introducing high-fat content into the meat, or marbling, which satisfies a taste addiction acquired by most beef-eating Americans. Gary, with pride, boasts that he finishes his cows for 120 days while most other boutique cattlemen finish for only 60 days. Whether grass-fed beef needs to be finished at all is a matter of taste. There is a growing movement that lauds 100% grass-fed beef, but that’s not my friend Gary’s goal.

$576 Butcher. Gary quotes $.80 per pound for butchering a 720 pound steer, but winks that he gets it done for less. Looking into this further, I discovered that butcher costs vary wildly, and that butchering in California costs a lot more than butchering in Arkansas (surprise!).

$3000 This is the total cost when we include incidentals like transportation, cold storage, salt and worm licks, and so on. From his 720 pound steer he receives about 600 pounds of beef. Divide yield into total cost:

$5.00 per pound (average)

Even when we consider that some of the cuts may go for more than $5.00 per pound, it is obvious that there is no big money to be made here by us amateur cowpokes.

Could our costs be cut? Sure, especially if we eliminate the “corn finishing” or reduce it drastically, and we also find a butcher (wink) who will do it for, say $.50 per pound. From time to time we can also purchase a calf for less than $400. In his budget “Gary” did not mention the costs of hay (for over-wintering) and other food supplements and concentrates. So, eliminating the intensive “finishing” process, but keeping the other costs the same, and adding about $300 for hay and food supplements, our total cost for 600 pounds of butchered beef could be as low as

$1500

About $2.50 per pound.

Would you pay $2.50 per pound for the healthiest, leanest, safest, most environmentally sensitive, happiest filet mignon you’ve ever eaten? Well, certainly you would (if you eat the sacred filet at all). The point here is that you can not make a lot of money at raising your own beef, but you can feed several people cheaply and safely, rebuild the fertility of the land, quietly sell a little on the off-market, and maybe pay your property taxes with the bit left over.

Quietly sell a little on the off-market? The USDA and other regulatory agencies make it difficult to operate mom-and-pop meat economies, but there are a few small meat packing houses around and there are ways we make obeisance to the USDA rules, policies largely formulated to protect the giant food business, the industrial megalith USDA worships as its own sacred cow.

Or we drive our little herds into outlaw country. We better start remembering how to ride low in the saddle.

Coma ti yi yippee yippee yay, yippee yay
Coma ti yi yippee yippee yYay
Git along little doggie.

.

INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART FIVE

2010-01-25T20:42:00.000-08:00

Fragged

Chu Lai in the afternoon, a benevolent California summerscape, harmonious mountains in the purple distance o’er looked mellow sunburned hills and innocent beaches with waves lined up for cheerful surfers. But, with respect to photographic accuracy, appliqué upon this sultry paradise, a patchwork of olive helicopters, Hueys and Shithooks (Chinooks), a squadron of camouflaged Phantoms so bitchin’ they gave me a hard on, deuce-and-a-half trucks, jeeps scooting around like busy bugs, storage vans, tents, and heaps of mysterious military stuff, all squatting ugly beneath the background roar of diesel generators. Quite a sight.

I grinned.

A Pair of Shithooks Flying Into Chu Lai

Nobody was expecting me. Of course. By now I was used to indifference regarding Lance Corporal Jenkins’ haphazard arrivals. Locating a plywood construction that looked like it might offer useful function, or at least a telephone, I made inquiry about the location of Bravo Battery, Second Light Anti-Aircraft Missile Battalion.

Lance Corporal Pogeybait on duty blinked several times like he was just waking up and blearily acknowledged the existence of my new unit. There was something off-kilter about the way he was acting, but I couldn’t tell what it was, not that I cared.

“Bravo, huh? Point Cluster Fuck just north of the ROKs (Korean Marines).

“How do I find it?”

“Look for the biggest shit storm in Nam,” sneered Pogeybait, “that’s Bravo Battery”.

“OK, whatever you say. Got a telephone?”

“Yeah, but you can’t use it.”

“Why not?”

“Duty phone,” he slurred, “O-fissshal communications only.”

“Then how about you calling Bravo and get me a ride?”

Huffily he replied, “Not authorized to do that.”

I had about a bellyful of this weird asshole.

“Then how about I ‘authorize’ your scrawny chicken neck until it snaps like a pencil?”

“OK, OK, don’t get yourself worked up. Here’s the phone. Knock yourself out, FNG.”

(Fucking New Guy)

“Thanks so very much, REMF”

(Rear Echelon Mother Fucker)

He laughed. Evidently I had established my cool lingo credentials. He reached under the desk and came up with a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

“Wanna beer?”

That’s what it was! The reason for his odd behavior. Lance Corporal Pogeybait was snockered.

“Aren’t you on duty?”

“Yeah, but it’s groovy, man, groovy. Everybody in Chu Lai is drunk.”

“How’s that?”

“Cargo ship came in with the . . . beer. Nothing but beer, beer, beer, stacks of beer, mountains of beer. No food. No ass wipe (toilet paper). Just beer, lots of . . . beer.” He giggled.

“Beer.”

“Yep. Supply tried to keep it under wraps, but there was just about a fuckin’ riot and the Old Man finally said shit let ‘em have it the sooner they drink it the sooner it’s gone. So every swinging dick got CASES of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Wanna beer?”

“Is it cold?”

“Fuck no! How ya gonna cool beer out here? Who cares anyway? Wanna beer?”

“I'll take a pass, don’t want to show up drunk to my new unit.”

He thought that was about the funniest thing he had ever heard.

Switchboard put me through to Bravo. I was expecting another drunk reply, but the Marine who picked up the phone on the first ring was sharp.

“Bravo battery, Lance Corporal Crisp.”

I told him who I was and that I was reporting for duty. I heard him yell.

“Hey Gunny, we expecting Lance Corporal Jenkins?”

I head a familiar voice off in the distance say, “Oh fuck me, Jenkins.”

Shit. Cunningham. Gunny Cunningham. Why did it have to be Cunningham? Shit. Shit. Shit. How the hell could he get here ahead of me? He was still at Cherry Point when I deployed, and I hadn’t wasted any time getting here. In fact, as far as I was concerned, I was at least a week early.

He picked up the phone, “Jenkins?”

I sighed, “It’s me, Gunny?”

“Where the fuck have you been? You’re late. You’re UA (unauthorized absence, the new term for AWOL, absent without leave).”

“En route, Gunny, I got here as fast as I could.”

He snarled to someone, “Give me those orders!” He slammed down the phone.

There was a moment of silence while he read. He picked the phone back up.

“You’re early. You’re a fucking week early. Why are you a week early, Jenkins, can’t you just follow the fucking program?”

This was vintage Cunningham. I was not going to win a point from him, and I had learned a long time ago not to try.

“I’m here, Gunny, can somebody come get me?”

“What am I supposed to do with you for the next week while we sort out this cluster fuck?”

There it was again, the mysterious ‘cluster fuck’ reference.

“Put me to work, Gunny, that’s what I came out here for.”

Every now and then even I was capable of saying the right thing.

Cunningham spoke to someone on his end. “Get your ass over to the pad and pick him up. Jenkins?”

“Yeah, Gunny?”

“You better have your gear wired tight when you get here. I don’t need another fuck up in this already-fucked-up shit pie.”

“Aye Aye, Gunny.”

He paused, “Jenkins,” his tone had changed to something serious and significant.

Uh oh.

“When you get out here, you keep your mouth shut and you don’t ask any of your usual smart-assed questions. You find your rack (bed), get your shit stowed, and stay out of sight until I find you. You got that?”

This was really bizarre. I had picked up that something heavy was going down.

“OK, Gunny, whatever you say.”

He hung up. Wow. Well, at least somebody knew me, even if it was my old nemesis, Cunningham. A short time later, Lance Corporal Crisp picked me up in the Battery jeep. Not just cold sober, he looked like he had stepped away from a stateside uniform inspection, blouse starched, helmet strapped, boots shined, M-14 rifle perfectly cleaned and ready. He made me look and feel like Private Shit the Ragman.

Crisp turned out to be OK, in fact, he had a wicked sense of humor I would come to appreciate.

“Man, oh man, did you ever pick the wrong time to jump into this furball.”

Remembering Cunningham’s admonition, I was guarded. “What furball?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what? That everybody in Chu Lai is drunk on warm beer?”

“Fuck that. You’re not going to believe the shit going down in Bravo.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Nothing much . . . except Corporal Nutcase fragged the CO (commanding officer).

“Fragged the CO?”

“Well, tried to.”

“Fragged the CO!”

“But he fucked it up.”

“Fragged? Like . . . threw a grenade at the CO?”

“Yeah, fucking grenade.”

“OK, “(Whoa!) “Tell me about it.”

“So, the CO, Captain Napoleon, has a hard on for Nutcase who is a supply guy, right? And Nutcase is getting really bent out of shape, I mean he’s really starting to lose it, like he is going off the edge ‘cause he thinks the CO who is, by the way, a crazy asshole himself, and you if you ever see him you should turn invisible if you get what I’m saying, anyway, Nutcase thinks the Napoleon is out to get him and send him to Da Nang for another full tour or some weird shit.”

“OK.”

“Anyway, this goes on. The CO is busting Nutcase’s chops and Nutcase is getting crazier and crazier. Then two weeks ago, somebody takes a dump in the CO’s boots.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Dumps a big loose load in the CO’s boots.”

“Somebody took a shit in his boots?”

“That would be affirmative.”

“How’d they do that?”

“CO puts his boots right out side the door of his hooch so they air out and don’t stink up the hooch. So somebody comes along at night and craps in them.”

“One boot or both boots?”

“Fuck should I know? Wasn’t like they was going to call formation and pass them around, like, “Can anybody identify these turds?”

Like I said, Crisp had a sense of humor.

“They said ‘boots,’ so that’s what I’m saying, boots. Fuck difference it make?”

“OK, some idiot shits in the CO’s boot . . . or boots. What happened?”

“Well, CO knows it’s Nutcase and goes after him, but Nutcase says, “Sir, I did not defecate in your foot ware, Sir.”

“Defecate. Foot ware.”

“Yep. CO screams, ‘Yes, you did, you fucking Kike.’ Did I mention that Nutcase is Jewish?”

"No."

“Yeah, Jewish. So Nutcase does not like that shit one bit. He says, ‘Prove it.’ CO says, ‘I don’t have to prove shit.’ Nutcase says, ‘Yes, Sir, that’s exactly what you have to prove, shit. You have to prove shit. You have to prove that shit came out of my puckered Kike ass hole and dropped into your shiny goddamn Goyim boots.’ Then the CO screams “I’m going to bust you to Private and you’re going to spend the rest of your fucking life in Leavenworth (federal penitentiary). You are restricted to your quarters. Sergeant-at-arms, get this filth out of my sight.”

Crisp, looked over at me, smiled.

“So . . . ?”

“So, that same night, it happened.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“They play Taps (he imitates the evening bugle call) Duh ta duh, Duh ta Duh. Nutcase sneaks up to the O-hooch (Officers’ quarters), opens the screen door and yells ‘Everybody but Napoleon get out!” He pulls the pin on a grenade and tosses it in. Fuck, man, hair, teeth, and eyeballs, the four guys who live in that hooch are diving for the other door. CO is out first and safe, wouldn’t you know? Then Gunner Salty ( Gunner is slang for warrant officer, not to be confused with Gunny which is slang for Gunnery Sergeant) gets out, then the XO (Executive Officer), he gets out, too. Top OldCorps (slang for First Sergeant) is last and not quite out the door when the grenade pops and he catches shrapnel everywhere down his back, legs, ass, head, everywhere.”

“Kill him?”

“No, but he’s pretty chewed up and already trying to deal it into a Purple Heart.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, go Top. So, what happens to Nutcase?”

“He’s got a bunch more grenades and his rifle and maybe some claymores (anti-personnel mines) and some other shit and he climbs on top of the 45 Club (a beer shack for corporals and sergeants) and gets behind the lookout. He’s hunkered down up there where he can see the whole camp and he’s yelling that we’ll never take him alive and that he’ll shoot anyone who comes after him.”

“Fuck me.”

“You got that right. So we all got our heads down and Doc (Navy corpsman/paramedic) patches up Top OldCorps gets him in the jeep and off to Wing hospital, and pretty soon, here comes the CO shouting orders and nobody is listening and Gunner Salty comes over and tells the CO to shut the fuck up. Gunner has steel balls, by the way, and he’s a good guy, and him and Nutcase have not got into each other’s shit, so Gunner just strolls over to the 45 and starts climbing the ladder. Nutcase is yelling ‘I’ll shoot you, I’ll shoot you,” but Gunner ignores him and just gets to the top and squats down and starts talking real low. This goes on for a while so we all pop up and come out to listen but we can’t hear what they’re saying. After a while we hear Nutcase laugh and then Gunner laughs. Gunner yells ‘Somebody bring us a couple of beers and some smokes.’”

“Shit.”

“Then the CO starts yelling at Gunner and Gunner yells “Shut the fuck up . . . Sir.” Then the CO yells some more and Gunner ignores him and we all know who is in charge of Bravo right now and it ain’t the CO. Finally we see Nutcase climb down.”

“Still have his weapon?”

“No. Gunner brings it down with him. They go into Nutcase’s hooch. After a while the MPs show up and take Nutcase away.”

“So what happened to him?”

“No word yet, but all we’ve been doing for two weeks is giving testimony and answering questions and covering our ass. CO vanished the day after the fragging and the XO is supposed to be in charge, but they transferred Gunner over to HQ (headquarters) and Top is out on the Repose (Navy hospital ship).”

“So who is running the show?”

“Cunningham.”

“Gunny Cunningham is running Bravo Battery?”

“Yeah, he showed up about three days ago, and, daddy-o, that man is the real deal. Took him one day to get us squared away. You’ll see how it is.”

“I already know how it is. I spent a year with Cunningham at 3rd LAAM.”

“Fucking A! When the shit comes down, I want that bad assed motherfucker in charge of my young self, Gung Fucking Ho.”

“Everyone feel that way?”

“You bet.”

Well, well, well. CO of Cluster Fuck Battery is fragged, or almost, and Cunningham is the big dog for all these Marines. Not what I expected of my combat mission to Viet Nam.

Down

what

rabbit

hole

did

fall

RAIN GEAR

2010-01-21T23:24:00.000-08:00

.

Start your run in the rain. Avoid getting your feet wet. Dodge puddles. Run on the side of the path that has become a miniature Class II rapid.

But, sooner or later, you will mis-step and come down ankle deep in the creek. The other foot will plunge into a puddle you didn’t see until too late. Your feet are soaked and getting cold. But something wonderful happens; you no longer give a damn.

Splash ahead like some big-tired redneck swamp buggy. Look for “water features” to attack. Yeeee Haaaawwww.

Fierce winds arise and whip the trees. Respond by un-zipping your jacket so you can better feel the storm. Now you are getting soaked through and through. The howling gale makes you mad, quite mad. At the top of your lungs you must, you simply must roar lines from King Lear.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!

Snatch off your ball cap and shake out your hair, and should you happen to have a great mane of red curly hair, it’s quite a sight. Soon your big hair is drenched and flopping around in great loopy ropes.

You wonder why you are not getting cold, but if you really, really rip this run, like a cheetah, feet barely touching the ground, your body will super-heat and effortlessly fight off the chill. So you crank it up into a higher gear, rain gear, and let 'er rip.

Your loyal running companion, the Great Dog, likewise wet and ecstatic, hears your accelerated footfall and picks up her own pace. She looks especially noble today, head held high, soaked and fearless. She is two-toned, the top half sparkling gold, the bottom half, black mud.

The forest is dressed in its stark winter drab, leaves long-fallen from deciduous trees. You can see much further into woodland secrets. There’s an eagle nest in a digger pine. Been past here a hundred times and never seen it before. The mushrooms and fungus are busy with the miraculous work of transforming dead trees into rich topsoil.

Squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish.

Miles disappear beneath squishing shoes.

So soon?

Your tempestuous run has ended.

Back at the truck, open the door, the one away from the road and out of sight. Make yourself a little private dressing room between the door and the body of the truck. Strip off your soggy, cold clothes.

Stand there naked in the downpour; rain hitting your body and dripping off. Take a few steps away from the truck, still naked, and turn your face to the sky.

Let it all fall down on you.

OK, enough. Time to get going. You remembered to bring a towel this time. Briskly dry off. Doesn’t that feel good? If only you had brought dry clothes! Oh, you did. Ha! Snuggle into your warm, dry, scratchy sweats. Ooo la la.

Now for Miss Pooch who has been waiting patiently. Let her jump into the cab of your truck where you, with unprecedented foresight, have laid out her blanket. Using your own towel, dry her off. The towel is damp, but she doesn’t mind, it’s got your smell on it. Bend down to pick up your key, and as your head comes up, she’ll probably give you a huge lick, right across your nose. Slurp. Sputter and complain all you want. She knows you’re just pretending. Grins at you. Gratitude and love, that’s what she knows.

Slide into the drivers seat, turn on the engine, the heater, the wipers, and some rock and roll music. Hey, even the double-cupped coffee is still warm, well, kinda warm. Good enough and better than nothing.

Time now to make elaborate plans.

“Let’s go home.”

“Woof.”

“And get some chow.”

“WOOF!”

Is running in the rain a great party, or what?

.

PARTY ON

2010-01-21T09:07:00.000-08:00

.

My God, last night on Facebook was like an old hippy party. Paul Hood and I drove around from thread to thread in a psychedelic VW van picking up members of the tribe like Maggidevi and Stacey who were just walking along the road and climbed in with their AMAZING IDEAS and their equally amazing ta tas, both of them, and Maggidevi caught me peeking, smiled sweetly and said "In your dreams, Bobba," and then we were bouncing off to some high place overlooking the river where we smoked a bowl of some REALLY GOOD SHIT and then started rapping our asses off regaling each other with some REALLY BIG IDEAS and laughing and crying until even you-know-who crawled up out of her menopausal funk and started giggling while Alys who was just ten feet tall wandered around in the woods chewing on a riddle and then returning with an answer but "not that, Alys, close, just keep trying" when we realized some tribe members were missing-in-action and we went to the edge of the cliff and yelled into the canyon "KELLLYYYYY (kellykellykelly) MARIEEEEEE (mariemariemarie) WHERETHEFUCKAREYOU (areyouareyouareyou) whereupon Susan complained that she actually had to go to WORK tomorrow and we all said "just one more story" and she said "OK" and then when we were just about out of steam along comes Bunny out of the shadows already looped with a bottle of Annie Green Springs and we’re off again. Kinda like that.

.

INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART FOUR

2009-12-26T22:50:00.000-08:00

The Elephant

The supple flesh of her inner thighs. Her delicate firm breasts. The surprisingly coarse feel of her glossy black hair as it cascaded through my hands. How I wish the sensorial glories of my Okinawan paramour remained etched in my memory! But they don’t.

I’m making it all up.

What I do remember is the feeling of her hard little fist between my shoulder blades as she shoved me out her door and onto the pre-dawn streets of the village. She punctuated my ejection with her most sentimental farewell.

“Go away!”

With that soft murmur to comfort my low spirits, haunted by my dreams of Judy Vance, I wandered around lost. After a while Okinawan people began to emerge from their homes. I was able to employ my most useful Japanese phrase:

Takusi-wa doko desuka? (Where is the taxi?)

Following the gestures provided by amused villagers, I stumbled onto a main road and hailed a cab. In a stupor of fatigue and self-pity, I was conveyed back to the main gate at Camp Hansen. The MP (Military Police) on duty greeted me cordially. The conqueror returneth from his all-night victory!

Right.

At the barracks I showered and dressed in my most presentable uniform, which wasn’t saying much. I’d be lucky if some officer didn’t smoke me for my disreputable appearance. I shoved the wrinkled detritus of my few belongings into a sea bag.

Enough wasting time. Let’s get it on.

The transport chief, a gunnery sergeant, listened to my request for immediate passage to Nam. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or pissed off.

“You got another week until you have to report. Relax. Enjoy the last liberty you’re going to get for a year.”

“Gunny, please, get me out of here. I need to get to work.”

“God preserve me from Gung Ho FNGs.”

“FNGs?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

The gunny consulted a couple of clip boards.

“You’re slotted for transport straight through to Chu Lai at zero nine hundred on the twenty third. You sure you don’t want to hang around? You can have a lot of fun on this rock.”

“Gunny, can’t you get me an earlier ticket? I’ll take anything.”

The gunny scribbled something on a piece of paper.

“Davis! Take this war hero over to Kadena. Scramble! His flight leaves in 45 minutes.”

“Thanks, gunny!”

He snorted.

Wheels up. A few bumpy hours over the South China Sea. Crossing the Viet Nam coast line. Below, rice paddies to the horizon, then roads, villages, towns, a big city, Da Nang. The airplane made a steep bank to port and an immediate screaming dive bomber attack on the air base below. Teeth crunching smash into the runway, screaming brakes, heavy G deceleration as all engines reverse. Shuttering stop. Silence. Breathe.

We whistled and cheered. Viet Nam. The NAM. The Real Deal.

Returning vets brag about the nauseating stench and the blast furnace heat that assault you when you greet Da Nang for the first time. Both descriptions are accurate, but I leaned into the heat. Embraced it. It’s supposed to be like this. Yeah!

As for the stench? I closed my eyes and inhaled, giving my full attention to the delectable compounds that swirled through my nose. Fine subtleties of diesel fuel and jet exhaust harmonized with a smoky piquancy of cordite, the pungent nip of chemical toxins, and there . . . just a trace of sewage! From this complex assemblage of malodorous compounds, I began to arrange a fascinating bouquet of exotic stinkage. Then, beyond my smart-assery, the ominous martial fragrances, I detected something remarkable, something just beyond the wire, a foreign, dreamy aroma.

Asia.

Fruity, fishy, earthy, spicy . . . Asia.

I loved it.

You should remember that I was traveling alone, not attached to a unit, just chugging along under my own steam into the theatre of combat. There was no one to tell me what to do, no sergeant barking orders to “get in line over there” or “report to the receiving depot.”

OK, I’m on my own. I figured I should get a look at Viet Nam before someone showed up to take charge of me.

I deplaned and wandered off down the runway toward a handsome formation of peaks that I would learn to call the Marble Mountains.

