Collection of Dad's Reminiscent Columns and Lion's Speech
All of these are from Dad's writings submitted to local newspapers, except for the final piece, which was the draft of a speech to the Lions Club. There are many more in his collected writings, which he called "The Lifeguard Who Couldn't Swim." I scanned and edited only those that were directly autobiographical.
Best,
Shepherd
***
MY MOM
How can I characterize my mother? I suppose, like most other mothers: loving, generous, devoted, good sense of humor, with guts to do what had to be done when necessary, and so on.
Let's talk about guts, first. My father was killed in a car-train accident when my brother and I were young. And one week later, despite the trauma, Mom took over the factory. With the welfare of her family and the employees at stake, and with limited business experience, she single-handedly kept the business going by herself for almost a year till an uncle came in to take charge. Through sheer determination to save the company, she persuaded customers to stay, suppliers to work with her, and factory personnel to continue production in an efficient manner.
Early memories include Mom teaching me the ABC's before I entered kindergarten. I also learned early that I could say: "Son-of-a-gun!" with no problems. But repeating another exclamation overheard somewhere, "Son-of-a-bitch!" brought an immediate slap to the visage resulting in abundant tears and a decrying of the patent injustice of it all. Then, too, the first big word I learned was "aggravate" as in, "You aggravate me!"
Being the younger son, of course, I was the "baby". As some of you mothers out there can testify, I was always the baby forever and ever. During world War II, Mom would get to talking with strangers on the train about her baby. When they politely inquired as to how big he was, she'd proudly answer: "Oh, he is 6 feet 1 and weighs 180." Then the strangers would look quizzically at her and edge away a bit.
A corollary of this was her pet name for me which my friends quickly picked up: "Bubela", an appellation I unhappily had to put up with for years.
One claim I make for my mother I will back and defend to the end: Mom was unquestionably the finest cook and pastry chef in the history of civilization. No matter what the dish: meat, fowl, vegetable, or whatever, it was absolutely the most delectable mouth-watering preparation since the first humans starting roasting their catches over glowing coals in caves.
And remembering her world champion chocolate fudge and chocolate ice-box cake brings tears to my eyes in the sad belief that these unbelievable delicacies may never again be duplicated in my lifetime. Oh, if only the New Age gurus could bring her back for one more double recipe of each!
Now, as great as Mom was, like all mortals, she did have some failings. She went through a stage when my brother and I could not find birthday presents to satisfy her. Finally, once, in despair, we gave her a gift certificate from Marshall Field's.
"Whatever am I going to do with a gift certificate from Field's?," she demanded of us.
So next year, we presented her with a certificate from Carson Pirie Scott. Same reaction: what the devil could she do with it?
Finally, the following year we decided on what should have been an absolutely faultless selection: cash!
You guessed it; '`Now, what am I supposed to do with this money!"
One characteristic of Mom: she was outspoken, though by whom we didn't know. When my young cousin announced he was going to get married to a nice sweet young thing, Mom told him it would never last.
She was right. Thirty years later Joe's wife divorced him.
Fiercely loyal to her sons, Mom employed an iron-clad rule regarding her daughters-in-law. In the event of a family problem, the wives were always wrong. As you can figure, this sometimes led to fights in both families that made the Louis-Schmeling and Hagler-Leonard boxing matches look like the semifinals in the Olympic patty-cake competition. In later years, however, Mom did mellow and enjoyed warm relationships with our ladies.
This was true especially since she doted so much on her six grandchildren. She was constantly bringing them gifts and schlepping them to the movies or to the Ice Follies in Chicago or to the beach or somewhere—in other words, she became a world class super babysitter like you can't hardly find anywhere anymore.
For companionship for Mom there was George. For thirty-five years this widower faithfully squired Mom around without complaint and undoubtedly should have been awarded a medal for his patience and perseverance. Why didn't they marry? At first, it was because my brother and I cherished our father's memory and absolutely nobody could measure up to him short of sainthood. As time passed, when asked about marriage, Mom, with her great sense of humor, replied that she could not get her children's consent or that she didn't want to rush into it. Later on, it just didn't seem to matter.
In her early eighties, Mom, feeling lousy for months, finally entered the hospital. In two days, stunning us, she was gone. The doctor apologized to us for not having diagnosed sooner the leukemia that took her. Later, we were to be grateful that if it were the Lord's will, at least she didn't undergo a lingering painful death.
Ironically, a couple of years later, her doctor ignored his own symptoms and passed away from the same illness while still in his prime.
Mom, after all these years, we still miss you!
***
MATTIE
Sometime in your lifetime, you may be privileged to spend some years with someone special, a being you will never forget. Such a person was Mattie, our family's domestic for many years, starting while my brother and I were spirited teenagers.