Marble Mountains

The Da Nang runways are long and it took me quite a while to hike to the end. It was worth the effort. I left behind the sounds or aircraft and generators. I found myself wrapped in solitude. I looked past the concertina barbed wire, beyond a no-man’s land of desecrated red earth, then past fields, paddies, little houses . . . Viet Nam.

I breathed and listened. There! Somewhere behind the Marble Mountains, I heard them. Far away, but unmistakable. Explosions. Our artillery giving it to somebody.

Yes! Deep and menacing, the crash of the Elephant moving through the bush.

The Elephant.

I was here.

At last.

After a while I heard a vehicle racing up behind me, a jeep with a couple of hard-eyed MPs.

“What the flat flying fuck are you doing out here?”

“Just having a look, Corporal.”

“Get your FNG ass into this jeep before someone blows it off, probably Corporal Stoneface (not his real name) here. He ain’t killed a dumbass FNG all week.”

Corporal Stoneface did not crack a smile. He wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were flicking back and forth across the tree line beyond the wire.

“FNG?”

“FUCKING NEW GUY!”

“Oh yes, that would be me. Fucking new guy. Newest, greenest, dumbest, fuckingest new guy you’ll ever meet.”

Corporal Cop relaxed, just a bit. He almost smiled.

“OK, as long as you got that straight.”

As we hurtled back down the runway, the MP began my orientation.

“We’ll drop you off at Receiving. Find your gear, check in and show them your orders. They’ll give you a rack (bed) and help you find a hop (airplane) to Chu Lai. Then you’ll be on your own. While you’re waiting you can go into Da Nang City, but it’s not a good idea right now. Lotta shit going down. Charlie (Viet Cong) slipping in and out. One of our pet Mama-sans (proprietress of a bar or brothel) says NVA officers (North Vietnamese regular army) are setting up something big, maybe tonight. So, take my advice, Lance, stay out of the ville.”

“Roger that, Corp.”

“There’s a slop shute (chow hall), a barber shop, you need a haircut, and a flick (movie). Keep it wired tonight, huh?”

“Rog.”

The other MP, Stoneface, never said a word. His eyes never stopped moving. His hand never left the butt of his forty-five. These MPs were strung tight.

Well-fed, spiffy hair cut by a tiny Viet Namese barber, showered (cold), and feeling squared away in relatively clean clothes, I sought out the Enlisted Club and launched a one-man assault on a formidable line of warm beers. The E-club consisted of a long bar and an expansive deck of picnic tables, mostly open to the sky, with a white-washed plywood movie screen at one end. Very cool. Sit out under the stars, sipping suds with your brethren, watching an old black-and-white movie. I’d like to tell you what the movie was, but you have to remember that I had been traveling for almost a week with too little sleep and too much booze. I was fried. I didn’t make it through the movie. Somehow I found my rack and passed out.

WHAT THE HELL!

That’s what it was like. Hell. The world had turned a demonic red. Sirens were screaming like the tortured souls of the inferno. For a moment I thought I had died and been plunged into the underworld. I jumped off my cot, tripped over something, and fell on my face. Marine warfighter at his most impressive. Men were running everywhere and yelling. I gathered my wits about me, aided by a flood of adrenaline rushing into my chest.

We were under attack.

The crimson hell-light was from dozens of red flares floating down in their parachutes. What should I do? I stuffed my feet into my boots and chased after a squad of armed Marines. I had no rifle, no gear of any kind, not even a helmet. Fortunately I had passed out in my clothes so I was not running around naked through the attack.

I followed the squad, sprinting out to the base perimeter. We tumbled into the trenches of the defensive emplacement. Panting. Big eyes. After a while, a sergeant came down the line.

“Where’s your weapon, Marine?”

“Just came in-country yesterday, Sergeant.”

“You should be hunkered down at Receiving. What are you doing out here?”

“Seemed like a good idea.”

He laughed.

“OK. Keep your eyes open and your head down. If Charlie gets one of us, pick up a weapon and get into the fight.”

“Roger that.”

“You OK, Marine?”

“I’m good, Sergeant, real good.”

He patted me on the shoulder and continued down the line.

We waited.

And waited.

Hours.

After a while I saw movement down the line. One of our patrols was coming in through the wire. I heard passwords and responses exchanged. The Recon guys ambled in to the revetments and immediately lit cigarettes. These men were the stuff. Recon Marines. Experienced, hard core, infantry vets. The professionals. I crowded close, hoping I could inhale some of their bravado.

“Just more bullshit,” a Recon sergeant was explaining to one of the officers, “nothing to it.”

“Fuck me,” yelled one of the staff NCOs, “Alright, Marines, stand down, light ‘em if you got ‘em.”
The Recon guys were chatting amiably, so I sidled up and asked one of them what had happened.

“Who the fuck knows. Some water buff sets off a claymore. Some sleepy rear echelon motherfucker has a wet dream and starts lighting up some pissant gook hooch. Everybody shits their pants and they send us out for a little stroll through Da Nang.”

“How close is Charlie?”

“Charlie? Hey, the NFG wants to know how close is Charlie?”

They laughed.

“Well, Marine, Sir Charles is right over there."

He pointed out into the darkness.

"Sir Charles is everywhere. But Sir Charles does not have the nads to pick a standup fight with the goddamn Marine Corps in the fucking middle of our turf. Sheeeee-it”

“Sheeeee-it” I echoed.

“You’ll be OK, Marine, but . . . “

“Yeah?”

“Get some fucking gear. You look like a goddamn tourist.”

I followed the men back in to headquarters, eventually found my hooch, and dropped down on my rack. Dawn was sliding over the horizon. When was I going to get a full night’s sleep?

Da Nang transport was even more casual than Okinawa. I hung around the air terminal until I could hitch a ride 60 miles south to Chu Lai. I wanted a chopper ride so I could see the sights, but I got a cargo plane. As it was my first ride in a C-130, I decided it would be a minor adventure.

C-130

Sitting alone in the cargo bay along with a full load of helicopter parts, I listened to the engines begin to whine. At the last moment, group of ARVN, South Viet Namese Army soldiers, climbed up the ramp and grabbed hold of the cargo straps. Some of them were still smoking cigarettes. They looked like Boy Scouts, but I was respectful. What did I know anyway? They had seen a lot more action than Lance Corporal Jenkins, FNG.

We rumbled down and down and down the runway. Will this behemoth ever get off the ground? Finally we got lift and slowly, slowly began to climb.

TING TING TING TING TING

Five machine gun rounds pinged into the undercarriage of the plane. Oh shit. We’ve been hit! The big plane banked hard to starboard, engines roaring. We held on to the webbing of our side-facing seats and waited to crash. But the plane kept banking and climbing.

“Are we circling to land back at Da Nang?” I yelled at the ARVN troopers who ignored me.

After a while, one of the Marine flight crew clambered down from the flight deck and made his way over to me.

He yelled, “You OK?”

“Yessir!”

“See any damage?”

“Uh, nossir?”

He looked around, then walked down the cargo bay and back up the other side, climbed the ladder way to the flight deck and into the cockpit.

I guess we’re not going to crash. The Elephant has a sense of humor. Ha ha.

The plane continued to gain altitude. After a few minutes it leveled out, and then in a few more minutes began to descend. Another hard bank to starboard, the plane leveled out, and delivered a neck-snapping slam into the runway. Guy at the stick thinks he’s a carrier pilot. The C-130 bounced along the tarmac, then came to a brake-screeching stop. The engines wound down. The ramp lowered. Impossibly bright sunlight poured into the bay. A member of the ground crew strolled up the ramp, looked over at me. Grinned.

“Welcome to Chu Lai.”

.

INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART THREE

2009-10-25T14:24:00.000-07:00

The Worm

How do you get to Okinawa from Japan? Get yourself poured onto a plane in Sasebo, still drunk from a night in the Ginza. Pass out. Wake up. You’re on Okinawa! No sweat, Marine.

In a later post, I'll tell you all about Okinawa, because it turned out to be one of my favorite places in the world, and eventually I got to see a lot of the world. But, I'm going to save that for the story of my second visit to the island, an adventure so much fun, so enjoyable, that it still makes me smile more than forty years later.

But this episode, that I have called "The Worm," is a different matter.

It can be overpowering, the pressure on young Marines to go out into the "villes" that surround military bases and get laid. Whether you want to or not, and often, you don’t know if you want to or not, but your best buddies, the ones you just met for the first time a couple of hours ago, are keyed-up and insistent.

“C’mon man, you can get an all-nighter for twenty bucks! You need twenty bucks? I got you covered, c’mon man, get into some civvies, let’s go, I got a extra shirt, here, c’mon, you can get trou in the "ville," coupla bucks, c’mon, I got a hard on ‘bout to jump outta my skivvies and drag me along behind it.”

Who can refuse a deal like that? An all-expense-paid expedition into the fleshpots of Okinawa. You can’t show how timid you really are in front of these warriors, can you? Wait a damn minute! Eighteen years old, a year in the Corps, on the way to fight for your country, and “timid?” What’s up with that?

I guess it’s time for some frank talk about my experience with women. Don’t worry, the recitation will be brief, by necessity. Skimpy. Paltry. Trifling. Measly. Count the number of such experiences on three fingers.

By the time I made an early departure from my little Southern high school, I was still a seventeen-year-old virgin. Yes, sigh, it's true. I had never, in fact, opened the covers of a Playboy magazine. The most lurid visions of female anatomy I had seen to that point were the underwear ads in the Sears Roebuck catalogue. Copping one feel of Jan’s (not her real name) left breast in the back of the bus on a marching band field trip was the peak of my sexual conquests. I had made-out with my sweetheart Judy Vance at every possible opportunity, but she would firmly move my hand away if it strayed close to one of her forbidden zones.

In my generation of small-town idiots, the Great Moment, the de-flowering, the un-virginizing, typically occurred in the back seat of a friend’s borrowed Chevy. The girl, a year older than me, had officiated at the same rites of passage for several other high school lads. You would think she would have the routine down pat by the time she got to me, but, unfortunately, not. Pam (not her real name) was inept, and I was stupid, scared, and fumbling beyond imagining. Right from the beginning she freaked me out with her kissing. She was the weirdest kisser I had experienced to that point, and, well, to this day, actually. She would open her mouth as wide as possible and the pound her tongue in and out of my mouth like a piston. It so startled me that all my carefully planned maneuvers dropped out of my mind. So, there was a rubber, and I couldn’t get the package open, then I couldn’t get it on for some reason, then I dropped it on the floorboards. OK, too much information. I’ll spare you the rest, all 15 or 20 seconds of it, except to say that it was a most unpleasant and humiliating “coming” of age ceremony.

That was the first of three dismal encounters.

After I graduated from boot camp, I met a college girl while on leave in Tallahassee. Martha (not her real name) took a liking to me and bought a bus ticket from Florida to North Carolina, a six hundred mile trip that took twenty-four bouncing, lurching hours along old Highway 17. Martha was sweet, perky, cute and horny. Well, she came to the wrong guy, if scratching that itch was her intention. My performance, using the term loosely, was incrementally better than my back seat pyrotechnics with Pam, but I could see the disappointment growing on Martha’s face. The two days we spent together started low and went down hill. When I put her on the bus for the long ride back to Florida, we were both relieved. She did not promise to write.

There was a third sordid episode, the result of a scheme devised by my buddy, Gus Baldwin. He inveigled his girlfriend Peggy (her real name) to ride the bus down from D.C. bringing along a friend named . . . ah . . . Debbie (not her real name). Gus and I rented two cabins behind a road house across the Neuse River just outside of New Bern. These were high class accommodations, you bet, nothing but the best for our would-be paramours. After the two couples retired to our respective quarters, I soon learned that . . .ah . . . Debbie was having nothing to do with what I had in mind. I was confused as to her motivation for the long bus ride to meet and spend the night with a Marine she had met once, for about ten minutes, and put the question to her, along with other questions along the line of “could I just touch” and “would she just remove.” Some time during the hours of whining, wheedling, begging, and groping, Debbie revealed that she was the daughter of a Southern Baptist preacher. Debbie, the preacher’s daughter. Great. The long and short of it, well, the short of it, was that nothing happened and we both lied and said that it did. Sorry, Gus, after all these years, I’m confessing. Nothing happened. I lied.

So, episode three doesn't count. That's the sorry sum of it, my accumulated sexual history, testament to my prowess as a player. In football metaphor, two punts and a fumble.

Armed with two sorry sexual episodes, one lie, and a brave face, I entered the night life of the little “ville” just outside Camp Hansen. If you think a guy just saunters into one of these sleazy clubs, picks out a whore, and goes upstairs for boom boom, you are mistaken. A young Marine can manage the “saunter” part, but after that, the women take over. They are in charge. They size you up, sort you out, allow you to buy them overpriced whiskey sours (no booze, just sour mix), negotiate the pricing and menu, then, like a good cattle dog, cut you away from your buddies, and spirit you away to parts unknown.

My “date” for the evening hailed a taxi, and off we went to her own house, somewhere on a mysterious dark street, miles away from the fleshpots. I call it a house, but her place was more like a small ground floor apartment, or maybe a big shack. She turned on a light and I really got to see her for the first time. She was attractive enough to interest any man . . . twice my age. Damn, she was old enough to be my mother, maybe my grandmother. Tearing my eyes away from the knowing look on her face, I nervously examined the room. There was a bed and a few pieces of furniture, a hole in the ground that I later learned was a toilet, and a curtain stretched from wall to wall, behind which her children were sleeping, supposedly sleeping. Yep, her kids. I didn’t see them, but I could hear them, and she spoke to them on a couple of occasions. She knew enough English to tell me to take off my clothes. Filling a basin with water, she washed my parts, my shrinking, shriveling parts, and examined me for outward signs of disease. It was all very romantic. Finally, she turned out the light, took off her own clothes, pulled me into bed, on top of her, and said something like “get to work.”

How I wish I could! Get to work, that is, or more precisely, get “it” to work. The damn thing had no interest in this magnificent adventure, nor was my Lady of the Night particularly helpful. Eventually losing patience, she pushed me off, muttered “I sleep now,” and rolled away from me. By and by I shook her awake, “I have to piss.” She pointed to the hole in the floor, “No pee on floor,” and went back to sleep. I squatted miserably over the hole, doing my best to aim in the dark, and wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of there. But where was “there?” I was in a shack somewhere in a low-rent district of Okinawa, with no street lights, at one o’clock in the morning. I had not heard a motor vehicle of any kind since the taxi dropped us off. I was about as existentially lost, and lost for real, as a guy can be. I was stuck here until morning.

I crawled back into bed with her.

“Boom boom?” she asked.

“Maybe later.”

“OK, sleep now.”

I lay there in that strange bed, next to that stranger, and waited for morning to come. Surprisingly, I fell asleep. I almost never remember dreams, but I still recall a piece of a dream from that night.

I dreamed of my high school sweetheart, Judy Vance. She was sitting below me in the band room at Florida High with the other flute players. We were waiting for the band director, Glen Heinlen, to come in from his office. From my station up in the corner, I rattled off a fortissimo open roll on the parade snare. The other members of the band stopped talking and looked at me. I handed the sticks to my buddy, David Kahler, and walked down the risers, right through the trumpets and then through the saxes, heading straight for Judy, my eyes locked on hers. She blushed immediately, and Judy was a hard, fast blusher. Her cheeks turned bright pink. I stood in front of her for a moment, breathing hard, then dropped down on one knee.

“I want to tell you, Judy, in front of all these people, that you are the only one in the world for me.”

Oh, go on, roll your eyes. It was 1963, high school stuff, and besides, it was only the anguished dream of an eighteen year old kid in bed with an Okinawan prostitute, so give him a break. Give me a break. Whatever.

“No matter what happens, I want you to know that I love you, and I will always love you.”

Dream Judy reached up with one hand and pulled my head down to hers. She kissed me softly, for a long time, as my classmates whistled, hollered, and made a racket on their various instruments.

That dream, and variations of it, played over and over and over, through the hours of that dreadful night. That dream was like the glow of a paper lantern keeping away the darkness and my despair. That dream of Judy stood between me and a nasty little thought . . . a worm.

A worm that began to burrow into my body.

“There’s something wrong with me.”

CHURCH

2009-10-18T15:30:00.000-07:00

Up before dawn and alone in the great meditation hall of the Siddha Yoga Dham Ashram. The drone of the tamboura on its never-ending tape fills the dark cavern. A single guttering candle on the Puja is the only light. The incense from last night’s program, and many programs that came before, still lingers in this sanctified atmosphere. I dedicate myself to Dharma. My meditation is about as deep as I can go.

Out before the hikers and running the trail between Edwards and Purdon Crossings. Below me the rush of the South Yuba River fills the canyon. Early morning sunlight filters through dense forest canopy. Fragrances of laurel offer the incense for my sacred temple in the trees. Dharma pads along, at my side, silent companion.

INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART TWO (revised)

2009-10-17T23:01:00.000-07:00

Go West, Young Marine

Imagine how peculiar, to go to war all by yourself?In the books and movies, you always go with a platoon or a Legion or 300 Spartans or some kind of a team. The team usually has a troubled inner-city kid, and an overweight, but lovable kid, and a hick, and a coward, and John Wayne. But I just bumped along, all by myself, in the spring of 1966, with a sea bag and my orders.
Heading west, to see the Elephant.

I caught a flight out of San Francisco on a commercial jet to Tokyo via Anchorage. Yes, I have been to Alaska, if sitting on the runway for an hour while the plane takes on fuel and exchanges a few civilian passengers counts as a visit to “The Last Frontier.” I looked out the window. Rain. Fuel trucks. Slick tarmac. More rain. Alaska. What a thrill.

Flying by night over the north Pacific. I studied my Japanese phrase book, and created my own, slimmed-down version.

Bob’s Guide to Useful Japanese Language Suitable for One Night in Tokyo

Twenty Important Words and Phrases

Dozo please
Arigato thank you
Domo very much
Domo arigato thank you, very much
Do itashimashite you’re welcome
Konnichi wa hello
Biru beer
Ginza entertainment district
Konban wa good evening
Bijin beautiful woman
Domo gurai how much does it cost?
Hai yes
Iie no
Sukoshi little
Takusan many, much
Doko where
Benjo wa doko desuka where is the toilet
Ohayo gozaimasu good morning
Koibito girl friend
Sayonara good bye

By the time I had modified the phrase book to my own purposes, I was snockered. Remember I was only eighteen years old, and it in those days it was hard for a boy to get served alcohol--until we flew into international territory. My stewardess (no luke warm "flight attendant" nomenclature in 1966) was quite happy to serve one of the Few, the Proud as many beers as he could drink. I passed out.

The plane landed in Japan. I woke up. At the U.S. base outside Tokyo I learned an important lesson in military life. If you are carrying your own pay record, you can probably sweet talk the paymaster into giving you some cash. After inveigling a hundred dollars, I set off to see the sights of Tokyo, by which I mean . . . women. Surely a hundred bucks American was enough for one night of party. I had the idea that Tokyo was cheap. Remember, Made in Japan?

With the practical phrases of Bob’s Guide memorized, I figured I could nimbly handle myself on the streets of Tokyo. I grabbed a taxi at the gate and told the driver:

“Ginza, dozo.” (Ginza, please.)

Countries around the world brag about the daredevil driving antics of their cabbies. Don’t believe them. Tokyo taxi drivers are the worst, psychotic, suicidal lunatics who have recently escaped from the city’s psychiatric wards. Surviving the ride from the base to downtown Tokyo was one of the most terrifying episodes of my four years in the United States Marine Corps. I toppled out of the taxi and barely resisted the impulse to kiss the sidewalk.

But here I was, on the Ginza! Neon lights, exotic smells, music from numerous outdoor speakers, dense crowds of, well, Japanese people. What first? Food! I wandered around until I found an eatery that served something I thought I recognized, chicken-on-a-stick. I went in, offering various polite greetings that seemed to be appreciated. Seated, I asked if anyone spoke English. I figured, hey, a lot of these folk probably speak English, didn’t we conquer them twenty years ago? No. No English. From anyone. Then or later. My entire night in Tokyo I did not find a single Japanese person who spoke English, except for the bartenders, all of whom knew two words: “whisky sour.”

I was on my own, just me and Bob’s Guide to Useful Japanese.

“Biru, dozo. Takusan biru.” (Beer, please. Many beers.)

After takusan biru’s and several plates of yakitori and raisu (my phrase book was now up to twenty-two useful words and phrases), I headed back out on the streets to resume my quest for female companionship. It was then I discovered two disquieting facts. First, I realized that I had already spent almost half of my money and needed to reserve some of the remainder for the (Oh My God!) taxi ride back to base. Tokyo, even in 1966, was NOT cheap. The second ugly fact was that I had neglected to research and include among my useful Japanese language, the word for prostitute, whore, lady of the night, working girl. The best I could come up with was “geisha.”

“Geisha wa, doko desuka?” (Where is Geisha?)

Strangers to whom I put this pathetic query, stepped back, looked at me with derision, and walked away as quickly as possible. Even the bartenders wanted nothing to do with my question.

“Geisha?”

“Whiskey sour, hai?”

“Hai.” Sigh.

I started drinking whiskey sours and further depleting my funds. Sitting in a bar where everyone carefully ignored me, I was getting drunker and drunker. Am I having fun yet? There was a raucous commotion just outside, and in through the door exploded a group of British sailors, in uniform, in their hilarious little British sailor suits, with the ribbons hanging from their caps. I started laughing at them. A pint sized runt of a sailor walked up and demanded?

“What’s so fuggin’ funny?”

That really sent me into hysterics. I fell off the bar stool, howling. They stood in a circle around me.

“Get up, Yank. Get to yer feet. We’re gonna kick yer bloody arse.”

Still giggling, I got up and attempted to assume a lethal fighting stance. What happened next was up to them.

“Fight me, or buy me a drink.”

The sailors considered this choice, laughed, and decided to adopt me for the rest of the evening, their own U.S. Marine. Fightin’ Fuggin’ Devildog. We partied together and barhopped through the Ginza. We swore oaths of eternal friendship and cried like babies over the sentimental confessions of our souls. We sang the great songs of the British Navy and the U.S. Marines.

“God Save our Gracious Queen!”

“From the Halls of Montezuuuuuuuma
To the shores of Trip Pooooo Liiiiiiii.”

“A thousand gobs laid down their swabs
To fight one sick Mariiiiiiiiine!”

And that’s what I remember best about my night in Tokyo. Me and the British sailors, drunk and happy. Not a bad night, as these things go.

But in later years, I reflected back on my only trip to Japan with immense regret. My Ginza expedition was a modest success, lack of nooky notwithstanding, but I think of all the things I might have done, and was too young and ignorant to envision.

The Imperial Palace

A pilgrimage up Mount Fuji

A ride out into the countryside

A tea ceremony conducted by a real geisha

Sacred Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines

The Noh, Kyogen, and Kabuki theatres

(that most of all)

Even today, at this moment, I would like to send my apologies to Japan for such bad manners. To ignore the incomparable treasures of Nippon for a line of whiskey sours! To set my highest sights on getting laid by a hooker.

For shame.

I makes me blush to think about it.

..

INTO THE GREENWOOD—PART TWO

2009-10-16T22:55:00.000-07:00

Go West, Young Marine

Imagine how peculiar, to go to war all by yourself?

In the books and movies, you always go with a platoon or a Legion or 300 Spartans or some kind of a team. The team usually has a troubled inner-city kid, and an overweight, but lovable kid, and a hick, and a coward, and John Wayne. But I just bumped along, all by myself, in the spring of 1966, with a sea bag and my orders. Heading west, toward the Elephant.

I caught a flight out of San Francisco on a commercial jet to Tokyo via Anchorage. Yes, I have been to Alaska, if sitting on the runway for an hour while the plane takes on fuel and exchanges a few civilian passengers counts as a visit to “The Last Frontier.” I looked out the window. Rain. Fuel trucks. Slick tarmac. More rain. Alaska. What a thrill.

Flying by night over the north Pacific. I studied my Japanese phrase book, and created my own, slimmed-down version.

Bob’s Guide to Useful Japanese Language Suitable for One Night in Tokyo

Twenty Important Words and Phrases

By the time I had modified the phrase book to my own purposes, I was snockered. Remember I was only eighteen years old, and it in those days it was hard for a boy to get served alcohol--until we flew into international territory. My stewardess (no luke warm "flight attendant" nomenclature in 1966) was quite happy to serve one of the few, the proud as many beers as he could drink. I passed out.

The plane landed in Japan. I woke up. At the U.S. base outside Tokyo I learned an important lesson in military life. If you are carrying your own pay record, you can probably sweet talk the paymaster into giving you some cash. After inveigling a hundred dollars, I set off to see the sights of Tokyo, by which I mean, women. Surely a hundred bucks American was enough for one night of party. I had the idea that Tokyo was cheap. Remember, Made in Japan?

With the practical phrases of Bob’s Guide memorized, I figured I could nimbly handle myself on the streets of Tokyo. I grabbed a taxi at the gate and told the driver:

“Ginza, dozo.” (Ginza, please.)

Countries around the world brag about the daredevil driving antics of their cabbies. Don’t believe them. Tokyo taxi drivers are the worst, psychotic, suicidal lunatics who have recently escaped from the city’s psychiatric wards. Surviving the ride from the base to downtown Tokyo was one of the most terrifying episodes of my four years in the United States Marine Corps. I toppled out of the taxi and barely resisted the impulse to kiss the sidewalk.

But here I was, on the Ginza! Neon lights, exotic smells, music from numerous outdoor speakers, dense crowds of, well, Japanese people. What first? Food! I wandered around until I found an eatery that served something I thought I recognized, chicken-on-a-stick. I went in, offering various polite greetings that seemed to be appreciated. Seated, I asked if anyone spoke English. I figured, hey, a lot of these folk probably speak English, didn’t we conquer them twenty years ago? No. No English. From anyone. Then or later. My entire night in Tokyo I did not find a single Japanese person who spoke English, except for the bartenders, all of whom knew two words: “whisky sour.” I was on my own, just me and Bob’s Guide to Useful Japanese.

“Biru, dozo. Takusan biru.” (Beer, please. Many beers.)

After takusan biru’s and several plates of yakitori and raisu (my phrase book was now up to twenty-two useful words and phrases), I headed back out on the streets to resume my quest for female companionship. It was then I discovered two disquieting facts. First, I realized that I had already spent almost half of my money and needed to reserve some of the remainder for the (Oh My God!) taxi ride back to base. Tokyo, even in 1966, was NOT cheap. The second ugly fact was that I had neglected to research and include among my useful Japanese language, the word for prostitute, whore, lady of the night, working girl. The best I could come up with was “geisha.”

“Geisha wa, doko desuka?” (Where is Geisha?)

Strangers to whom I put this pathetic query, stepped back, looked at me with derision, and walked away as quickly as possible. Even the bartenders wanted nothing to do with my question.

“Geisha?”

“Whiskey sour, hai?”

“Hai.” Sigh.

I started drinking whiskey sours and further depleting my funds. Sitting in a bar where everyone carefully ignored me, I was getting drunker and drunker. Am I having fun yet? There was a raucous commotion just outside, and in through the door exploded a group of British sailors, in uniform, in their hilarious little British sailor suits, with the ribbons hanging from their caps. I started laughing at them. A pint sized runt of a sailor walked up and demanded?

“What’s so fuggin’ funny?”

That really sent me into hysterics. I fell off the bar stool, howling. They stood in a circle around me.

“Get up, Yank. Get to yer feet. We’re gonna kick yer bloody arse.”

Still giggling, I attempted to get up and assume a lethal fighting stance. What happened next was up to them.

“Fight me, or buy me a drink.”

Instead, they decided to adopt me for the rest of the evening, their own U.S. Marine. Fightin’ Fuggin’ Devildog. We partied together and barhopped through the Ginza. We swore oaths of eternal friendship and cried like babies over the sentimental confessions of our souls. We sang the great songs of the British Navy and the U.S. Marines.

“God Save our Gracious Queen!”

“From the Halls of Montezuuuuuuuma
To the shores of Trip Pooooo Leeeeeee.”

“A thousand gobs laid down their swabs
To fight one sick Mariiiiiiiiine!”

And that’s what I remember best about my night in Tokyo. Me and the British sailors, drunk and happy. Not a bad night, as these things go.

But in later years, I reflected back on my only trip to Japan with immense regret. My Ginza expedition was a modest success, lack of nooky notwithstanding, but I think of all the things I might have done, and was too young and ignorant to envision.

The Imperial Palace

Sacred Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines

A pilgrimage up Mount Fuji

A tea ceremony conducted by a real geisha

A ride out into the countryside

The Noh, Kyogen, and Kabuki theatres
(that most of all)

For shame.

I makes me blush to think about it.

INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART ONE

2009-10-15T23:12:00.000-07:00

John Wayne and Carol

The South China Sea was rolling us side to side, side to side, with a slight swell. In flat-bottomed amphibious landing craft, a slight swell is enough stomach-churning motion to get everybody except the swabbies seasick. Even with the open top, we were breathing a thick soup of diesel fumes and vomit stench. Our nausea was amplified by the gut-wrenching terror we felt as our amphib churned toward the beach.

Those celestial military powers who decide such things had sent us in on a moonless night. It was about as dark as a night can be except for a zillion stars blazing down on us and the little red caution lights that, optimistically, kept the eighteen assault boats from running into and sinking each other.

The first machine gun opened up and was immediately enjoined by every piece of ordinance the NVA had emplaced for the defense of Chu Lai. The small caliber rounds pinged off the armored front doors of the landing craft and we waited for cannon or heavy caliber fire to smash into us. As we got closer, pre-targeted mortar rounds began to hurtle down. All we could do was crouch a little tighter and hope the shells landed somewhere else, anywhere else. An earsplitting explosion, followed by a shock wave, meant that the amphib on the starboard side had been hit. Tough. Not us.

We felt the tracks find purchase on the bottom. The swabbie driving the boat gunned the motor and we lurched up onto the beach. Thank God he didn’t chicken out and stop short, leaving us to wade ashore under fire. Not our swabbie! Good swabbie. The front gate slammed down and we got out of that thing about as fast as a scared-to-death platoon can move. My fire team went right and up to 2:00 o’clock as planned. We hit the sand and started to return fire.

We were in Viet Nam!

We were at war!

Well, not really. That was a scene from Sands of Iwo Jima starring John Wayne. If you want that kind of war story you should rent it on Netflix, or maybe The Boys From Company C or Platoon. If you want a movie that more closely approximates my combat tour in Viet Nam, you should maybe rent Catch 22. No, I didn’t arrive in Nam in the guts of an amphibious landing craft. I landed in Da Nang in the bowels of a Pan American 707. Whoop de doo. But I get ahead of myself. My actual voyage to Southeast Asia was even more capricious and bizarre.

Here’s what really happened.

Gunny Cunningham handed me my pay record and orders and told me to get my ass to Bravo Battery, 2nd LAAM (Light Anti-Aircraft Missile) Battalion, Chu Lai, Viet Nam, as soon as possible.

“By when, Gunny?”

“Still hard of hearing, Jenkins? As soon as you can get your lazy ass over there.”

By this time Gunny had taken a real liking to me which was why he was talking so sweet. The C.O. (commanding officer), Lieutenant Mike Stevens actually came out of his office to shake hands and wish me luck. He offered this advice:

“Volunteer for everything. Maybe you’ll see some real action.”

“Aye, aye, Sir, I will. And, sir, thanks for the transfer.”

“Get the fuck out of my Battery.”

Like Gunny Cunningham, the Old Man had a soft spot for me and was fighting to hold back his tears.

“Now, Jenkins, now!”

That was it. My departure ritual. Pomp and circumstance. No expense spared.

I had no reason to hang around Cherry Point, and my North Carolina kin were not much for ceremony, so I thought what the heck? I might as well head on over to the war. In those days, military men on their way to Viet Nam just showed their orders at the ticket counter to get a seat on any west-bound flight. Even if the plane was full and they had to pull some civilian off the aircraft, soldiers and Marines got a seat. Not stand-by; priority seating. If there was an empty chair in First Class, we got that, too.

From Cherry Point I finagled my way on a patched-up DC-3 to Raleigh, then commercial to Sacramento, and a bus to Travis Air Force Base which was the hub for MATS (Military Air Transport). The main attraction to Travis AFB was it’s proximity to San Francisco. The main attraction to San Francisco was the Twin Peaks.

The Twin Peaks of Carol Doda.

Carol Doda and her “Twin 44s” were already legendary by 1966. I considered it my patriotic duty, my obligation on the eve of my departure to defend America by ogling the largest bosoms to ever be displayed upon the national stage. Or at least upon a grand piano in the Condor Club up on San Francisco’s North Beach. For an eighteen year old Southern boy who had never been in a bar, much less a strip club, Doda and her “Girls” were a really big deal, or deals, to be precise. A large warm mammary, I mean memory, to comfort me in the hell of mortal combat. Had to have a look, didn’t I?

MATS ran a free liberty bus into San Francisco with a return bus late in the evening. I arrived downtown about mid-afternoon and realized I had made two critical mistakes. First, I was wearing a pair of light weight slacks and a short sleeve shirt. As the saying goes, “I spent a frigid winter one evening in San Francisco.” Damn, it was cold. And windy. And foggy. What the hell? The weather was great at Travis. My second mistake was arriving with about fifteen dollars in my wallet. I spent about ten bucks on a butt-ugly tourist sweatshirt, leaving me about five for my Dodaquest. I started walking, asking directions, and eventually arriving at the Condor Club where Carol’s bosoms were about ready to make their second or third appearance of the day. They had that girl flying in from a hole in the ceiling about fifteen times a day, and I am not making the number up. I call her a girl, because Carol Doda was not much older, in years, than I was. Please, do not dis-respect Carol Doda; the girl worked hard for her money.

My problem was also money. There was a cover charge and you had to buy drinks while you were there. I talked my way past the cover charge with a guns, guts, and glory tale of my impending heroism, and spent the last of my cash on a couple of whisky sours. Whiskey sours. I told you I was naïve.

Down she came from the rafters, this Rebel Without A Bra, trailblazer for many things pornographic and prosthetic yet to come. Carol Doda was quite pretty, if you actually looked at her face. But that was not the point. She danced around and maybe sang a song or two. My memory is shaky on the singing part. She smiled and shimmied and shook and swayed and swung her huge fleshy bags. Men whistled and yelled and starred at large breasts. Something was wrong with me. After a few salutary whistles of my own, I shut up, and started feeling bad. I just sat there, getting more and more depressed. It was just so . . . weird. I was not aroused or sexually excited in the slightest. My main feeling was discomfiture. I was embarrassed for the other men in the club, and for myself. What’s a nice boy like me doing in a Frisco strip club?

I was not embarrassed for Carol Doda. She was in charge. I looked at her eyes, way, way up behind those plastic bumpers. Her eyes were alert, moving around, working the room. Pro, no doubt about it. And nice, I thought, basically a nice girl. In the flush of youthful righteousness, I wanted to save her, redeem her, get to know her, be a pal, take her away from all this.

But before I could put a rescue plan in motion, the manager sidled up and whispered that I had to leave. There was a line outside waiting to come in, he said, and that I had long since slurped down my drink. He nicely whispered the news of my ouster, and that was fine with me, because I was done. I re-emerged on the cold, hard streets. Took a deep breath. Somehow I found my way to the pickup point to meet the bus back to base. It was over two hours before the bus arrived, and I will tell you, that was one damn cold wait. When it finally arrived and I climbed on board I saw that there were already several Marines and a few mismatched service men from the other branches quietly talking and smoking. The bus was warm and smelled like a barracks. I felt comfortable, at home, peaceful, right where I belonged.

I didn’t recognize at the time that I was already leaving the “World” and sliding inexorably down into a strange new land, a truly strange new land.

INTO THE GREEN WOOD—PROLOGUE

2009-10-13T20:38:00.000-07:00

Arjuna

Tonight I help my son, Luke, prepare for combat in Afghanistan. He asks for the war paint. I take out my old jar and try to open it for him. The lid has rusted tight; hasn’t been used in such a long time. I no longer have the hand-strength to twist the lid off. He does.

As my son applies the green and black pigment to his forehead, and under his eyes, and on his cheeks, I study an apparition of my younger self as I made my own brave preparations for what was to come. So many years ago, and now, the night before battle, the memory returns in the body of my own child. I know he will be courageous and resourceful, for that is how he was raised by me, and trained by the Corps. Will it be enough? Will it give him the edge? Will he fight well? Will he hesitate at a life-and-death moment?

Luke is a liberal and a democrat, something of an anomaly among the rank-and-file of the Corps. He considers things deeply. How will he reconcile his humanistic instincts with the brutal demands of his profession?

I seek reconciliation of his dilemma, and solace for my suffering, in scripture.

At the climatic engagement of the Mahabharata, Arjuna, the combat commander of the Pandava nation, is driven by chariot to Kurukshetra, the sacred field, between the two armies. He is there to blow the war horn that will signal the beginning of the mêlée. Arjuna looks upon his enemies, rank upon rank of former friends, teachers, and even relatives from within his own family. He envisions the internecine carnage to come, the massacre that he himself will commence with the sounding of the great horn. He is overcome with the conflict between his compassion for humanity and his duty as a warrior.

Unwilling to initiate the slaughter, Arjuna climbs from the chariot and throws himself to the ground. The two armies are frozen in place. The battle, constrained by the formal conventions of the time, cannot begin until the horn is blown. From both armies, combatants shout for Arjuna to give the signal. He ignores the shouts.

Arjuna’s charioteer, a kinsman by the name of Krishna (yes, that Krishna) joins him. Krishna asks the reason for Arjuna’s distress.

"I see my kinsmen so willing to shed their common blood. My limbs fail. My mouth is dry. A shudder shakes my body. My bow, Gandiva, slips from my hand. A fever burns my skin. I can hardly stand. My mind is spinning. Nothing but sorrow and evil can come from this war. I am confused and lost. I no longer see what is right. Show me what is best. I will be your student. Please instruct me and guide me."

Over the next several hours, as the martial hordes of two nations wait in the hot sun, Krishna speaks quietly to Arjuna. Krishna’s discourse, of course, is the crown jewel of Indian scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita, the Song of God. The Gita explicates the many aspects of Dharma, correct and conscious living, but key is Krishna’s charge to understand, accept, and act on Arjuna’s duty as a warrior for righteousness. Upon the conclusion of Krishna’s sermon, Arjuna ascends the chariot, blows the horn, and launches the war.

Arjuna’s predicament is also my own. As a warrior, and as a yogi, my duty to country and Corps (not necessarily in that order) stands in stark contrast with my commitment to love, gentility, and the other elements of my spiritual aspiration.

Knowing that Luke’s deployment to the Afghan conflict was imminent, I ask Swami Nityanand for his counsel. Nityanand is not my guru, and I offer no opinion as to his legitimacy or competence, but he treated me with kindness and respect, so I ask him for a blessing for my son and any advice he can offer. Nityanand thinks for a few minutes, and says these words:

“Blessings on your son. Tell him to do his duty. But whenever he can, tell him to see God in the innocent people he will meet and treat them with great kindness. That way he will preserve his soul and return with the knowledge that Dharma has prevailed in him.”

Nityanand says it better, but that’s the essential message I pass along to Luke.

Later, I overhear Luke talking to his men.

“You will be in shape before we deploy, especially your cardiovascular conditioning. You will run until you go blind or you will get my boot up your ass. You will not get anybody knocked up. You will not run off and get married between now and spin-up. And one more thing . . . when we get over there you will treat the Afghan people with respect and kindness. You will be a credit to the Marine Corps and to yourself. You hear me, Marines?”

I marvel. My little boy, my Arjuna, is commanding a fire team of warriors. Their lives are in his hands; and his, in theirs. How can I let him go? How can I hold him back? How will I go on living if he . . . . no, put that terror back in its dark little box and shove it deep into a far corner where I can pretend it isn’t there.

War paint complete. He is fierce and frightening. Then he winks at me and mugs with his tongue out the side of his mouth. I have to laugh. Killer and clown. My only son.

I want him to listen to me. Wire it tight. Watch your six. Think. Keep your eyes moving. Think. Use every piece of cover. Think. The ground is your best friend. Be silent. Use the darkness. Think.

“Thanks, sir, all good advice.” He humors me. Pops. Old Corps. Dad.

His men are strutting young roosters. I love them. I’m terrified for them.

“We’re the professionals, sir. We have stuff you never dreamed of. Don’t worry, we’ll all come home, and bring Corporal Jenkins with us. Hey, assholes, mount up! There’s beers to drink and women to woo! Let’s go see the Elephant! OoRah!”

OoRah. Whatever the hell that means.

I watch them drive away in my son’s beat up Camry.

Just me now.

Alone.

Drifting away into the remembrance of my own initiation.

Nineteen Sixty-Six.

The year I went to see the same damned Elephant.

PRAYER COVE

2009-10-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

Five miles into the Weimar run we stop at Prayer Cove, a secluded clearing just off the Coyote Creek trail.

Dharma drinks and splashes around in the creek while I pray, or rather, chant a beautiful Sanskrit prayer called “Jyota se Jyota,” irreverently translated to mean “Come On, Baby, Light My Fire.” I chant or sing the chorus and six verses at the top of my lungs, letting the song ring out through the green woods.

My musical treatment is not Siddha Yoga approved. I riff the rhythms and embellish the phrasings as the spirit moves me. I even make a couple of slight, but profound changes in the words. I begin and end the chant with “Om Shantih Shantih Shantih (Om Peace Peace Peace)” instead of “Sadgurunath Maharaj Ki Jay,” the traditional invocation and benediction. I change the first line of the sixth verse to “Jivana Nityananda Avinashi.” For those who have hung around SiddhaYoga, this is an eyebrow-raising alteration. It won’t be the first time I’ve played fast and loose with the orthoodoxy. I’ll probably get a midnight knock on the door from the Siddha cops.

I offer the chant, and myself, to the Mother of us all. I open my arms wide and turn in slow circles, inviting all of nature to pour into me.

Sun,

sky,

clouds,

creek,

creek sounds,

trees,

wind,

bushes,

berries,

poison oak,

fungus,

dirt,

birds,

bird songs,

animals,

insects.

All of it. Welcome. I adore you.

That’s my prayer. Am I praying to an old white guy in the heavens to grant me personal favors? A cure for cancer? World peace? C’mon. So why do it? I pray as discipline, as spiritual practice to help me keep my feet on the Path.

I pray because I like it.

The final chorus of “Jyota se Jyota” picks up speed, and some folks, including me, like to add spirited hand clapping. Dharma’s head snaps up. The hand clapping is her signal that it’s time to get back on the trail.

“Om Shantih Shantih Shantih.”

"Woof"

"OK, dog, let’s go!"

.

Silence

.Silence

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--EPILOGUE

2009-09-27T16:03:00.000-07:00

.

“Two most important skills in life are making friends . . . and keeping them”

Gus

Marion “Gus” Baldwin was the kid your mama didn’t want you to play with. Mothers could tell this right away from the sideways serpent grin he conjured just before the trouble started. Gus did have a certain “glint in his eye,” but was adept at the All-American Kid routine, which he performed to perfection. When you got to know him, you quickly learned that devils really do walk the face of the earth.

Gus was more mature than I about women and sex. He had a girlfriend with whom he had slept—all night long! I was envious and deeply impressed with his savoir faire. In this regard, I acknowledged him as the alpha wolf in our little pack. I had my own areas of expertise, and I think Gus was respectful of my prowess in dramatic arts and outdoor sports. All in all, we balanced each other. That's why we clicked from our first meeting on the train to Marine Corps boot camp.

Those of you who followed my YELLOW WOOD series met Gus Baldwin in PART NINE--Battle of the Hinky Dink. You may remember how he instigated the legendary food fight, and how I instantly joined the fray as his wingman. Many of our subsequent misadventures followed that pattern: wicked idea, serpent smile, and then hellzapoppin’ mischief--with Bob left holding the bag.

“What a dumb-ass,” grinned Gus, “Why are you always getting caught?”

Together we survived the surreal tortures of Marine Corps boot camp at Parris Island. I remember one episode when the Drill instructors publicly announced our IQ scores and then cruelly mocked us. If you had one of the lower IQ scores, you were mocked as an idiot, but their special scorn was reserved for those unfortunates with high scores. One recruit, whose name I can’t remember, had a ridiculous score around 165. I believe he was spirited away in the night by the CIA and hooked up to a computer. Oh yes, I think his name was Houser, Doogie Houser. Gus and I had the next two highest scores. His IQ was three points higher than mine.

“Oh my God,” quoth the Senior Drill Instructor, “What have we here in the Three Three Eight? Two bona fidey geniuses. Isn’t that wonderful? ISN'T THAT WONDERFUL?"

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Baldwin and Jenkins. Are we surprised?”

“Sir, no sir!”

“I always knew Miss Baldwin was the biggest wise ass in the platoon, but where has Miss Jenkins been hiding her light? Under a bucket I’m sure, so that we won’t be blinded by her brilliance. Oh, it hurts my eyes just to look at her. Does it hurt your eyes to look at Miss Jenkins?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Jenkins would you mind terribly putting a bucket on you head so that we are not blinded by the light of your superior intellect?”

Gus just smirked. He was really, really good at smirking. Olympic class smirker.

But the fantastic result of those matching I. Q. scores was not revealed until a few days later when the MOS (Military Occupation Specialties) were allotted, also publicly. Gus and I were both assigned 6742, HAWK missile operators. We had orders to report to the same outfit. We were going to be stationed together!

(Insert Infantry Training theme song “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” by the Stones)

After boot camp, Marines go directly to the Infantry Training Regiment at Camp Geiger, North Carolina. For several weeks new Marines play war in the woods, shooting things, and blowing stuff up. I have to tell you the truth. We had a lot of fun. Boom!

Infantry training complete, Gus and I arrived together at Cherry Point, North Carolina, the founding members of Delta Battery, Third LAAM (Light Anti Aircraft Missile) Battalion, a training unit whose mission was to get replacements ready for the First and Second LAAMs recently deployed in Viet Nam. There to welcome us to Delta Battery was Gunnery Sergeant Cunningham, the third member of our little ménage a leatherneck. Cunningham was a craggy-faced, mean Marine fighting machine, and he didn’t much like Baldwin and Jenkins. “I think I’ll keep you Devil Pups busy with a month of mess duty. Welcome to Delta Battery.”

We spent about eight months at Cherry Point. We grew to loathe that base and Marine Corps garrison duty which we called the Mickey Mouse Marines, a grueling, tedious cycle of marching, inspections, field maneuvers, testing, and physical training. Until our HAWK missile system finally arrived, the first months were especially mind-numbing. My dislike for stateside assignments would play large in several career decisions, but they were still a long way off, and the material for later stories.

Lieutenant Mike Stevens eventually arrived as the first CO (Commanding Officer) of Delta Battery, and immediately Gus and I knew the new Old Man was cool. Stevens would bust your ass, but he was fair, he listened to us, and you could tell he was Marine Corps to the marrow. When he assumed command, things quickly improved, by which I mean he started issuing 96 hour passes, beginning with me and Gus as the battery men with the most longevity in Delta. Gunny Cunningham was not pleased.

We were off on our first swoop, a term used by servicemen to describe a breakneck dash to a party spot as far away from base as a 4 day pass could take you, give you the most time to play, and then get you back by deadline. For us, swoop meant getting out butts to the Washington D.C. suburb of Silver Springs, Maryland, Marion’s home town where he could bed down with his girlfriend, I could pursue the girls he tossed in my direction, and we could operate inexpensively out of his father’s house. We were PFCs by that time (Private First Class) and making the ridiculous salary of $125 a month.

Our Swoopmobile was my suspension-sagging, heavy-assed Plymouth station wagon. We had blazed a route through backwoods roads to avoid the state troupers who probably would have pulled us over for averaging 100+ miles an hour. Remarkably that grey behemoth handled beautifully and could hug the road, the faster the better. Gus would sit next to me drinking a beer; completely relaxed and unconcerned with the Carolina piney woods streaking by in a blur. “Think you could drive a little faster?” I tried to oblige and put my foot to floor.

Here’s a strange morsel to chew on. That Plymouth wagon was the same car my mother shot herself in. My step father, Lu Smith, pushed it off on me because he couldn’t stand to be in it. I wasn’t happy about it myself, so I really didn’t care if I destroyed it. Or me? Now there’s an interesting thought.

Marion’s father, also named Marion, or Big Marion as I called him, was a D.C. Beltway operative of some kind, I don’t remember what he did exactly, and he was much more urbane than me or my small town Southern hick-folk. Overlooking the obvious distinctions in class, Big Marion treated me kindly and introduced me to such sophisticated wonders as avocados and spicy food. Noblesse Oblige. At that time he was attempting to secure $1,000,000 in underwriting from the World Bank to mount an expedition to Peru. There, among the Quechua Indians, he was hoping to discover and return with the world’s first foolproof aphrodisiac. I thought this project was quite the most remarkable and exotic thing I had ever heard.

Gus and I wheeled through Silver Springs on our periodic romantic quests, and had some luck at it, more Gus than Bob, to tell the truth. Our efforts yielded unexpected results. Twice, women followed us back to North Carolina and involved us in escapades I’m not going to discuss here, mainly because the sordid stories are embarrassing, pornographic, and expose yours truly as the pathetically inept dumb fuck I was at the time.

You can insert one of Marion’s trademark smirks.

Here’s one more odd coincidence. The Marine Corps Air Station at Cherry Point is just 17 miles from New Bern, North Carolina, place of my birth, and the small town where most of the Jenkins clan still lived. Gus and I had a second home off base, and my family came to love him, even if they didn’t know what to make of him, being a Yankee and a city boy and all. We would scoot back in forth between my beloved grandmother’s house and my “real” father’s house, depending upon which one of them could put up with us on any given weekend.

Bob, my grandmother Carlie "Coggie Dear" and Gus Baldwin

At Big Bob’s house, Gus was the shiny object of attention from my two step sisters, Alice and Phyllis. Alice was a thin, rather tightly-wound, and reserved brunette. Phyllis was a hefty, carnal redhead. Both of them harbored fantasies about Marion Baldwin.

One night, Phyllis, who was “stacked,” leaned over and rested her watermelon-sized boobs on the dining room table. Marion, yeah, grinning that grin, reached over and rested both hands on the top of her . . . ah . . . offerings. Phyllis looked down at his hands, and then up at him. An exquisitely timed pause, then Gus dribbled both of her breasts like twin basketballs. Badda badda badda badda. Phyllis let it go on for a few shocked seconds, and then launched a right-handed roundhouse right at Marion’s head. He ducked, knocking over the chair, and falling to the floor. Alice and I followed suit, falling to the floor in hysterical laughter. Phyllis was on her feet, yelling, and they were off though the house and outside. I don’t know if she caught him, and I suspect if she did, she had her way with him, but I don’t know that for sure, and to this day, Phyllis just blushes when reminded of the event.

Nor did my other step-sister, Alice, escape Marion’s wickedness. Gus and I were slightly inebriated, no, drunk as skunks. Alice had baked a cake and was about to ice it when Gus announced that we were going to take over the cake decorating. Alice made the mistake of saying something like “cold day in hell” or “over my dead body” and they were off. Gus yelled, “I’m gonna get you!” He chased Alice around the house, tackled her in one of the bedrooms, tied her up, and stuffed her in her Mama’s closet. Later, Alice would accuse me of helping him, but I vehemently proclaim my innocence. Stuff my own step sister in a closet? Never.

Alice out of the picture, we attempted to ice the cake, making a total botch of the job, of course. A while later, Big Bob’s wife, Agnes, came home to discover the cake disaster in the kitchen. She demanded, “Where’s Alice?” Gus and I looked at each other. “Run!” As we fled for our lives out the back door, I yelled over my shoulder, “In the closet, in the bedroom closet!” None of the women in that house spoke to us for weeks. Alice said she would never, ever forgive him, but she always had a little smile when she made that announcement. In fact, I think that Alice would have flopped to the floor on her back if Gus had given her the slightest encouragement. And maybe he did. And maybe she did. What the hell do I know, anyway?

The event that shattered our friendship was so wrenching, that most of you would probably repress the memory. I’ve lost a lot of bad mental baggage over the years, but for some reason I remember that moment clearly.

We had been out in the swamps on one of those nightmare field exercises when it rained round the clock for four days. We were wet, cold, and pissed off. Gus and I were tense with each other because I had received orders to ship out to Southeast Asia. We were going in different directions for the first time in our Marine tour of duty. I felt betrayed because he wasn’t going to Viet Nam. He felt betrayed because I was.

We were standing in line to wash our metal trays and eating utensils in garbage cans filled with hot wash and rinse water. Gus was in front of me. He looked back over his shoulder with that smirk and said something I didn’t like. I snapped back at him. A couple of verbal barbs were exchanged, each one nastier that the previous. Gus swung around and threw a punch at me that I took in the side of the face. It rocked me back for a second, and then I came after him with both fists. We stood there, toe to toe, throwing punches. Somehow we ended up on the ground, grappling, and trying to get in more shots as other Marines rushed in to pull us apart. You don’t want two well-matched Marines fighting each other like that. They’re strong, aggressive, and they can injure each other. That’s what they’re trained to do. So our brother Marines got us untangled before either of us got seriously hurt. I turned around and walked away.

That was the end of our friendship. Not very pretty, is it? I shipped out in a few days and Gus went off to wherever he went.

The angry words that sparked the fight were the last we spoke to each other.

I served my tour in Nam, got out of the Marines and went on with my life, marriage, couple of college degrees, theatre gigs, and a move to the west coast to take up my career position at San Jose State University.

While teaching and directing shows at State, I began to develop an alternative career as a professional storyteller. As that enterprise gained momentum, I started touring and taking engagements all over the country.

Early on I got the idea of trying to locate Gus. Every time I got to a new city I’d take a few moments in my hotel room, open the phone book and look for Marion Baldwin. If that didn’t yield any results, I’d call information.

City after City. New York, Chicago, Baltimore, Atlanta, Miami, Oklahoma City, Los Angeles, Pittsburg. Lots of smaller venues, but no luck.

Marion Baldwin is not a common name, but there are some, and I found them, and called them. “Were you the Marion Baldwin who joined the Marines in 1965 and knew a guy named Bob Jenkins? No? Sorry to disturb you.”

I was especially excited when I landed a storytelling gig in Washington, D.C., adjacent to Marion’s hometown, Silver Springs. Perhaps his father still lived there? I found the Silver Springs section of the phone book . . . and there it was . . . the entry I had been seeking for a decade . . . Marion Baldwin. I dialed.

A sweet little voice answered, an elderly-lady voice, “Yes?”

“Good evening, mam, my name is Bob Jenkins and I’m looking for an old Marine Corps buddy named Marion Baldwin. Does he, perhaps, live there?”

“No. But I do.”

“Ah. But no Marion Baldwin?”

“Yes, Marion Baldwin lives here.”

“But you said . . . .?”

She laughed, “I’m Marion Baldwin!”

Of course, “Marion” can be either a man’s name or a woman’s name. I apologized for bothering her, but she didn’t want me to hang up. I could tell she was lonely. For the next half hour we chatted. She told me about her husband, now deceased, and I told her about Marion Baldwin and a cleaned-up version of our adventures together in the Marines. I don’t suspect Lady Baldwin is still with us on this side of the Veil, but I liked her, and she liked me, and I still remember her. Tip o’ the hat to you, Mrs. Marion.

City after city.

In the late Nineties toward the end of my teaching career at San Jose State, I was running a technically-oriented university department with its own computer lab. I became acquainted with Al Gore’s new invention, the internet (a joke that some of you may remember) and with “people search” software. The first person I looked for was Marion Baldwin. Within fifteen minutes I located him. He was living in . . .

San Jose, California.

Gus Baldwin and I lived in the same city! We had both been living in San Jose for two decades and had never run into each other. I was especially flabbergasted because as a director, actor, and storyteller, my name and photo had many, many times been in the San Jose Mercury News as well as the college newspaper. And to top it off, Gus had been a student at San Jose State where I was chairman of the Television, Film, and Drama Department! I thought, “How could he not know I was in San Jose?”

My next thought was that he very well knew where I was, and he had been deliberately avoiding me all these years. But what the hell, I fired off an email, and within ten minutes, he responded, equally flabbergasted.

We arranged a lunch meeting at a downtown bistro. We were both nervous. You can imagine the thoughts: “What will we remember about each other? Will the light of friendship still glow? What if he’s a snotty asshole? Flamed out bum? Registered sex-offender? Fully enlightened Buddha?”

But no . . . it was just Bob and Gus. Gus and Bob. And his IQ was still 3 points higher than mine!

In the ten years since then, we have drawn closer together, not the way it was in those intense months following the Battle of the Hinky Dink, but nice. Genteel. When we can, we spend time together. He knows he could call on me to cover his flank, and I’d be there.

I’d still trust Gus to do the same.

Semper Fi.

COME AND SLEEP

2009-09-25T15:31:00.000-07:00

This is a work in progress. The two brief scenes that follow are from a full-length play titled COME AND SLEEP based on a chap book of seventeen little poems by Steve Sanfield. In the middle of the two scenes is another scene titled The Coverlet of Tears that I have removed for this blog post. Let me know what you think.

Scene 3

The Fox Eye

(KITSUNE and POET enter a hotel room)

KITSUNE
We do a thing to keep safe.

POET
Safe from what?

KITSUNE
Bad foxes.

POET
(In an exaggerated Japanese accent) Ah so. Foxes.

KITSUNE
Ah so? Funny man. You have pencils?

POET
Not very sharp.

KITSUNE
No sweat. Now you give me two pencils.

POET
No sweat.

(POET rummages through his bag. KITSUNE goes to the closet and gets a coat hanger. POET gives her two pencils.)

KITSUNE
You have string?

POET
No, I don’t think so.

KITSUNE
Rubber bands.

POET
Nada.

KITSUNE
Paper clips.

POET
Bingo.

KITSUNE
No bingo. Paper clips.

POET
(Laughs) How many?

KITSUNE
Four.

POET
Here’s a handful. Knock yourself out.

KITSUNE
Why I want knock myself out?

POET
Just an expression. It means, take all you want.

KITSUNE
OK. I knock myself out. You take shower. You go in there. I make Fox eye.

POET
I take shower? You make Fox eye?

KITSUNE
Yes, go now. Get pretty clean. Smell better.

POET
Yes, mam.

(POET exits to bath room. KITSUNE begins to make the “Fox eye” from the clothes hanger, two pencils, and four paper clips. As KITSUNE works, Noh Drama music begins and KOHARU, as masked Tsure, enters from the hashigakari. The following scene is enacted in Noh Drama style.)

Scene 3

Shigure no Kotatsu
(the coverlet drenched with tears)

KOHARU
City of Osaka, once proud, is become decadent and cynical. In a poor section near the entertainment district, lives a woman of noble birth . . . Kitsune.

(KITSUNE’s work assembling the “Fox eye” becomes her house keeping chore.)

(in this space resides the deleted scene)

KITSUNE
I hear about the double suicide. I have sacrificed everything to prevent this horror. I strip off my holy robes, and wrap myself in my only possession, my tear-drenched coverlet, long hidden in the wall of my cell. I abandon the nunnery:

Two years
a nun
--useless exercise

I spit on Bushido code of honor. I defy my own karma. I make my way back to Osaka where I take employment in a second-hand bookstore. There I find this little book of anom . . . anum . . .

Scene 4

Now Sex Time

(POET sticks his head in from the bathroom where he has been listening.)

POET
Anonymous?

KITSUNE
Yes, anonymous, poems.

(POET returns from bathroom, naked, takes the coverlet and wraps it around his waist like a towel.)

POET
Smell better?

(KITSUNE smells the POET, not a little sniff from a distance, but all over, the way an animal smells another animal. She pulls his towel off and smells his crotch, his ass, his feet. It is quite matter of fact.)

KITSUNE
Yes, smell better. Smell like sex. Good sex.

POET
I’ve heard Japanese women don’t like to kiss on the mouth. Is that true?

KITSUNE
This Japanese woman kiss on mouth very much, but first we hang Fox eye. Bring chair over here.

(KITSUNE points to the center of the room. POET moves the chair to the center of the room as instructed. KITSUNE climbs on to the chair.)

KITSUNE
Hold this.

(KITSUNE hands POET the “Fox eye.” She unties the ribbon that holds her pony tail and shakes her hair loose, then indicating the “Fox eye.”)

Give me.

(She ties the ribbon to the hook of the coat hanger and stretches up toward the ceiling.)

Hold me.
(POET puts his hands on her waist.)

Tighter.
(POET steps closer and wraps his arms around her).

Tighter!

(POET squeezes her very hard).
Good.

(KITSUNE ties the ribbon to something on the ceiling, then gives the “Fox eye” a little spin. As it spins, the lights dim, and gigantic, distorted shadows of the “Fox eye” revolve around the room. She looks down at him.)

Now sex time.

(What happens is hard to see, and hard to understand. In a blur of incredible speed KITSUNE breaks free of the POET’s embrace and violently takes him to the ground. With yips, barks, and growls, they roll in a tangled frenzy across the floor until she subdues him and mounts him with her teeth on his throat. Growling low in her throat, KITSUNE begins to hump him.)

TWO THOUSAND AND ONE--A HAIR ODYSSEY

2009-09-24T11:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I forgot to wear my ball cap to the job site and paid for my lapse. I was trimming large cedar branches with the chain saw when a quarter-size dollop of cedar resin fell on top of my head. I didn’t notice it until later when I reached up to ruffle the sawdust of my scalp and managed to squish the sticky substance into my hair, creating a wad of sawdust, resin, hair, and grossness. Yuck.

In the hours before I could get home, the mass of unspeakable putrescence expanded in volume and nastiness. It seemed to be attracting additional dirt, dust, lint, small insects, and airborne detritus of all kinds. Firmly affixed to my head, it had adhesion power that rivaled superglue. I figured turpentine or mineral spirits on a rag, carefully and patiently applied over several hours, was my first option in attacking the lump, now twice it’s original size. I think I could feel it move, I’m pretty sure about this, like a jungle parasite or alien larva. I wanted it off! Get it off me!

On all the shelves and cabinets of my garage, there was not one drop of solvent.

Desperately I looked around for something. There, flaunting its cheerful blue and white logo, was a modest little can of WD-40, peeking out from behind a can of motor oil, as if to whisper, “Psssst! Over here!” I remembered reading an article called “Facts and Myths about WD-40, Versatile Product of 2000 Uses” or something like that. WD-40?

Oh, what the hell.

I sprayed some of the Versatile Product on my fingertips and went to work. Working completely by feel, I rubbed the secret formula into the hairy wad. Within ten seconds the repulsive mess had completely disappeared. I mean, vanished, vamoosed, kaput. I couldn’t believe it. I kept searching through my hair to find where the thing had hidden. It was gone!

My next thought was, “What have I done?” I envisioned scalp burns, blisters, a large and growing bald spot, maybe melanoma. At the least, I figured I had burned my hair follicles into brittle, straw-like stubs. Quick, to the shower! I washed my hair twice. Hmmmmm? Seemed OK. As I dried and then brushed my hair, I noted something peculiar. My hair looked and felt great. I don’t use conditioner when I wash my hair, so I don’t have much experience in these things, being a manly man and all, but this must be what conditioner is like. My hair felt silky and healthy and . . . well . . . nice. A day later, it still does.

So, WD-40 marketeers, you should immediately do two things. First, (1) add Versatile Use number Two Thousand and ONE, Hair Conditioner, to your ad campaign, and second, (2) pay me some big moolah for my discovery and the free advertising I’ve just given you on my blog. Phone lines are open to receive your proposal, perhaps monetizing my website, though I would also consider a one-time buy-out if it were of sufficient size.

But I’m keeping my eye on the really big payoff. You see, I don’t have a whole lot of hair up there anymore. If I notice a new crop coming in, WD-40 and I are going to make a killing in the hair restoration racket. I really should keep my mouth shut about this, don’t you think? Shhh.

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART THIRTEEN

2009-09-20T20:24:00.000-07:00

.

This is it. The final episode in the YELLOW WOOD series. It completes the expedition I wanted to attempt. Thank you, my friends, and my dear sisters, for being sturdy companions as I hiked strange paths, taking such odd forks and twists through the forest of memory.

There will be an epilogue in a few days that I am very confident you will enjoy. “Guaranteed to raise a smile,” as the song lyric promises. The epilogue covers events that occur within the chronology of YELLOW WOOD, but also go far beyond the limits of this series. That’s why it’s not included here.

So let’s get on with it, and wrap it up.

Gung Ho

PFC Jenkins, Robert, U.S.M.C.

“The Old Man wants to see you.”

Out of the corner of his mouth Gus Baldwin asks , “What have you done now?”

I gave him my most innocent shrug.

He warned me, “Do not mention my name.”

The Old Man was still First Lieutenant Mike Stevens, and he was still shy of his twenty-sixth birthday. I stood at attention in his office at Cherry Point, North Carolina. The Old Man kept me standing there for what seemed like several minutes.

“Jenkins, what the hell are you doing in my command?”

“Sir, I was given orders to report to this . . . .”

“Shut up.”

I shut.

“You have the top tech rating in the battalion. Your IQ and aptitude scores are off the charts. Why are you a PFC in Delta Battery?”

“I . . . ah . . . got promoted from Private?”

“Do not mess with me, Jenkins.”

“No sir, messing with you, sir, would be a mistake of classic pro . . . .”

“SHUT . . . YOUR . . . HOLE.”

Hole. Shut. Mine. Completely.

Lieutenant Stevens swiveled around in his desk chair and stared out the window as a launcher loaded with HAWK missiles was pulled along by a loader. Too fast. Tank driver fantasies. Gunny Cunningham catches him shit will fly all over base. Wouldn’t want to miss that. Where’s Gunny when you need him?

The Lieutenant didn’t seem to notice. The wall clock ticked. I waited. Marines are pretty good at waiting, even standing at attention.

“At ease, Marine.”

I relaxed, but not too much. What was this about?

“I’m going to recommend you for Officer Candidate School.”

“Sir?”

“We’ll send you to college, on our ticket. You graduate as fast as you can, you malingering fuck, we commission you, you give us five more years, six if you want to go to flight school. You want to go to flight school like your stepfather?”

How did he know about my stepfather, Lu Smith, the “former” Marine fighter pilot? Smith wasn’t even my last name. Well, Stevens was, after all, the Old Man and thereby semi-divine, but his knowledge of my background was, in a word, disconcerting.

He repeated, “You want to go to flight school?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, no flight school.”

“I mean, no sir, I don’t want to go to OCS or get a commission.”

The Lieutenant stared at me like I had spit in his face. Then he spoke, very, very softly. It is not a good thing when Marine officers speak very, very softly.

“Please, if it’s not too terribly much trouble . . . .”

Oh shit, I am screwed.

“Please tell me why you are declining a free college education and a commission in my United States Marine Corps after I have hung my ass out in the wind to provide you with this singular honor?”

Really, really, really screwed.

“I want to go to Viet Nam, sir?”

“You. Want. To. Go. To. Viet. Nam. (Every word was its own sentence.) What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s the only war we’re fighting, sir, and I want my piece of it.”

“Oh my God, do not, do NOT, quote me that Gung Ho bullshit! Viet Nam is not a war! It’s a stinking dog turd and good Marines are being killed for that stinking dog turd.”

“It’s the only dog turd I’ve got sir, and I’m afraid it will be over before I get into it.”

Contemporary readers will appreciate the irony of that statement.

“Let me tell you how it’s going to be, smart ass. You are going to accept my offer. We are going to help you clean up your cluster-fucked academic record from Florida State, then we are going to put you somewhere else, and that somewhere else just might be the Naval Academy at Annapolis. In four years you are going to graduate with honors and you are going accept your commission in the Marine Corps. You are going to Basic School. And then, and then, you are going lead Marines in the real fight, the fight against the goddamn Soviet Union because that’s where the real war is. Do you read me, Jenkins?”

“No, sir.”

“What part did you have trouble understanding?”

“I understood it all, sir, but I must respectfully decline your offer.”

“Respectfully . . . decline.”

“Yes, sir, and I petition you to grant my current request for immediate deployment to Viet Nam. I have been submitting those requests every week.”

He ignored me.

“Do you even know where Viet Nam is?”

“It’s somewhere in Asia, sir, swampy, I believe.”

“Swampy. Oh my Jesus U.S.M.C. Christ. I have got Chesty Puller’s little fight’n devil dog right here in my own unworthy office. Jenkins, you may be some kind of test-taking genius, but you are the dumbest motherfucker I have had the misfortune, the miserable bad luck, of having in my command. Why is God in heaven punishing me?”

He sat there rapping his knuckles against the desk. Not a good sign. Maybe he wanted an answer to his question.

“I don’t know, sir, why God in heaven is punishing you.”

Sometimes I wish I could just keep my mouth shut. But he didn’t come after me for my wise-crackery. His mood changed.

“Is that your final decision?” Fuck the commission. Fuck Lieutenant Stevens. Send me to Viet Nam?”

Deep breath.

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Caiazzo, get your lazy ass in here.”

Sergeant Caiazzo sauntered in to the Old Man’s office. Disheveled, overweight, Caiazzo was a caricature of the typical admin puke, but he was a pretty decent guy. Just wouldn’t want him on night patrol.

“Cut orders to get this dumbfuck PFC transferred to Bravo Battery, Second LAAM. That’s in Chu Lai, Jenkins. Viet Nam, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

Caiazzo, get him out on my battery before I have to see his sorry ass ever again.”

“Yessir.”

Caiazzo slouched out of the office.

“What are you waiting for, a brass band to play the Marine Corps Hymn?”

“No sir, thank you, sir.”

“Do not fucking thank me. Dismissed.”

I snapped to attention and executed a snappy about face.

“Jenkins. Stop. Caiazzo!”

Caiazzo stuck his head back in the door.

“Sir?”

“While you’re typing up his orders, get his promotion papers together.”

“Sir?”

“We still have one Lance Corporal allocation?”

“Yessir, but you were going to give it to . . .”

Stevens cut him off.

“Give it to this . . . warfighter.”

“Yessir.”

Caiazzo winked at me and disappeared.

“Why are you still cluttering up my office?”

“Sorry, sir, I’m gone with the wind, sir, gone with the wind.”

“Fuck you, Jenkins.”

I was trying not to grin.

Well. We’re done. You’re done. I’m done. The YELLOW ROAD is done. It feels kind of incomplete doesn’t it? Unfinished. Of course, there will be another expedition, a journey to that most bizarre of all American wars, Viet Nam. For those who have been making a certain request, yes, there will be romance. Romance, and weirdness enough for an entire season of The Twilight Zone.

So, let’s get off this Road with homage to the poem that framed it, from Robert Frost,

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a road, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

(Sigh)

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART TWELVE

2009-09-19T20:57:00.000-07:00

This episode is also the second scene in a three-part series about hunting, and why I stopped hunting. It fits chronologically in the Yellow Wood series, so here it resides for now. I am not proud of this story, but the karma I incurred eventually contributed to a good cause.

Semper Fool

We ran through all our missiles and all our beer in two days. Lieutenant Stevens was pulling in all his favors to get more beer, but the Navy was not inclined to help us out after the Big Drone Turkey Shoot. With almost a week to go on our Puerto Rican deployment, we looked around for other ways to get into trouble.

Nothing.

Viegas is a desolate postage stamp floating on the immense Caribbean Ocean. White sand, a tiny off-limits camp, fleas, and that’s about it. So we took to the clear aquamarine waters, inventing every sport or game that bored, reckless, and irresponsible Marines could devise, drunk or sober.

Having actually paid attention to the stateside briefing, I came prepared with a free-diving rig: snorkel, mask, fins and . . . coup de grace . . . a sparkling new spear gun! Yes, go ahead and shudder. Spear gun wielded by 18 year old hungover Marine.

The water was so transparent it was like swimming through air. The bottom was mostly sugary sand, so it was difficult to judge the depth. Warm, soft, calm, quiet.

I went hunting for dinner.

As it turned out, the big game I sought (anything I could shoot at and hit) was actually stalking me. I turned around in fifteen feet of water to come face to face with a barracuda, about six feet of barracuda, just hovering motionless a few feet away, slightly above me, slowly opening and closing its mouth to show off its many, many sharp white teeth, as if in warning, or, perhaps, anticipation. I resisted the urge to fire a spear at it; a rare moment of good judgment, or terror.

We looked at each other for a while until it dawned on me that I was out of air and needed to breathe. I didn’t want to surface, dangling my legs like plump sausages, and exposing myself to attack from below. The best plan I could formulate was to hoot something that sounded like “blubba blubba blubba” and wave my arms menacingly. This plan I commenced with ferocious energy.

The big-toothed monster didn’t move. I realized my failed “blubba” tactic had cost me my remaining air. I had to breathe, now!

“So, ‘cuda, my brother, I am going for air and I’m going right through you to get it.”

I pushed off straight at the barracuda. In a silent, but violent swirling detonation, it disappeared. I mean, vanished! It was there, then it was gone. I never saw it swim away. I saw nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I surfaced, cleared my snorkel, breathed, and looked back down to make sure it wasn’t coming for me. All quiet on the Viegas front. So, I continued the hunt, embarrassed by my fear of the barracuda. Hey, it snuck up behind me and surprised me! A sneak attack. You’d be scared, too, don’t think you wouldn’t. I was not in a good mood.

That’s when I saw the manta ray.

I was now in about thirty feet of water, and the ray was quartering below me, a perfect shot. No, I don’t know why anyone would want to shoot a manta ray. Maybe it was a different time, before PETA, before awareness. Maybe I just wanted to scare something. Without thinking about it, I leaned back with the spear gun pointing down between by fins, and, as it passed under me, put a spear into it. The spear poinked into the right wing. The ray, about twelve feet across, wing tip to wing tip, didn’t seem to notice, didn’t turn, didn’t slow down, didn’t speed up. It just kept gliding. The spear was attached to twenty feet of line, maybe less, and for a couple of seconds I thought:

“This is really cool. I’m going for a ride on a manta ray!”

Then, as all the line reeled out, and I started moving much faster than I anticipated, these thoughts came quickly:

“It’s going deeper it’s going really fast it doesn’t even know I’m here I’m not going to stop it it’s really really strong I’m running out of air what the fuck have I done?”

Well, nobody has ever pointed to young Marines as examples of good judgment. I had stupidly gotten myself into this fix and I had to make a choice.

I let go of the gun.

For a few seconds I watched the huge creature swim off over the white sand and into the blue beyond, towing my spear gun behind. Damn. I really liked that spear gun. I only shot it one time. Damn.

By the time I got back to the beach, a sad and shameful realization had begun to creep into my mind.

“Why did I shoot that animal? I wasn’t going to eat it. I just like shooting things. What’s that about? What if the wound gets infected and it dies? I’m sorry, manta ray, for shooting you. Oh, fuck. Oh, goddamn.”

Like that.

Sigh.

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART ELEVEN

2009-09-19T12:22:00.000-07:00

Sweet Birds of Our Youth

Fly fast and true, you bitch.

We birthed the Hawks at Cherry Point, nested them aboard a LST (Landing Ship Tank) at Atlantic Beach, babied them down the eastern seaboard (shadowed by Soviet subs), cradled them ashore on Viegas, Puerto Rico in the dead of night. Our deadly little fledglings.

You want some extreme bad boy fun? Go on an amphibious landing with the Marines! I’m not being sarcastic; this is the real deal in manly men entertainment. As the first sunrise warmed the Caribbean , we were already moving forward toward our first objective: the four palettes of beer thoughtfully provided by the Old Man, Lieutenant Mike Stevens, commanding Delta Battery, 3rd Light Anti-Aircraft Missile Battalion, all of 26 years old.

“NOW HEAR THIS! THE C.O. (commanding officer) WANTS BIRDS READY TO FLY BEFORE YOU TOUCH THAT BEER!”

Figures. We decanted the missiles from their tubes, locked them down on their launchers, ran through all the assembly and ready protocols, calibrated the radars, armed the warheads, and (shhhhhhh) continued our fire-and-maneuver assault on the beer palettes.

“NOW HEAR THIS! THE C.O. WANTS YOU READY TO LAUNCH AND IN FORMATION IN FRONT OF THE BCC (Battery Control Central) AT ZERO SEVEN FIFTY (7:50 a.m.). TARGET DRONES WILL FLY AT ZERO NINE (9:00 a.m.) IF THE NAVY WAKES UP IN TIME TO LIGHT THE FUSES.)

We laughed. Making fun of the Navy once a day is a Marine obligation.

You need to know this about the drones, jet-propelled targets for our Hawks. Drones are owned and flown by the Navy. They are expensive and the Squids (Navy) don’t like to lose them, especially to Marine Hawks. So the drones tow a highly irradiated sleeve behind them on a very long cable. This target sleeve reads sizzling hot on the Hawk radar system. Looking at the acquisition scope, the actual drone reads as a soft, fuzzy speck ahead of the bright sleeve bogie. Our missiles and the Navy have this in common: they both want the Hawk to lock on and destroy the sleeve instead of the drone itself. The drone has a parachute and is retrieved later and re-used.

“Do NOT,” threatens the Navy, “Do NOT shoot down our drones!”

So, we’re in formation and the Old Man gives us the word:

“Every swinging dick in this goddamn battery wanted to be an infantry Marine, including me, especially me. But the Marine Corps in its infinite green wisdom wanted us here in the goddamn Air Wing, and I’m pissed about it. Any of you pissed about it?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” (This was the Old Corps before “Ooo Rah” came into fashion—whatever the hell that means.)

The Old Man continued:

“I may not be an infantry commander. You may not be grunts. But I will tell you this, I am a fucking warfighter and I am fucking pissed off. You warfighters pissed off?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“The mission of Third LAAM is to get you ready to replace your brothers in the First and Second LAAMs already in Viet Nam. When you get over there, you are going to be in the weeds, sooner or later, rifle man or missile man, you are going to catch the flying shit. My job is to get you ready to fight. To fight, goddammit, like a Marine fights. I don’t care if your MOS (Military Occupation Specialty) is 0311 (infantry) or 6742 (missile), you are going to have the same warrior spirit. You are going to take the war to our enemy and you are going to rain destruction on his fucking head. You are going to kill the enemies of the United States of America. You understand me?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“So, the first thing we’re going to do to get that warrior spirit is shoot down every fucking drone the Navy puts in the air. We are going to blow those fucking drones out of the fucking sky. You understand me, Marines?”

“AYE, AYE, L.T.!” (L. T. is an affectionate, but respectful, honorific for Lieutenant.)

“The we drink beer until our eyeballs explode. Sound the alert.”

The battle sirens began to wail.

And that’s what we did, all day long. Killed drones. The Navy launched, and we shot them down. One after the other. Let me tell you, it takes a dedicated team to keep the bird locked on the soft drone signature when it’s straining against the leash to go after the yummy hot sleeve. You have to “ride it all the way in.” All the way in.

After we secured for the afternoon and were just getting started on the party, Lt. Stevens was paid a visit by the brass, Navy and Marine. First the Navy Commander chewed Stevens a new asshole and stormed off. Then the Marine Colonel started in . . . until the Navy was out of earshot. The Colonel shut it down and stood there laughing with our Old Man. The Colonel was practically doing a jig.

Next day, bleary eyed, we warmed up the birds, locked on the Navy drones, and shot them out of the sky. Every one of them.

We wouldn’t want to disappoint the Old Man.

OooRah! (whatever the hell that means.)

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART TEN

2009-09-16T20:07:00.000-07:00

Ambush

Yellow Wood is an image from a Robert Frost poem, “The Road Not Taken.”

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth

The Yellow Wood series is about choices and consequences. There are many paths in this Wood, some safe, some unknown, and the poem glorifies choosing mystery above security. Sometimes I chose to go one way, sometimes another, tripping, stumbling, getting into this jam, or that situation, and then getting out of trouble, mostly.

Now I have to change this theme to accomodate, as we say in the theatre, an "obligatory scene," something you need to witness in order to understand the climax.

I didn’t know I was being hunted.

Back in the shadows, following my every twist and turn, a beast was silently padding along, waiting for just the right moment. Did I sense the beast? I don’t think so. It was a long time ago, but I’m pretty sure I never saw it coming. How could I know it had flanked me and found undergrowth up ahead in which to crouch and wait?

Parris Island, South Carolina. Marine Corps Recruit Depot. Boot camp.

I’m not going to tell the story of boot camp. Go rent a movie if you want the Technicolor version. My thirteen-week sojourn in Gung Ho Hell was no different from that of a million other Marines. Except for one event. The ambush by the beast.

Somebody was shaking me awake.

“Who? What?”

It was the “Firewatch,” another recruit who had the duty of constantly patrolling the squad bay to make sure no one was jerking off or trying to escape. We didn’t have the energy for the first or the balls for the second.

“What’s happening?”

“Senior Drill Instructor wants you in his office right now. Boots and utes (utility uniform with a T-shirt). One minute. Get your ass in gear and move.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost zero one (one o’clock a.m.)”

In a panic I fumbled with my boots and trousers. “Oh God, what have I done?” In the semi-dark I could see other recruits silently watching. I raced up the squad bay. As I passed Marion’s rack, he whispered, “What the fuck?”

“I don’t know, man, but it must be bad.”

I pounded on the jamb of the Drill Instructor’s door.

“Come.”

I entered the inner sanctum and snapped to attention.

Staff Sergeant Vernon E. Barker, my senior Drill Instructor was fully dressed in Alpha Uniform and squared away so much he almost sparkled. At this time of night, that was not a good sign. Then I noticed that the other two Drill Instructors, Sergeant Ross and Corporal Costello (who hated my guts) were also in full uniform. This was going to be bad, really, really, bad. What the fuck could I have done to warrant this reception?”

Barker took a deep breath.

“Private Jenkins . . . “

Not Shitbag or Fuckface. Oh sweet Jesus.

“I have the regrettable duty to inform you . . . that your mother has shot herself.”

Frozen. Paralyzed. Out of time. Mother. Shot. Herself. Mother. Herself. Shot. Mother.

“We don’t know much except that she is still alive in a hospital in Tallahassee.”

Herself. Mother. Shot.

“Sit down, Jenkins.” This from Costello (who hated my guts).

Ross brought over a folding chair and a glass of water. “Drink it.”

Barker took over.

“I’m going to take you over to the chapel. The Chaplain is waiting for you. You’re going to stay there until reveille, then you’re going to report back here and pack your gear, all of it. Do you want someone to help you?”

“Sir, yes sir, Private Baldwin.”

“We’re going to put you on the first available bus and send you to Tallahassee. You’re going to get a week’s leave plus travel time. Sergeant Ross, give him travel funds.”

Ross handed me a wad of currency.

“I know you’re not going to like this next part, but there’s nothing we can do about it. You won’t be coming back to the Three Three Eight. We’re going to set you back two weeks in another platoon.”

“Sir!”

“Sorry, Jenkins, bad break.” This from Costello (who hated my guts).

“Sir. Isn’t there something you can do to keep me in the platoon? We have mess duty next week. Couldn’t I miss mess duty and do it later?”

“Mess duty is not the problem. I don’t give a fuck about mess duty. But you would be missing the first three or four days of rifle range. That’s not negotiable.”

“But, Sir, I’m already a crack shot, I know I can catch up.”

“How’s that?”

“My great grandpa, Papa Keel, taught me to shoot when I was a little boy. My Uncle Albert taught me to hunt the backwoods. In high school I was a member of the Junior National Rifle Association and got my expert badge. Please don’t send me back, Sir, I want to graduate with my buddies, I mean, the platoon. I know I can do it”

Barker looked at the other two Drill Instructors.

“What do you think?”

Ross opined, “Well, he was in the NRA. The CO might buy that.”

Barker said, “He would need extra instruction. Someone would have to volunteer”

“I’ll do it.” This from Costello (who hated my guts).

“Sergeant Ross, Corporal Costello, you have a lot of ground to cover. Make it happen.”

Ross and Costello came over and, in turn, put out their hands, which I shook.

“Semper Fi.”

"Semper Fi."

Ross and Costello left. Barker came over and actually put his hand on my shoulder.

“Son (son?), we’ll do what we can to take care of you here. Now, you go home and do what you need to do. You got that?"

"Sir."

"Come on, I’ll walk you over to the chapel.”

I don’t remember much about the rest of the night, the Chaplain, what bullshit he said, the travel arrangements. Gus helped me pack, helped me get uniforms ready, and stow my gear. (When you go to the rifle range, you change barracks and have to take everything with you.) The other recruits, whenever possible, sent me sympathetic looks, or a smile, or found an opportunity to brush against me, or touch my shoulder. The Drill Instructors pretended not to notice.

Nor do I remember much about the long bus ride south to Tallahassee. I don’t remember getting there, or who I saw, or what I did. Fragmented images, memory flashes of my stepfather crying and trying to cope, friends offering support and food. Where were my sisters? I just can’t remember.

But I do remember my mother. She had been moved from Intensive Care. They had already determined that she was never, ever going to wake up again. The bullet had shattered into several pieces and had tunneled deep into her brain. She was already gone, except for the heart pumping and the breathing. I held her hand, so skinny and cold, and talked to her.

You know what you think to yourself in a moment like this? You think, maybe just maybe, way down there she can hear you. It’s dark and she’s scared. Your touch is a rescue line and she’s holding on to it. Your voice is a little flickering candle light that she crawls into, away from the blackness. You say all the things that can be said that might bring her comfort if she can just hear you a little bit, and, yes you use every platitude you know about heaven and Jesus and a better life because you are desperate for something to say and if platitudes are all you got, then that’s what you use.

Hours passed, then days. Her body wouldn’t die. And I hope most of you will forgive me when I say, I wanted it to. Die. Even after all the abuse she had inflicted on herself for many years, her lungs kept pumping and her heart kept beating. There really wasn’t much of her to keep alive, was there? She couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds.

There’s one final memory I want to tell you about because it always gets to me. The first couple of weeks in boot camp, before the shooting, my high school sweetheart, Judy Vance, had sent me a “Dear John” letter. What a cliché! I didn’t mention it earlier, because the event was so trite and predictable, that it’s not in any way remarkable. Judy and Bob. Kaput. Fini. Over and Out. Stick a fork in it. But, at the hospital, some church had provided a guestbook for friends to record their goodbye visits to my mother. There, on the first page, among the earliest to arrive and give their condolences, were Judy Vance, and her mother, Pat, my arch-nemesis. I can’t express to you how much that small kindness meant to me, and still does.

The day came when I had to catch the bus back to Parris Island. Mother still alive.

Back at boot camp, it all worked out. Costello (who maybe didn’t really hate my guts) helped me catch up with the “snapping in” phase of rifle training. On the range I delivered on my promise and fired Expert, second in the platoon, in fact. Top marksman was a skinny little coot from Kentucky with no teeth. That boy was dumb as dirt, but, oh Bubba, could he shoot! Rifle range was good for me. Simple. Focused. Just do it. Don't think about anything else.

But we’re not quite done, are we? The day after rifle qualification, I got the news that my mother had finally died. Her body was being transported to New Bern so that she could be put to rest next to her father, Frank, who had, ironically, also killed himself.

There was simply no way I could take another leave and still graduate with my platoon, and it was impossible to arrange transportation for me to attend the funeral on a weekend pass.

Or was it impossible?

My stepfather, Lu, who never quite got around to adopting me, the ex-Marine fighter pilot, called in a favor from an old comrade. I may be the only recruit in the history of Parris Island to be escorted to a funeral and back in the rear seat of a Marine Corps fighter bomber.

I’m not going to detail the funeral, one of the saddest you can imagine. Small town girl runs away with the dashing Marine pilot, fails at life, dies, and comes home to be buried. Not much grace in that. There’s more to say, but I think I’ll leave that to my sisters, Linda and Lezlie, who were nine and ten years old at the time, if they want to color in my hasty sketch.

Back at the Island for the final weeks of boot camp, the fun part when we were almost Marines, and went out in the weeds to learn war. We all wanted to be infantry Marines, devil dogs, leathernecks, but the Corps had other ideas for a few of us. Gus and I scored very high on certain tests, almost identical scores, and when they announced each Marine’s MOS (Military Occupation Specialty) there were two assignments to the 6742 MOS. You guessed it, me and Gus.

Hawk missiles.

Costello smirked, “Jenkins and Baldwin. Fucking Air Wing pukes. Just what I expected.”

But Gus and I grinned at each other. We were going to our first duty station together! Together! I swear I saw Staff Sergeant Barker wink at me.

So we graduated, two days before my eighteenth birthday. They gave us the sacred Eagle, Globe, and Anchor insignia, and baby, there’s only one way to get one of those. The CO gave the order and the Senior Drill Instructor dismissed us with those cherished words,

“Congratulations . . . Marines.”

We were all standing around feeling twelve feet tall and patting each others’ backs when Corporal Costello walked up to me and said, “Jenkins, you know I hate your guts, don’t you.”

“Yeah, Corporal, I know you do.”

Costello grinned like a demon from hell, stuck out his hand, shook my own, laughed like a crazy man, and walked away.

So let’s wrap it up and move on. Thanks so much for sticking with me through this. The beast you could call grief and remorse and guilt and regret had ambushed me and mauled me. It didn’t kill me. Hey, beast, bite me again.

I promise the concluding episodes will be jolly good fun, and, God knows, you deserve it.

Marion Baldwin, third row from the bottom, second from the left.

Robert Jenkins, fourth row from the bottom, at the end of the row on the right.

Also, Staff Sergeant Vernon E. Barker, Sergeant Ross, and, of course, Corporal Costello

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART NINE

2009-09-15T23:36:00.000-07:00

The Battle of the Hinky Dink

A Comic Interlude

The compartment was stuffed with keyed-up recruits on their way to boot camp at Parris Island. As the train jerked out of the Raleigh station, I found an empty seat up front and collapsed. It had been a rough few days getting my under-age enlistment papers signed, enduring the physical exams, and thumbing the tedious hundred-mile hitch hike from New Bern.

Our Marine babysitter, a corporal, slid the door open and stuck his head in, and roared:

“Shut your fucking cakeholes! OK . . . listen up. It’s going to take this train about eight hours to crawl down to Beaufort where we get off and take a bus to the Island. Get all the sleep you can. It’s the last decent sleep you’re gonna get for a week. In a little while we’re gonna bring you boxed suppers. Eat it all. It’s the last civilian food you’re gonna eat until you graduate from Boot. Oh Jesus H. Christ and Chesty Puller who sits on the right hand of God! What am I saying? I am looking at this sorry cluster fuck recruit shit pile, and I am thinking, most of them will get kicked out anyway, so why bother telling them anything? Can any of you dickless wonders tell me why I am wasting my breath giving you this valuable information?”

The guy next to me who appeared to be napping through the corporal's tirade, opened his eyes, and offered:

“Because underneath your false bravado, you’re really a swell guy with a heart of gold?”

The coach car went dead silent.

“What’s your name, recruit?”

“Baldwin.”

“What’s your first name, Bald . . . win?”

“Marion.”

“Marion. Mar . . . i . . .on. Marion. Mary . . . un. Well . . . Mary, let me give you a piece of advice . . . if that’s OK with you?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Thank you so much.”

Marion Baldwin and the corporal were trying to out-sarcasm each other. The rest of us were watching with dread fascination.

“You’re very welcome.”

“The first time you use that smart mouth of yours on a Marine Corps Drill Instructor, he is going to rip out your tongue and eat it in front of you. That’s going to be the last thing you see before he kills you.”

“I’m afraid. Very, very afraid.”

The corporal just smiled and, with a sigh, shook his head as if in sorrow.

“The rest of you ass pimples need to make a decision here and now. You can keep your mouths shut, do what you’re told, and behave yourself like the sweet little pussies that you are, or you can follow the example of . . . what’s your name? Mary? The example of smart-mouth Mary over here and fall into the deep, deep shit. Your choice. Don’t leave this car until I come back for you.”

He slid the door shut. The conversation buzzed alive. I looked over at my companion who was grinning at me. He stuck out his hand.

“But you can call me Gus.”

We shook hands.

“Why Gus?”

“My full name is, get ready, Marion Augustus Egbert Linnet Baldwin the Third, but, like I said, you can call me Gus, short for Augustus.”

“Gus it is.”

“And your parents burdened you with what unfortunate nom de plume?”

“Bob Smith, I mean, Bob . . . Jenkins.”

“Interesting. Don’t know your own name. Either you are in disguise, a spy perhaps? Or just stupid?”

“Probably the latter. I joined the Marines, didn’t I?”

He liked that and laughed appreciatively. For the next couple of hours we talked, as young men do, about ourselves, and why we had ended up on this train, clattering through the night toward a rendezvous with thirteen weeks of torment in the South Carolina swamps.

Marion “Gus” Baldwin was about my height and size. Where I was dark, he was fair, and exemplified his Scandinavian ancestry. He was handsome in a picaresque sort of way and had a glint in his eye that could best be described as ‘wicked.’ I liked him immensely.

The boxed meals arrived and were passed out among the Marines-to-be. I don’t remember what was in each box except for one item, a sugary rolled-up pastry in cellophane. Something like a Ding Dong, this culinary masterwork was labeled “Hinky Dink.” I was taking a cautious bite of mine when, behind me, a recruit began to complain.

“Where’s my Hinky Dink? I didn’t get no Hinky Dink. I WANT MY GODDAMN HINKY DINK!”

As he whined, Gus looked over at me with an evil smirk (I would soon learn to recognize this particular smirk as the prelude to disaster).

“He wants a Hinky Dink.”

“Yes he does.”

“Shall we sit here like sweet little pussies . . . or shall we go to war like United States Marines?”

I made my decision.

“Semper Fi.”

“Gung Ho”

Like a well-trained fire team, we rose in one smooth motion, whirled, and fired our twin Hinky Dinks right into the whiner’s face. Splat! Splat!

In shock, the Dinked complainer sputtered, “Who did that? Who hit me with a Hinky Dink?”

“That guy up front, Mary.”

With an innocent shrug, Gus explained, “You said you wanted a Hinky Dink.”

“You son of a bitch.”

The victim of our assault grabbed a half sandwich from his companion’s box and hurled it at us. We ducked. It hit the guy in front of us right in the back of the head. After a short pause, the injured party picked up the half-sandwich, slowly rose from his seat, and turned around. It was my first look at Lawrence Covington, black as night in the jungle, muscled like a Zulu war chief, little stub of a cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth. From the streets of Chicago. Oops.

“You hit me wid yo sammich.”

Covington was surrounded by a quartet of other guys from the Chicago streets. They got to their feet.

“Get that crackuh!” Covington hurled the sandwich back toward the big-eyed whiner.

And it was on.

The Battle of the Hinky Dink.

Our first Marine Corps combat.

Covington’s gang started throwing every piece of uneaten food in their boxes, indiscriminately hitting anyone seated in the rear of the compartment. Gus and I decided that our best move was to enlist with Covington, and we joined his squad, now swelling to brigade size with new volunteers. But there were more “crackuhs” in the rear of the train. We were outnumbered! Soon the rear guard had emptied their boxes by launching all the contents at us. We were re-supplying with ammunition! Now it was our turn to bombard the unarmed defenders with pieces of food that were getting noticeably smaller and harder to lob with each artillery exchange.

Back and forth the battle raged. The air was thick with flying debris. After a while there was nothing big enough to effectively throw at the enemy. We calmed down, out of breath, and looked around at the greasy chaos that covered the floor, the seats, and each other. Covington started laughing and we all joined in. Someone started chanting:

“Hinky Dink! Hinky Dink! I want my Goddamn Hinky Dink.”

Pretty soon we were all chanting at the top of our lungs. Later we would learn the traditional Corps cadence calls, songs, and routines. But none of those ever surpassed the exultant hymn of our first Marine victory.

“Hinky Dink! Hinky Dink! I want my Goddamn Hinky Dink.”

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART EIGHT

2009-09-14T22:51:00.000-07:00

Into the Black, Red, and Gold Wood

I got the job.

Assistant manager of the Kinston, North Carolina Hardees hamburger joint. I was a seventeen year old whiz bang cock a doodle doo!

Since hitchhiking up from Florida five weeks earlier, I had hunkered down in New Bern, North Carolina, humid cradle of my Tarheel birth. I was home, just a bubbling little dumpling in the collard pot of my ancestral DNA. Recovered from the bone-deep fatigue of the escape from Tallahassee, I had taken a promising position as burger and fries assembly technician at the Hardees Hamburgers of New Bern. After one week, I was promoted to cashier; another week, shift manager. The burger joint talent pool was thin in my home town. Just shy of a month in my burgeoning burger business, I was invited to Kinston, thirty-five miles away, to interview as assistant manager. Whooooeee!

The interview was a stunning conquest. I knew every word the manager said, even those with two syllables, and I was able to respond to every question in complete sentences. Spitting a delicate line of tobacco juice into a milkshake cup, he expressed his admiration for my education and every confidence in my leadership potential.

I was hired on the spot.

Congratulating myself, I strolled down the streets of Kinston, heading for the bus station, when I saw something me that jerked me to a halt. On a sandwich board in front of the Post Office, in square-jawed splendor, A United States Marine was starring at me, warrior to warrior. On that sign were the words “Ready” and “Join U.S. Marines.”

I stood frozen, deliberating upon the glamour and excitement of my newly acquired position as a Hardees Hamburger captain. I compared that glory to the pain and suffering guaranteed by the Marines mythos. These things I mulled over for, say, three seconds, then executed a snappy . . .

“By the right flank . . . Har!”

(Just a note of clarification here. When calling close order drill commands, Marines don’t actually say, “March!” The call is more like “Huh” or “Haw” or “Hoo” and it’s kind of grunted with a forceful expulsion of air. Each drill instructor does it differently. It’s a personal thing. But it’s never “March.”)

The Marine recruiting sergeant (who looked just like the one outside on the poster ) delivered the obligatory admonitions. “The Marines are not . . . boot camp is the toughest . . .you may not . . . many fail . . . .are you sure about this?” Growing up as a military brat, a Marine brat in fact, I had heard all this stuff before. But was I sure? Was I?

Suddenly I was. I really was. I was dead certain that this was the right choice for me at this empty time in my life.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ I’m a sergeant. I work for a living.”

(Walked into that one.)

“Yes, sergeant.”

There was, of course, the issue of my age, seventeen. The recruiter assured me there was no problem . . . as long as I could obtain parental consent. He was, in fact, eager to help me overcome this minor obstacle. Recruiters have quotas to fill, and I was prime beef stumbling in off the street to the slaughter. No way was I busting out of his corral. He would telephone his counterpart in Tallahassee who would, in turn, pay a personal visit to my parents and persuade them to sign the papers. No problem, my dad was a former Marine, right?

Well that part was fine, but there was a . . . hitch. A mind-blowing, ground shaking, soul rattling, thermonuclear hitch. Dad was not. Was not my dad. Not. My. Dad. Luther S. Smith Jr., Major, USMC (ret.) was not my father.

I had always known that Lu Smith was my stepfather, but he told me that he had adopted me as his son. The truth was . . . he had never quite gotten around to it. I had grown up as Bob Smith, “Smitty,” to my friends, gone to school as Bob Smith, but I was really Bob . . . Jenkins. What? Chew on that, Bubba, at seventeen, with one phone call, you change into somebody else.

My mother signed her half of the permissions, but I had to locate my bio-dad to get his signature on the Semper Fi line. Locating my “real” father, Robert W. Jenkins, wasn’t difficult. I had been sleeping on his couch in New Bern for several weeks.

Let’s stop for a moment. Imagine the joy that washed through the remnants of the Jenkins family when they heard the news that I was still Bob Jenkins. Not only had the prodigal son returned, but he had brought home the family name itself. As the only son of an only son, my alleged adoption had ended the Jenkins lineage. Now the line was back in business!

I once was lost, but now I’m found,
Was Smith, but now I’m Jenkins!

(Sorry)

So Big Bob Jenkins signed the permissions for Little Bob Jenkins. Dear Old Bio-Dad even drove me back to Kinston and stood behind me as I stepped up to the gold line and faced the flag.

“Raise your right hand.”

I raised my hand.

“Do you solemnly swear that you will preserve and defend the Constitution of the United States of America from all enemies, foreign and domestic?”

.

The Kind of Woman She Is

2009-09-13T21:11:00.000-07:00

Far across the Phoenix terminal CJ spots the blind woman. The woman is trying to get a place in line at the airport Burger King. She's about 45 degrees off course, thwacking her cane into a railing.

"I'll be back in time to board" says CJ

Always quick with a retort, I cleverly respond, "Huh?"

CJ swerves and dodges her way over to the woman and introduces herself. Within seconds they are laughing. CJ assertively secures the woman a place in the line. Together they creep along toward the grill. CJ reads the menu to her.

(Later CJ tells me the woman ordered veggie burgers. Did you know BK has veggie burgers? I didn't. Did you know blind ladies eat veggie burgers? Me either. Anyway, the veggie burger order endeared the woman to me.)

CJ loads the tray, helps her check out, and takes her to the condiment table.

"No ketchup, dear, I'd just get it all over me."

CJ assembles two greasy bags, walks the woman down the terminal corridor to her companion, also blind. The three of them chat a while and share another laugh.

Tiny beads of kindness on CJ's long necklace.

Me? I didn't even notice the blind woman until CJ took off to the rescue. I'm too involved in my own thoughts, worries, plans, the very important stuff I do. Even if I did notice the blind woman across the terminal, I probably wouldn't have thrashed across the the river of travelers to help her.

That's the difference between me and CJ.

THE AUBURN 49ER FIRE

2009-09-08T22:27:00.000-07:00

Urban Warfare

August 30, 2009

Fighting this fire was urban warfare at its most vicious. The firefighters were clearing the flames, house to house, some saved, some destroyed. A couple of days after the battleground stopped smoking, I drove through to look at the remains of my friends' home. Joe and Faye had a small ranch house on Creekside Way, the "heat center" of the fire.

My own home in Los gatos burned down in 1992, and we lost pretty much everything. It didn't bother me much as I had been possession-less on three other occasions in my life. But there was a difference with these friends. Faye is an artist, a painter, and she lost it all, her life's work, all of it. I am having trouble getting my mind around that.

One of Faye's paintings

Today Joe came in to the office. He needed some info and wanted to say thanks because I had located a house full of furniture for him. (This is a side benefit of being a realtor; I know where everything is; sort of like being a supply sergeant in the Corps.) I hardly recognized Joe, so destroyed in spirit and emotion. He is so worred about Faye. Me, too. But I have a surprise for her. Last year I bought one of her large pieces. At the right time, I'm going to sneak into her house and install it on her wall. I'm thinking, it was just on loan, to keep it safe. You can bet I'm looking forward to that bit of sneakery.

Back to the fire. It started right on the edge of Highway 49 in Auburn and swept due north, propelled by strong winds from the south. Where did they come from, these winds? We haven't had a breeze in weeks. Along this stretch of 49 are commercial buildings, a nursery, tire store, gas station, building supply store with a large lumber yard, things like that. To the east is the Auburn airport. The firefighters attacked along a battle line behind the commercial zone and saved most of those buildings, but the fire squeezed through and raced north into a residential area.

At the corner where Dry Creek road makes it's sharp jog north, adjacent to 84 Lumber, the fighters established a salient, a defensive angle, to keep the fire pinned behind the road. They worked up behind the lumber yard to keep it a bay from all that fuel.

But the fire was channeled right into the Creekside Way neighborhood, a small subdivision of about 50 homes. Here's where the real urban warfare was waged. Driving through the neighborhood, I could see the aftermath of dozens of distinct fire fights. One house saved, the next utterly destroyed. In many places I could see the exact FEBA (forward edge of the battle area in military parlance), a precise line of demarkation between devastation and salvation, sometimes a driveway, sometimes just a singed line in the lawn.

The main battle was along Dry Creek Road itself, after it makes it's big turn back toward the east. On the south side, the Creekside inferno; on the northside, Saddleback subdivision and then, desert-dry woods, fields, grass and houses for miles and miles, all the way to my house.

With the hard wind pushing the fire right at Dry Creek Road, the firefighters knew this was their only chance at containment. It had to be stopped right here. Those of us behind the line held by our guys were evacuated or preparing to evacuate.

What are we going to take? Whos driving what vehicle? Where's Mom? Does the ATM still work? How much gas? What if we get separated? What's plan B? Did we pack dog food? What's an alternate route if the fire gets to Higgins Corner before we do? Should I stay behind and try to defend the house with the hose?

But the line held. At one spot the fire jumped Dry Creek and burned about an acre. The fighters threw it back. Over and over the fire pushed against the defense. The line held. The fire wheeled east. The fighters chased it down an stopped it right at the edgs of home after home. At times they must have been liiterally pressed with their backs agaist a garage wall saving someone's home.

Folks, when you see those brave, skilled men and women out on the corner, fill up their fire boots with your cash. There may come a day when they pull your ass out of the fire, when all that stands between you and hell are your firefighters. Love 'em up.

INTO THE YELLOW WOODS--PART SEVEN

2009-09-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

Thus, he entered Samaria

I had to pee. Forcing my gummy eyelids open I learned it was daytime. The sun was shining through the jalousie windows in the bathroom and onto the bed. Motel room. Still sick. Still alive. Still had to pee.

Gathered myself, got to my feet. Whoa, too fast. What’s that smell? Oh. Me. Turned on the shower. Scrubbed myself with the bar of motel soap. No little bottles of shampoo in those days. Washed my hair with the soap in the hard, limey water. Bet my hair is going to look swell. Scrubbed my tongue and teeth with the wash cloth. Better than nothing.

Clothes. Wet clothes. At least she let me sleep through the night. Shit, what did she do with my clothes?

My clothes, washed, pressed, were hanging on the back of the door. She had thrown my one disreputable sock away and substituted in its place a pair of used, but clean men’s socks. My boots and belt were dry. How? I got dressed in the clean, warm clothes and ventured out into the new day.

The storm had passed. From the feel of the air I could tell it was early morning. I went into the office and found the inn keeper behind the counter . She gave me a sardonic greeting, probably along the lines of “Well, look who finally woke up.” I thanked her for letting me stay through the night and for cleaning my clothes. She waved it off. I asked how she was able to dry my boots and belt in just a few hours. She laughed.

“This is the morning of the second day. You’ve been asleep for two nights and a day. I kept checking on you to make sure you hadn’t died. You didn't. Just left you alone.”

Have you ever had one of those moments when you grace just washes over you? Tears welled up in my eyes and I couldn’t swallow. I tried to speak.

“Aw, zip it. Your trousers, too, while you’re at it. Get on across the street to Dottie’s. She’s still serving breakfast. Tell her to put it on your tab.”

“My tab?”

“Breakfast comes with the room. All you can eat.”

I tried to express my gratitude, but like most seventeen-year olds, I wasn’t very good at it.

She asked where I was going.

Good question. I hadn’t made a plan. The family of a high school friend, Lanny Brady, had a house somewhere down in Bradenton, south of Clearwater. Or I could head up north where I had some family in the Carolinas, a much longer trip with no money, but I was pretty sure they would let me stay for a while. Pick one.

“North, I guess. I got some folks up north.”

Then you better get going. It’s a long way up north.

I tried to give her hug, but she was on the other side of the counter. Awkward, heartfelt, seventeen. She shooed me out of the office. I didn’t even think to ask her name. Damn.

I ate as much of Dottie’s southern-style breakfast as I could stuff into my mouth without getting sick. Three helpings of grits with red-eye gravy. I thanked the waitress, embarrassed that I didn’t have as much as a penny for a tip, and walked out on to the street.

Stuck out my thumb.

It was pretty easy for a teenager to hitchhike in 1965. I worked my way across central Florida without further mis-adventures.

Somewhere around Daytona Beach a man picked me up and said he was heading to St Augustine. He was nice, maybe too nice. Uh oh. I was instantly on guard. Just before we got to St. Augustine, as it was getting dark, he said he had to make a short "side trip" to see some friends. Maybe they would invite us to dinner.

OK, friends, stop worrying. This is going to turn out fine.

He bought some beverages and then drove us back several miles into the pine woods until we came to a house . . . well, a shack. I had yet to see the movie Deliverance, but if you want to imagine a banjo playing, you can set the appropriate mood. A backwoods family of about ten people lived there. We were, indeed, invited to supper.

One fellow asked me if I knew how to skin a snake? I thought it was something sexual, but, no, he meant exactly that, taking the skin off a rattler. So you can eat it. He was just being polite, so I helped. By the way, nail the rattler’s head to a tree, cut around the neck, and jerk the skin off with a pair of pliers. In case you’re interested.

Dinner was wild meat. Wild meat! One of the most memorable meals I ever had. Along with the ubiquitous hushpuppies, collard greens, and, yep, grits with red eye gravy, the women served anything and everything the men had managed to shoot or trap. The rattler was deep fried with deep fried squirrel, deep fried possum, deep fried dove, and other delectables I didn’t recognize, also deep fried. In lard. Scrumptious!

Dinner over, we took our leave and finished the drive to St. Augustine. My Good Samaritan, whose name I have also forgotten, damn, begin to talk seriously about the rest of my trip. He said he didn’t like the idea of me trying to hitch through Jacksonville at night, a rough town then, just as it is today, but he especially didn’t like the idea of me trying to tackle to stretch between Jacksonville and Brunswick, Georgia where I was going to pick up Highway 17, the coastal route north. That piece of road cautiously creeps through some of the worst swamps and marshes in the south Georgia.

He decided he was going to drive me all the way to Brunswick, a trip of about 3 hours. I protested, but feebly, because I really wanted the ride. Matters settled, we continued north through J’ville, our conversation getting deeper and more profound. We talked about a lot of good stuff. After a while I dozed off while he drove. When I woke up, he was pulling up to the bus station in downtown Brunswick, Georgia. It was the middle of the night.

We got out of his car. He came around to my side and pulled out a twenty dollar bill, a lot more money in those days, maybe enough for a bus ticket all the way to North Carolina. Again I protested, making noises about repaying him somehow. This is what he said to me, an exact quote, I never forgot:

“Someday, when you get all this behind you, and get your feet on the ground, you’re going to meet someone who needs a hand. Help that fellow out, and that’s all you ever need to do to repay me. Just pass it along. You understand? Just pass it along.”

I told him I did understand, and promised repay him many times over. He drove away.

Twenty bucks. Wait for the bus station to open in the morning, and ride as far as twenty bucks would take me, but hungry? Use the money for food and keep taking my chances on the road?

I headed for a truck stop down the road.

Shook out my hand.

Got my thumb ready.

.

.

INTO THE YELLOW WOODS--PART SIX

2009-09-05T13:15:00.000-07:00

You are going to get hurt in a knife fight.

You are going to get hurt in a knife fight. Unless you are incredibly lucky, which I must have been that night. Wasn’t skill or fancy choreography like a martial arts movie. I came up off that floor like a wild animal, exploding in panic, and thrashing. He must have dropped the knife, or it got knocked out of his hand, because I don’t remember ever seeing it again. In fact, I don’t remember anything except stroboscopic images, individual frames, bungled together in the editing room. I certainly don’t remember anything Sailor Martin said, or yelled, or my replies, if anything coherent. Screaming.

Scrambling across the floor, my legs still tangled in the blanket. Grabbing the lawn chair and whirling to swing it at him. Yelling. Battering him with the chair over and over. Spitting.

Sailor Martin naked, jumping up and down on the bed, with his hands out in from of him trying to push me away, the top half of his body brown as coffee, the bottom half white as fish belly, a two-toned harlequin, with a tiny penis bouncing up and down. Cursing.

Grabbing my clothes off the radiator and my boots off the floor. Fumbling with the door knob, ramming my shoulder into the door until it burst open. The cold, rain-laden wind hitting me. Spinning the wrong way, slamming into a rail, stumbling down slippery stairs in the driving rain, naked and clutching my clothes.

Huddling in a doorway, pulling on my clothes, heavy, wet, and cold. Missing one sock and my skivvies, casualties of the escape. The sickness falling on me like sandbags. Skin scalded with fever and joints throbbing in agony. Shaking. Dizzy. Vision blurred.

Pushing myself out of the doorway, dropping my head against the gale, I staggered back toward a lighted boulevard I could see a few blocks away. A few people were still about, though I had no idea what time it was. Nightclubs were belching forth their last-call losers. I hunkered down in the doorway of a bar, closing my eyes, as if that might relieve my misery.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. Again, I don’t remember exactly what was said, but a well-dressed gentleman with an umbrella was asking me what was wrong and could he help. Next, I remember being in his car, the heater on, wearing a coat he had wrapped around me. He told me he was going to take me to his house where I could warm up and get some sleep. Those were the most wonderful words I had ever heard. We turned off the boulevard and into an industrial area.

That’s when he put his hand between my legs and squeezed. My first reaction was not fear or revulsion, it just hurt. I was sick and aching anyway, wearing a pair of icy cold slacks with no underwear, and some stranger was fondling my balls. I jerked away from him into the passenger door and kicked him in the ribs, over and over. The car screech to a stop. I flung myself out onto the road, panting and shaking. I hurled every curse word I knew. Realizing I was wearing his coat, which now felt like a thing most foul, I ripped it off and threw it into the puddle at my feet and stomped around on it. More cursing. I turned away and staggered off into the downpour. For a second time.

After a near-death march that seemed to last hours, I arrived at a lighted intersection and stood under a street light. A car stopped and a man asked if I was lost. I told him I was looking for a dry place to wait out the storm. He said that his church would take me in for the night. I got in his car and we drove off toward holy sanctuary. Whatever creed it espoused, I promised myself to convert in the morning.

After a few minutes, he turned to me, gave me a certain look, and asked me “Wouldn’t I rather go to his apartment where he could take care of me?” I screamed at him, “Isn’t there anybody but goddamned queers in fucking Clearwater Beach?” He yelled back, “If you didn’t want to be picked up, why were you hanging around this part of town at night like a streetwalker? I shouted at him, “Let me out of the car!” He pulled over to the curb, and I got out. Into the rain. Again. He drove away.

At that moment it occurred to me, that I might really die, die, dead, right there on the street, in the rain, and it would probably be easier if I just sat down right where I was and got it over with. I turned around looking for a pole to rest my back against as I waited for the end. Fuck it.

On the pole was a sign. “Sunset Motel.

Peering in the office window, I saw no lights, but I rang the buzzer anyway. After a while, a heavy-set woman in a bathrobe opened the door. Her hair had that slept-in, matted-down look. Gruffly, she asked what I wanted. I told her I needed a room for the rest of the night. She said to come on in out of the rain and added that she would have to charge me for an entire night.

I sat down on a chair, and struggled to get my boot off. By this time I had created a noticeable puddle around me. With numb fingers, I opened the secret compartment in my boot heel and extracted Larry Casseaux’s five dollar bill, now almost as soggy as I was.

“This is all I have, mam. How long can I sleep on this?” She took the fiver and unfolded it. Looked at it, and me. “Son, I’m going to put you in the room next door to the office, and I’ll wake you up when your money runs out.”

She showed me into the room and left. I got out of my wet clothes. With my last strength, I dried myself with a towel. Teeth chattering and skin burning, I climbed into the bed, pulled the blankets over me, and passed out.

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART FIVE

2009-09-01T23:05:00.000-07:00

The Kindness of Strangers

Drifting down the Clearwater docks before dawn. The rain had stopped, but I was soaked. After a day and a night of hitchhiking down from the Panhandle, I had learned one valuable lesson of the road: cars were dry, stay in them as long as possible. Maybe I was just dog tired with no real sleep in a couple of days, but my joints ached like I had the flu and I felt feverish and shivery.

Boatmen were already arriving to set up charters for the day.

Someone yelled at me, “You looking for a job?”

Hot damn! Living on the road was off to a good start.

“Yeah, I am. What do you have?”

“Short a deck hand. Ever worked a party boat?”

I had, in fact, been out on my uncle Steve’s Seahorse several times. He put fishing trips together for the guests at his resort. Seemed close enough to count for job experience.

“Yeah, lots. Worked the Seahorse out of Panama City. Ever heard of it?”

“Panama City? Yeah I heard of it.”

“I mean, the Seahorse.”

He just starred at me.

“It was kind of small, my uncle’s boat, that he kept at the Villa for the guests . . .”

“Who gives a shit?”

“Not you, Cap’n.”

“Ain’t the fuckin’ Cap’n. My name’s ‘Sailor.’”

“Sailor?” This was too much. He had to be yanking my anchor chain.

“Sailor . . . Martin. You laugh I kick your little maggot ass.”

Little? I was taller than Sailor Martin by several inches and weighed about the same, but I wouldn’t want to mess with him. He had a certain “look.”

“Aye, aye, Sailor.”

“OK, first day you work for meals. Maybe I like you. Next day we start paying you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

I jumped into doing what deck hands do on party boats: cut bait, bring out the gear, rig the lines. After a while a woman brought hot pork sandwiches and hushpuppies in paper shopping bags. Breakfast. I managed a couple of hushpuppies, but I really wasn’t feeling well.

The party of about twenty grumbling tourists arrived, complaining about the weather which had showed no signs of improving. We motored out into the Gulf of Mexico several miles through moderate swells, anchored and started bottom fishing. Bottom fishing is mainly what you do on party boats. This was not trolling for marlin and wahoo. Drop the rig to the bottom, haul up snapper and grouper. Unhook ‘em, re-bait. Do it again. When not helping the tourists, you clean fish, fetch drinks, and hose vomit off the rails, the benches, the bulkheads, and every other surface where the wind has blown it, including your legs.

Smell of puke and diesel fumes, unceasing rolling of the boat, bone-deep fatigue, stress, chills from the freshening wind, lack of food and wet clothes. It was one of the worst days of my life. When it started to rain hard about mid-afternoon, I was relieved because it meant we had to go back in early.

The return trip was nasty. Sailor Martin wanted it all done when before we berthed and busted my ass without let-up. All the fish had to be filleted and wrapped, the lavatories cleaned top to bottom, gear stowed, decks and cleaning tables scrubbed, more drinks for the tourists.

I was sick and getting sicker.

We docked and secured the boat. I asked Sailor if I could sleep aboard, and the answer was, “not a chance. But,” he said, “you can roll up in a blanket and sleep on my floor.” With gratitude, I accepted. We walked a few blocks inland to a boarding house, went up a flight of rickety stairs. Sailor unlocked the door and we went in. To call it shabby would be a compliment, but it was dry, it didn’t rock, and there was a radiator that Sailor managed to get hissing.

“Here’s a blanket. You can dry your clothes on the radiator.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot, Sailor.”

He gave me a strange look. “I’m going for supper and a drink. You want something?”

I told him no, I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. He left, locked me in. I took off all my clothes and spread them around the radiator. I grabbed the seat cushion from a lawn chair, the only furniture except for the bed and a dresser, dropped it on the floor, wrapped up in the blanket that smelled faintly of urine, eased myself down to the cushion, and passed out.

I didn’t hear him come in, didn’t even know he was there until I felt the weight of him sitting on me, naked, pinning my arms to my sides under the blanket. I woke up to the stench of his breath in my face. He was breathing hard.

“What? What’s going on? Get off me!”

He snapped the filleting knife right across my mouth.

“Shhhhhh. Pretty Boy. I tell you what we’re gonna do. First, you’re gonna suck my dick. You’re gonna suck my dick real good or I’m gonna cut your fucking head off.

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART FOUR

2009-09-01T17:00:00.000-07:00

Everyone Goes South, Every Now and Then

Judy Vance is leaving me.

She hasn’t said the words, but I know it’s coming. She is under a lot of pressure from her mother, Pat, to change course, cut her losses, move on. I don’t blame her. Pat, I mean, the mother. Face facts. My family is a nightmare, and my life is a mess, and I am not what Pat Vance wants for her daughter. Good call, Mamacita.

As for Judy, that part of the story is still a long way down the road, and you’re going to have to do without her for the time being. I did.

I am also flunking my freshman year at Florida State.

Dumping classes, ignoring assignments, and missing exams. I am sliding downhill toward dismissal from the University. The only thing keeping me from just floating away is my commitment to Antigone, the mainstage production in which I am playing Haemon, the son who dies. Well, everybody dies, don’t they? It’s Greek tragedy, for fuck’s sake! But Antigone had been over for a week.

I have just spent a couple of nights in the Tallahassee jail.

Mother convinced the police to pick me up on an assault charge. Motive? That morning I had packed a few things, stormed out of the house, and headed in to town, having announced my plan to move in with a cool hipster friend named Ken Kobre, a pretty good saxophone player, photographer, and possibly . . . . (shhhhh) . . . Jewish. Mother went nuts and called the cops to pick me up. “Sorry, mam, moving in with a Jew is no longer against the law in Florida. We need you to charge your kid with a crime before we can arrest him. Assault? He hit you? That’ll do.”

The flat truth is this; I never, ever, in my life, laid a hand on my mother. It’s not what Southern boys do, and my stepfather, the Marine fighter pilot, would have killed me, and that’s not a metaphor. Mother’s charge was pure fabrication, and I’m still amazed that she was able to come up with it on the spot.

Eventually the Police Chief realizes that the accusation is bogus, that Mommy Dearest is out of her mind. With unexpected, but appreciated, gentleness, he kicks me out of his jail, where, frankly I am warm, well fed, and safe. I don’t want to leave. The eye of the storm.

I’m walking down Monroe Street with the clothes on my back. No driver’s license, wallet, or money. Not a penny. My inventory consists of, from top to bottom:

shirt, button down collar, short sleeve, wrinkled, odorous

slacks, one pair, wrinkled, filthy

belt, with buckle, cheap

skivvies, slightly used

socks, two, damp

boots, one pair with a secret pocket on the inside of the left heel

That’s it. Not a comb, toothbrush, jacket. I’m feeling . . . vacant. Not quite the right word. Invisible. But not to Larry Casseaux, a high school buddy, who spots me and pulls over in his family truck. I climb in.

“Where you going?”

“Nowhere, man, nowhere. Just drive.”

“Cool.”

He turns on to the Apalachicola Parkway and heads out of town. After a couple of miles we hit the city limit. I tell him to pull over to the side, next to the sign that says “Perry 49 miles.”

“Where you going?”

“South.”

“What’s down south?”

“I don’t have any idea.”

“Cool.”

I laugh.

“How much money do you have?”

“Not a penny.”

Larry takes out his wallet and retrieves a snappy, new five dollar bill.

“Take this. Wish it was more, but it’s all I got on me.”

“Thanks, man.”

I fold up the fiver and slide it into the secret compartment in my boot. We shake hands and I climb out of the truck. Larry waves, pulls a U-turn, and drives away. I watch him until he is out of sight.

Well, well, well. So this is the world.

A Ford pickup comes over the hill.

I stick out my thumb.
.
.

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART THREE

2009-08-30T22:12:00.000-07:00

That Singular Sensation

The opening night of Steinbeck’s OF MICE AND MEN was a dazzling, if improbable success. Curley’s missed entrance during the bunkhouse scene, and the hilarious five-minute improvisation that it provoked, only added to the joy of bring this beloved American story to life.

In the final scene, a lynch mob is chasing Lennie, the big, retarded sidekick. The ranch hands are intent on hanging him in the nearest California oak. George decides he will execute (euthanize) his friend himself to spare Lennie the terror and pain of being strung up by the gang of drunken roughnecks.

The director, Stan DeHart, having limited high school resources, decided to stage the climactic moment by having George lower a large handgun to the back of Lennie’s head. Just before the shot, the lights would crash to blackout, so that the actual mercy-killing would happen in the dark. DeHart had found a realistic 45-caliber handgun into which he had loaded an extra high-powder blank.

It went something like this:

Are we gonna have rabbits, George?

Lots of rabbits, any kind you want.

And I get to hold the rabbits?

Take off your hat, Lennie. The air is fine.

George strokes Lennie’s hair. Sounds of drunken men yelling close by.

Tell me about the place we gonna have.

We’re gonna have a little place all our own. It’s right across the river. Just look across the river and you can almost see it.

George brings the gun out from his coat and lowers it to Lennie’s head.

Pause.

Blackout!

Pause.

KA-BLAM!

The blank detonates with a muzzle flash so bright that the audience can see Lennie’s body blasted forward. His body hits the floor.

Long deep silence. No one is clapping.

Then, at last, from out in the audience, a lanky, lovely lass (Judy Vance), begins to sob. It is contagious. There, in the dark, other people begin to cry. Soon the entire audience is in tears.

Backstage, members of the cast and crew are blubbering.

From his position on the stage floor, dead Lennie is weeping.

I’m standing there over Lennie’s body, in the dark, with the big fake 45-caliber gun in my hand, listening, just listening to it all. Surrounded by it, immersed in it, the great communal sharing of deepest emotion, the ephemeral, transformational power of the moment, coming together right NOW in this place, to experience the wondrous story of human love and loss.

I knew in that singular moment, in a flash of certainty as bright as a muzzle flash, into which profession I would take my life.

Perhaps it would be more truthful to say that, in that exact moment, on that hallowed stage, my life found me.

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART TWO

2009-08-30T19:21:00.000-07:00

Of Drums and Drama

DeHart was casting two plays that would run in rotating rep, Capek’s idiosyncratic INSECT COMEDY and Steinbeck’s OF MICE AND MEN. I auditioned for both figuring I would get a bug part in the Capek. In fact, I got two bug parts, an Ant, and the Second Dung Beetle. Let me interject here that my show-stopping performance as the Second Dung Beetle became legendary among beetles and dung eaters of all kinds.

With no acting experience I figured I might get a ranch hand walk-on in the Steinbeck.

I was wrong.

DeHart pulls me aside and tells me that he is going to cast me in the lead role of “George.”

Say what?

DeHart continues, “but if I give you this role can I count on you to give me back 100% of your time and devotion?”

Good question.

In addition to Judy Vance, I had one other thing going for me at Florida High School. By the end of my freshman year I had inherited the drum section of the high school band. I was the lead snare drummer and had built my own little drum corps, particularly David Kahler and Ed “the Crow” Levine. Beyond that, I had formed a little extracurricular combo with Mike “Spider” Brown, a drum and piano duo we called “Robert, Bruce, and the Spider” (Scottish folklore; Google it). I was Robert, Mike was the Spider, and we were hoping to eventually recruit a bass player named Bruce, or a bass player who would be willing to change his name to Bruce.

Yes, I was the hot shit drummer at Florida High. People finally knew my name. I had credibility.

That spring “Robert, Bruce, and the Spider” competed in the Florida High Talent show. We took second place, and let me go on record, we were cheated. Cheated! Damn you stars of destiny and faculty wimps!

First place was won by a trio of “folksingers” who styled themselves “The Landsmen” and sang stirring numbers like “Cool Water” and “Cruel War.”

By time the talent show rolled around, I had mastered Joe Morello’s 5/4 licks from “Take Five” and could lay down that incredible 9/8 insanity from “Blue Rondo a la Turk.”

Let’s stop for a moment and do a little 9/8 time together. This is audience participation.

I’m serious.

Sing the following riff as fast as you can:

One two, One two, One Two, One two three
One two, One two, One Two, One two three
One two, One two, One Two, One two three
One Two three, one Two three, one Two three

One two, One two, One Two, One two three
One two, One two, One Two, One two three
One two, One two, One Two, One two three
One Two three, one Two three, one Two three

Yeah! You got it didn't you?

Spider and I threw a little of that Dave Brubeck 9/8 stuff in the middle of our talent show number. I’ll tell you one more thing, Spider Brown could flat out flail the boogie woogie on the ivories. He had amazingly long fingers, which is why they called him Spider, duh. We rocked the Florida High auditorium.

But we took second place. We were, thinking back on it, a bit too “hip” for our little Southern high school.

Anyway, excuse my lengthy, but necessary, percussion digression, and let’s get back to DeHart’s question,

“if I give you this role can I count on you to give me back 100% of your time and devotion?”

I was heavily invested in my drum duties as section leader. The band director, Glen Heinlen, expected me to devote serious summer hours training the incoming freshmen percussionists. I explained this conflict of duties to Stan DeHart. His reply is still quoted by my friends and his:

“You can drammie dram dram. Or you can drummie drum drum.”

“Pick one.”

I picked.

INTO THE YELLOW WOOD--PART ONE

2009-08-30T15:41:00.000-07:00

THE MAP OF A LIFE

Introduction

This series of blog posts are about choice points in my life that have led me to where I am. The title is inspired by the Robert Frost poem, “The Road Not taken.” I was going to use “Roads Less Traveled” as the title for this series, but I figured that phrase had been boosted and abused enough. Frost’s poem is about making dangerous or unpredictable choices. Over the arc of a life there are many points where you can choose the safe and known path . . . or the wild and unknown path. Sometimes you really don’t know which is which. A choice that seems safe results in an ambush or a dead end.

Isn’t it fun to look back at those choices?

Most of the turning points in our young lives are beyond our control. Parents get divorced and remarry. We move here and there, start new schools, get new teachers, make new friends. People live. People die. People come and go. Nothing we can do about it. We’re just too young. We have no power. It’s karma . . . our karma to be sure, but free will or making our own choices are not a part of it.

Then we grow into the power to think and make decisions for ourselves. Now dharma becomes an increasingly important aspect of our path. Karma and dharma, twirling around each other in the mad dance of human life.

These blogs are about dharma, the decisions of a free mind, and the karmic consequences of those decisions.

Part One

DeSoto or DeGirl?

The summer before my junior year in high school was supposed to be the Summer of My First Car. Working all summer to save the cash to buy wheels was a right of passage for most red-blooded American boys. For me, owning a car went beyond the usual teenage longing for prestige and independence. I lived more than ten miles from the high school and more than five miles out of town. Utterly dependent for transportation to go anywhere important, I was trapped out in the country with alcoholic and abusive parents. Buying my own car meant escape from the Dickensian hell of my home.

That was the same summer the high school drama teacher, Stan deHart, was planning to launch his Summer Drama Institute. Mr. DeHart was an intense and charismatic new faculty member at Florida High. Much later I learned that drama teachers everywhere are notorious for causing trouble, and DeHart was a shit-disturber of the highest order. I had admired him from afar, but had no classes with him. My few close friends were excited about auditioning for DeHart’s Institute. That little group included my sweetheart, Judy Vance.

I was madly in love with Judy Vance. Mad to the tenth power.

Judy, the daughter of a professor, was more sophisticated than I was, more educated, and frankly, out of my league. For some inexplicable reason, she was in love with me. I was a military brat, rough around the edges, and given to brooding. Long ago I gave up trying to figure out these matters of the heart.

Judy wanted me to spend the summer with her, playing together in the drama project. She didn’t exactly give me an ultimatum, “me or the DeSoto,” but she let me know how hurt she would be if I didn’t audition with her . . . and how much fun we would have together if I did. Get your mind out of the gutter. In those times in the Deep South, “fun” did not mean “sex.” We were naïve small town teenagers. A boy’s hand sliding one inch below the girl’s waistline would be forcefully removed.

No, it wasn’t an ultimatum, but it was certainly a choice, a hard one, and one with more consequences than I could have imagined in my wildest teenage fantasies.

I auditioned.

HIP HIP HOORAH FOR MADELINE!

2009-08-28T17:55:00.000-07:00

My wife and I have been having an 8 month affair with Madeline. Secret meetings, never calling her home phone number, destroying any paper trail that might link us to her, especially documents that might allude to our profession. Shhhhh! Real estate agents.

Madeline (not her real name) has been house hunting on the sly. We are her co-conspirators, sneaking around town and entering homes for sale. We don’t have to break in, exactly; we do have licenses and lockbox keys, and computers and offices, and reputations, and stuff like that.

What we don’t have, that Madeline does have, is a scary, abusive boy friend. This “man” has not physically assaulted her (that we know about), but he is a verbal and emotional rapist, a skilled bully, and a master manipulator. “If you ever leave me, I’ll kill myself.” Do you know this asshole? I bet you do.

Except for her propensity to hook up with soul-sucking vampires, Madeline is an otherwise sharp cookie, and in fact, the kind of tough broad I really like. Her profession? Maintenance technician. Madeline is a janitor. She can re-seat a toilet on a new wax seal faster than you can. Madeline’s got game. She’s also got some good common sense and had managed to save and hide about $200,000. She planned on putting down $60,000 (about 20%) and borrowing the rest.

So for 8 months we shopped for Madeline’s sanctuary. Like most of the buyers today, she was stuck on “foreclosures and short sales.” She thought “distressed property” was a magic incantation that would conjure the deal of the century. Seven failed offers later (I’m not making this up), my wife finally found the perfect home for her. It was not a short sale or bank-owned home, though it was being sold by the trustees of an elderly woman who had found her own sanctuary in a local care facility.

I’ll use the real numbers here. The asking price was $299,000 which Maddy was eager to pay. I had to talk her into making a lower offer. She wanted this house! Buyer and seller agreed on $289,000. Let’s blast through the usual escrow ups and downs, appraisal, inspections, loan conditions, repairs, contingencies, and mountains of paperwork. Yesterday afternoon, the title officer called with the real magic words “We’re on record.”

I drove into Auburn at sundown, one of those beautiful evenings, warm and soft. I kept reaching down to feel her keys in my pocket; just making sure they were still there. We met at her new home and gave each other a hug. We turned and looked at Sanctuary, sitting up there on its own quiet hill, surrounded by tall pines and old oaks. We imagined what it was going to look like with a fresh coat of paint, her choice of colors.

I felt pretty damn good. Ya’ think?

So, why don’t you join me in a round of applause? Raise your glasses high, and let’s give a big cheer, Hip Hip Hoorah for Madeline!

NEGOTIATING THE SALES PRICE OF A HOUSE

2009-08-28T11:54:00.000-07:00

In this buyer’s real estate market I have noticed three common negotiating psychologies.

Let’s start with an asking price of $200,000 for an average suburban home. Of course, there are many mitigating factors. How long has it been for sale? What’s the condition? Has there been a price reduction already? What else is available in the area? And so on.

Negotiating psychology #1. The buyer really, really wants this house. Buyer feels that it is worth the asking price. Buyer is willing to pay asking price. But it’s only “good business” to offer less and see what kind of price reduction might be possible—without pissing off the seller. Remember, the buyer wants this house. Here’s a typical offer and counter offer sequence:

Buyer offers $180,000.
Seller counters $195,000
Buyer re-counters $185,000
Seller re-counters $190,000
Buyer accepts $190,000

Buyer is happy, seller is happy. Remember, this is a buyer’s market and the seller will usually give some discount.

Negotiating psychology #2. This is the meet-in-the-middle psychology. The buyer wants the house, but will not be broken-hearted if the negotiation fails. Buyer feels that the house is over-priced or, perhaps, it’s just more than the buyer can afford. Buyer, coached by an adroit realtor (yep, that was a commercial), understands that the seller has “padded” the asking price to eventually arrive at the price that the seller really wants. Buyer picks a point square in the middle between asking price and buyer’s offer price. Essentially, buyer is saying, I’ll come up the same amount that you come down. Fair is fair. Even-steven. Typical sequence:

Buyer offers $140,000

Stop. Remember, this is a buyer’s market and buyer’s can get away with his kind of “low-ball” offer. What is buyer after? The point half-way between asking price and offer price, that is, $170,000.

Seller counters $190,000
Buyer re-counters $150,000

OK, the game’s afoot. Both sides know the rules. Equal reductions and raises will arrive at $170,000. It’s in the seller’s court. If $170,000 is acceptable as a final price, seller will signal such with a re-counter of $180,000. If $170,000 is too low for seller, seller will do one of two things (a) re-counter at his previous number of $190,000; this is a sign-off; take it or leave it (b) re-counter at $185,000. We can still talk, but, Bubba, it ain’t gonna get to the middle.

Seller re-counters at $180,000
Buyer re-counters at $160,000

At this point, if not before, the realtors will probably confer off the record, asking each other if $170,000 will work. Yes? It will? OK.
Seller re-counters at $170,000
Buyer accepts at $170,000

Not bad. Both parties feel pretty good about the final price. Have you seen the flaw in this scenario? Hmmmm? Fifty imperial blog points if you can tell me what's arbitrary about this sequence of offer and counter offers.

Negotiating psychology #3. Buyer likes the house, but only at a bargain price. Buyer thinks the asking price is way too high.

Buyer offers $125,000

Seller is royally pissed, and probably worried. Seller wants to tell buyer to “get stuffed,” but seller’s adroit realtor calms seller down. “Let’s see what buyer is up to.”

Seller counters $185,000.
Buyer re-counters at $135,000
Seller re-counters at $180,000
Buyer re-counters at $135,000 (!)

Buyer’s cards are on the table. Seller now knows buyer’s final offer is probably $135,000. There will be no meeting in the middle. Negotiations are over unless the seller is desperate. It was a long shot anyway. Sigh. But let’s pretend that seller is desperate and makes a final effort to keep the buyer on the hook.

Seller re-counters $150,000 (seller has capitulated)
Buyer re-counters $140,000 (sends brother out for champagne)
Seller re-counters $145,000 (have mercy on me)
Buyer re-counters $140,000 ($140,000 is $5000 above my “final” offer. That is mercy.)
Seller accepts $140,000

Buyer is happy. Seller . . . well, seller might be bloodied . . . or secretly gleeful to dump the property at any price. Who knows?

Sure, these three scenarios are over-simplified, and lots of stuff can and will happen.

Emotions on either side can explode and the whole thing can shatter into little pieces.

Prices are often . . . weird. We get a counter at $171,836.89. WTF does that mean?

Both sides can agree on a price and the damned appraisal comes in $40,000 below the agreed price.

One side can have an adroit realtor, and the other side can have a weak realtor, giving one side an advantage over the other.

Some people are better poker players than their opponents.

In an upcoming post, I’ll discuss tactics for arriving at offer prices on bank-owned properties. Till then . . . Think Bob.

GETTING DONE WITH PLANTAR FASCIITIS

2009-08-21T23:08:00.000-07:00

I spent five years and thousands of dollars getting to know plantar fasciitis. I’ll describe my journey and what I learned.

There are differing opinions about managing PF in the early stages. Barefoot or no-barefoot is one of the first conflicting ideas you may hear. One friend says he was advised to go around barefooted and it helped. But, when I first developed PF fifteen years ago, I was told never to barefooted. I still follow that advice and always try to have some support under my feet except for standing in the shower or stumbling to the head to takea pee at night.

The treatment of PF escalates through a fairly predictable sequence of protocols. It goes something like this.

First, you spend a few bucks on over-the-counter orthotics (arch supports) like Dr. Scholl’s. Might help if you have very mild PF, but probably not.

Anti-inflamatories and ice packs are good. Right? Sure. Heat, too. Alternate with ice. Fine.

Buy a book, read on-line articles, talk to friends. You’ll hear about various stretching exercises. I hope they work for you, but if you have a severe case, they will not. Sorry.

Custom orthotics! Wow, are they sexy! Take a mold of your feet, computer designs, one-of-a-kind composite, state-of-the-art polymer blah blah blah. Spend the $600, $800, or more. Guess what? Still hurts like hell.

OK. Give it up. Time for professional help. The friendly podiatrist knows all about PF. Get out your checkbook, because he also knows all kinds of ways to take your money. Let’s see, he’s got physical therapy complete with ultrasound, night splints, more stretches, super taping routines, and, saving the best for last, cortisone. Ta da! Oh yeah, baby, cortisone right in the ol’ plantar fascia. Two injections? Half a dozen?

So it’s five years of suffering and treatments that didn’t work, and I’m about to lose my freakin’ mind.

One day, a neighbor, who happens to be an anesthesiologist, listens to my story. “Brother,” says he, “you are too far gone for this mickey mouse crap. Why haven’t you got it cut?”

(small voice) “Cut?”

He goes on to tell me that he “gasses” for one of the top podiatric surgeons in Northern California. He says he’ll set it up and do the anesthesia himself. Won’t be cheap because it’s outside of my health care plan (Kaiser). Who cares? Just make it stop hurting!

On the appointed day I drive to San Jose, see the doc, get some x-rays. “Yep,” says the doc, “that’s one sorry-looking plantar fascia. The scar tissue is as thick as my thumb. How long have you been walking on that thing?”

“About 5 years.”

“%#*&*&#@*” (swear words)

“OK, Norman, let’s cut this guy.”

So, after some lovely anesthesia, I wake up with a smile on my face. PAIN FREE. I mean, no pain, not even from the operation. I wanted to cry, but being a manly man, of course, resisted. Within three days I was walking, within two weeks I was running.

I’ve been running ever since. No pain. I’m careful to not walk around barefooted, and I have these little blue wrap-around arch-support thingies I wear all the time, just in case, but I run, baby, run.

A couple of final notes. I believe that one of the main contributing causes of PF is carrying too much weight, as in fat. Do yourself, and your feet, a favor and keep yourself as trim as possible. Buy the best shoes and have them selected and fitted by an expert. Finally, if the protocols are not working, stop tossing good money at the problem. Find the best podiatric surgeon in the area and take care of it.

Help! The Eskimos Are Sinking!

2009-08-16T18:39:00.000-07:00

Go west from the Alaskan town of Bethel, almost to the coast, out in the tundra where the tallest vegetation doesn’t come up to your knee, is the dismal Yupik Eskimo town of Newtok.

Newtok, Alaska

This village of 350 suffering Eskimos is slowly sinking into the thawing permafrost. The Ninglick River is rapidly tearing away the shoreline. You walk around on plank sidewalks that squish into the muck. Every inch of ground is wet or underwater. Every puddle is a seething brew of E.Coli from the honey buckets that are emptied wherever possible. It’s a mess.

I don’t have to tell you what’s causing this. The permafrost turns into a soggy sponge, the glaciers melt and swell the rivers, ice packs recede leaving the coast unprotected from winter gales. Yep, global warming. Some say it’s not our fault. The Yupiks don’t agree. They’re begging for help, and while waiting for it, suing the U. S. government for its failure to curb greenhouse gas emissions.

The young Yupik men play poker, drink moonshine, and cook meth. The high school girls search the hands of visitors for wedding rings. “Take me the hell out of here!” I know these things are true because my son, Luke, is up there right now trying to help these people relocate to higher ground.

Robert “Luke” Jenkins, USMC

Along with a handful of other enlisted Marines, a few soldiers, national guardsmen, and one inexplicable Air Force captain, Luke’s little task force is camped 9 wet river miles from Newtok. We’ve heard from him twice, late at night on a satellite phone that he, in the best tradition of the Corps, boosted from the Army. All things considered, the crummy weather, bad food, no booze, and few smokes, Luke says he’s happy. I believe him. He’s on the forward edge of the planetary battle lines fighting a war worth winning. He knows this. He’s profoundly aware of the great privilege he enjoys just being there and doing what he can in service to the Yupiks, his country, and all of us down below. My son, the warrior. Could any dad be more proud?

If you have the software, use Google Earth get a glimpse of Newtok, Alaska. The shot above is a couple of years old, so you can imagine it now, mostly underwater. You can also Google Newtol, Alaska to read about the deplorable conditions Yupik Eskimos are enduring.

LET'S RAISE OUR GLASS TO WARREN

2009-08-15T15:39:00.000-07:00

Warren is a 46 year old bachelor who has rented a condominium at $900 a month for almost 10 years. He has never owned his own home. Over the years he has kept his credit clean and managed to scrape together $35,000 that he keeps in a low-yield CD.

Warren walked into an open house I was holding in a nearby condominium. I had it for sale at $149,000. We got to talking, and we started scribbling numbers. If we could get the sale price down to $139,000, we calculated that he could buy the condominium with a 20% down payment and end up with a monthly nut of $865. That nut included his mortgage payment, taxes, homeowners association dues, and a little insurance policy for his personal stuff.

I was, in fact, able to negotiate a sale price of $139,000. We found Warren a conventional 30 year fixed-rate loan at 5.25% with one point for the broker. Over, under, and through the obstacles of today’s typical escrow we climbed, crawled, and blasted.

Yesterday, I presented him with the keys to his own place where he pays $35 less than he was paying on rent a month ago. Did I fail to mention his excellent first-time home buyer’s credit of $8000 and the usual mortgage interest adjustment to gross income that he will enjoy next year for the first time in his life and every year thereafter?

In these grim days of real estate gloom and doom, there are terrific success stories, and Warren is one of them. What do you say? Let’s raise our glass and toast to the success and happiness of Warren!

He’s an ex-Marine, by the way, so I’d like to add, “Semper Fi, Brother!”

PROFESSIONAL COURTESY (A Story)

2009-08-14T15:34:00.000-07:00

The cat's true name is both unpronounceable and incomprehensible to those unfortunate to be born, regrettably, a creature other than feline. The cat's true name arises of itself from the twisty bundle of smells, sights, sounds, instincts, genetics, ancestry and divinity that is this, and only this, particular . . . cat. Having no words to express the cat's true name, we are left with the sorry alternative of simply calling her . . . Cat.

Cat is ecstatic with the joy of the chase. Neither ecstasy nor joy quite describe Cat's feelings, but it's as close as we can get in language unless you have a better idea. Here are the facts: for several hours Cat stalks, corners, and then, with simple speed, attempts to run Mouse to ground. What a mouse she is! Supple, agile, unpredictable, and . . . clever. Mouse escapes every trick and trap in Cat's bag. But at last Mouse tires, and Cat knows capture is within reach.
(flash of claws)

"Damn. Missed. Where'd you go? Oh you are the most sly little darling! Let's see . . . under here! No. Maybe . . . over. . . here! There you are. Oh just scooty scooty scoot, my tiny little toot. Here . . . I . . . come . . .

(flash of claws)

"Gotcha!"

Stops.

Beneath the vaporous moon, Coyote pads along the San Juan Ridge. Long time since he's wandered the hazy hills. After big fires, he needs to look things over. It's his domain. You understand. Coyote rounds a turn in the trail.

Stops.

"Oh . . . Coyote.

"Oh . . . Cat. My dear, you are . . . very . . . far . . . from . . . home."

"Senor, I seem to be . . . lost."

"Yes, mi amore, lost you certainly are."

"I was chasing Mouse. She kept darting from beneath my claws."

"Shhhh."

"In my hunger to catch her, I didn't pay attention to where I was . . ."

"Shhhh. Shhhhh. Doesn't matter, does it?"

"No . . . it doesn't.

"Tonight, one will be eaten, one will feed, and one will escape with a story. Hmmm. But which?"

"Don't toy with me."

"Very well. Go home, Mouse, and tell your children about the night Coyote saved you."

With a deep breath, Cat sighs, and releases Mouse. The little one scurries to the edge of a shadow, dips her head toward Coyote in a flicker of obeisance, and vanishes into the darkness.

"Will you be swift with me?"

"Are you swift with Mouse you catch and torment?"

"But, Senor, Mouse is prey . . . and you and I are masters."

"Ha. Excellent point. I shall be quick."

"Call it . . . professional courtesy, killer to killer."

"Professional courtesy. Just so."

"May I take a last look around?"

"Take your time, my darling."

"How slippery and sleek the moon."

"It is."

"How fresh the breeze after all the smoke from the . . ."

(flash of teeth)

Quick it is.

FACEBRECHT!

2009-08-14T14:36:00.000-07:00

BERTOLT BRECHT WOULD LOVE SOCIAL MEDIA. It’s the closest thing we’ve got to a genuine radical theatre. It’s largely improvisational, but thrives on powerful language and images. It requires intense interactive engagement between players and audience with no happy endings and a constant spur to political action. Vote. Support. Educate. Change minds. Send money to the Cause. Most important, it belongs to the people. GOOD WOMAN OF FACEBOOK. MOTHER INTERNET AND HER CHILDREN. THE THREE TWITTER OPERA.

Real Estate Appraisals and Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg

2009-08-01T11:15:00.000-07:00

After my house burned down in 1992, I hired a “public adjuster” to battle the insurance company. My wife loathed him. “He’s a low class, ambulance-chasing, asshole,” opined my darling Christine. “Yes, my Dove, but he’s MY low class, ambulance-chasing asshole.”

The asshole, whom I shall refer to hereafter as “Bubba” taught me many interesting things about how the world worked. Of particular interest was his guidance in negotiating a settlement for Christine’s mommy van that, parked in the garage, melted down to the rims in the fire.

Now, what does this have to do with real estate? Stick with me. Wait for the pay off. It’s gonna come, you bet.

Bubba sez:

“Most people in the insurance biz, especially the adjusters, hate their job. They’re underpaid, overworked, abused, unmotivated, and lazy. You need to take advantage of that. Do their work for them. Make it easy for them. Build a bullet-proof case for them, wrap it in a bow, and give it to them so they can look good in front of their supervisors. Before you meet with them the first time . . . Hey, Bob! Are you listening to me? Snap out of it. . . . Before you ever sit down with them, put your request, your demand, your proposal together in writing. Get out to the car lot; find the “real” replacement value for your year, make, and model, not the “blue book.” Get the salesman to write down the total, out-the-door cost for you, extended warranty, undercoating, taxes, registration, the whole thing. If you have good maintenance records, put those into the proposal as well to demonstrate that the car was in cherry condition. If you have a good photo, add it too. Put it all together and make it look as formal and intimidating as you can.”

Here comes the punch line.

You have to get your number on the table, before the adjuster gets her number on the table.

This is absolutely critical. If the adjuster goes through the effort to generate her number, then you have put her in a position where she must defend herself and her number. You are attacking uphill against an enemy already entrenched on the high ground. Remember Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg?”

OK, stop for a minute. Bubba didn’t really rap about Pickett’s charge. That’s all me just getting carried away. Bubba don’t know squat about Gettysburg.

Bubba, annoyed with my interruption, continues:

“You need to be the one entrenched behind a bullet-proof proposal. Make the adjuster have to prove that your number is wrong. Make her attack uphill. Oh my dear adjuster, that sounds a lot like . . . work! Sounds like conflict and confrontation. Stress. Energy. Danger. What if you get your lawyer involved? Or worse. Bubba the Asshole?”

Following Bubba’s wise council, I arrived at the claims office with my impressive written proposal and politely insisted on $13,000 for the van. The adjuster, consulting the “blue book” sputtered that the high blue book value was only $11,000. I presented my hard evidence that it would cost me $13,000 to find an exact replacement. More sputtering and fifteen minutes behind closed doors with her supervisor . . . and my formal proposal . . . she returns with the news that the most they can go for is $12,000.

Not even cracking a smile, I solemnly shake hands. It’s a deal. $1,000 above blue book.

Real Estate. We are worried sick that the appraisers, under the regulations of HVCC (the Home Valuation Code of Conduct) will undervalue our properties and kill our transactions. I suggest that, rather than sitting around passively and hoping that the appraiser’s number will support your price, you prepare a bullet-proof BPO (Broker Price Opinion) yourself with all the documentation you can provide, anything and everything that supports your price. Make it thick. Make it formal. Make it intimidating. Make it look really sharp. C’mon do the work! This is more than “showing up with the comps” and talking a bunch of bullshit with the appraiser.

You must get your hard evidence on the table before she does!

Make her attack uphill against your defenses. Give her everything she needs to make your case for you.

Do it all with the grace and elegance of a refined lady, a southern gentleman.

What if the appraiser won’t even take your documents? She’s snotty and arrogant. “Don’t try to influence me!” If her number comes in too low, you may have to challenge the appraisal. To do that you will need a solid case. Guess what? You already have it! You will be counter-attacking downhill with all your evidence in good order. Poor General Pickett. He never had a chance.

What Makes Bobby Run?

2009-07-13T17:01:00.000-07:00

What makes Bobby Run?

After I got out of the Marines in 1969, I swore I would never run again.

Then I married a younger woman. A beautiful younger woman (just in case CJ is reading this). My first motivation to run was staying healthy, lean, and in shape so that some younger stud muffin would not steal my wife.

Pretty quick I started running races. My motivation was competition and setting personal bests in as many road races as I could afford. I had drawers full of T-shirts and bunches of little ribbons, medals, and such. Woo woo.

Along came the marathons. Now the gig was endurance and testing my physical and emotional limits. I had a bit of endurance, and I guess I passed the test. Now what?

In 2000 I was finally able to escape from the city. Wedged in a crack of the California foothills like a tick, I began to run as exploration of my new home. Running was not about how far or how fast, but about where. To paraphrase Seuss, “Oh the Places I’ve Run.” Canyons, mountains, meadows, forests, and just about every trail within a hundred miles—and there are a lot of trails in the Sierras! Me and my loyal pooches, first Daisy, and now Dharma.

But even that exploration lost its luster eventually. Where do I run from here?

For a short period I even tried running as a way to sell real estate. Don't ask. I'm not even going to try to explain it.

About a year ago I started reading Eckhard Tolle’s fabulous A New Earth. It gave me a new idea. Now I’m not going to get into the whole New Earth spiritual thing with you (read the book yourself), but I began to try to run as much as possible in the Present Moment. No goals, no expectations, just running to be running. Running in the here and now. Running in the Now. Me and Forrest Gump. Running running running. Now now now. Yeah, baby.

So that’s it. Of course, the colossal endorphin rush is just icing on the cake. We’re not talking “runner’s high,” were talking stoned out of your mind.

These days I run because I’m happy, or sad, or tired, or full of pep, or when it’s cold, or hot, or perfect, or I want to or I don’t want to. I run because I run.

My name is Bob, and I’m a Runna-holic.

How Much of the Rent Goes Toward Down Payment in a Lease Option Purchase?

2009-06-28T16:49:00.000-07:00

The first answer to this question is easy: as much as you can negotiate with the seller/optioner.

The second answer depends upon the lender. Different underwriters may have different guidelines, but FHA loans are pretty well standardized in regard to this question. Because many optionees, lacking cash, will need a FHA loan, it is likely that the amount of rent allowable toward down payment (or other purchase expenses) must adhere to this rather stern rule:

Only the amount of rent OVER AND ABOVE CURRENT MARKET RENT can be credited toward the purchase.

Here's an example provided by mortgage broker Melisa Nelson-Hana:

Let's say that the current market rent is $1500 per month. Let's say that the seller/optioner needs $2000 to cover the mortgage. The contract could call for $2000 per month rent with $500 per month credited to the buyer/optionee toward purchase. In a typical 12 month option, the buyer/optionee would accumulate $6000 (12 months X $500 per month) toward the purchase--just about what the buyer needs for closing costs on a modest California entry-level home.