Outgoing and gregarious with a great zest for life, she boasted many friends white and black; everyone knew and loved Mattie. She especially loved to gossip with Mom's friends when they phoned. It was not unusual for her to talk five minutes before informing Mom that Mrs. Shon wished to speak with her.
Mattie was fiercely loyal to my brother and me despite the teasing and the outrageous pranks we subjected her to. Sneaking up while she was bent over making up the Murphy in-a-door bed, we'd raise up the bed so she was trapped in it head down, feet in the air, and screaming wildly. But, still, nobody dared a word of criticism of "her boys" in her presence. When I was to leave for the Army in World War II years later, Mattie was the one to cry while Mom sat in the chair and waved goodbye.
Her vocabulary was filled with many colorful expressions, only a few of which I can recall, unfortunately. To describe a persistently obnoxious person begging favors: "He came around with a handful of gimmee and a mouthful of much obliged."
Should she say something that offended you, she wryly observed: "Excuse me, church. Didn't know you was crowded!"
But, on the other hand, should you pester her while she was busy or preoccupied, she would send you away with: "Go, away, boy, I ain't a-studying you!"
When we bought a puppy for my brother for his birthday, I was given the honor of naming it. Seeking the unusual, I finally came up with "Ulysses". Now there was no way Mattie could handle the pronunciation, and so very quickly, she turned the name into "Useless", claiming it was useless to own a dog in the apartment building, anyway. So "Useless" became the pup's name and three or four generations of my brother's dogs inherited the same name.
In her 50's when she came to work for us, Mattie loved to party, drinking and smoking with the best of them. Once, when Mom gave a luncheon, my brother mischievously plied Mattie with a few cocktails till she was effectively bombed out of action much to Mom's dismay. Then one day, the new preacher at her church convinced her that drinking and smoking was the road to her eternal damnation and abruptly, Mattie quit both these sins and henceforth, took a dim view of anyone participating in these now nefarious activities.
One winter, Mom took a two-week trip to New York that lasted six months, to visit her family. In her absence, my brother had the responsibility of paying Mattie. Now, arithmetic did not happen to be one of her strong suits, so you can imagine her consternation one Friday when my brother brought home a heavy cloth bag and placed it in front of her.
"Here is your pay, Mattie, 1,000 pennies. They are loose, so you must count them to see if they are all there." Ten dollars was good pay in those days, but Mattie immediately became hysterical at the prospect of trying to count all those pennies, ranting and raving at my brother and finally calling our aunt and getting her excited, too. But my brother adamantly insisted that the coppers had to be counted and he wasn't about to help.
How did Mattie solve the problem? Simple. She marched down to the corner grocery and had poor Mr. Dallie do the tallying and exchange the coins for paper money.
During the war years, sadly, Mattie contracted a fatal disease and passed on. Wherever she is now, she is undoubtedly enjoying herself gossiping with the angels or whomever and informing any bothersome spirits to be gone 'cause she ain't a-studying them.
***
OLD TIME FOOTBALL
Football has changed much over the years, and many of today's young generation may not be aware of the differences. The two platoon system, unlimited substitutions, offensive blocking with hands, and many other innovations have made the game more interesting and safer.
Outlawed were the flying tackle and flying wedges. The former involved the tackler diving through the air and caused at least one death from a broken neck and other serious injuries. The flying wedge, passing on unmourned years ago, consisted of linemen on the receiving team on kickoffs linking arms forming a wall behind which the ball carrier and blockers ran downfield. Difficult to penetrate, it was also responsible for many injuries.
Andy Gill, legendary Michigan City high school coach in the '20s and '30s, figured out away to stop the wedge one day in a game against powerhouse South Bend Central. He instructed our big linemen to run at the linked blockers and dive feet first at them. Several South Bend players were carried off the field on stretchers and that was the last wedge they attempted, at least for that game.
The Statue of Liberty, in which the passer posed with the ball back, it being grabbed by a circling end or back, has been superseded by the end around. For field goals and points after touchdowns, Michigan City in the '30's still favored dropkicking, but that, too, has departed for the more reliable place kick.
One recollection I have of a night game in South Bend in 1934 was of 6'5" Bill Vergane's punting. That night, the fullback kicked the ball further than I ever saw in college or pro games since. His 65- and 75- yard punts continually soared far over the safety man's head who would have needed a bicycle to get under them.
Under the delusion that I was a budding All-American lineman, I tried out for Elston's team, but ended up as an All-American benchwarmer for three years. Coach Andy didn't play me for two reasons: in my senior year, though big for my age, I still was only 15 and one-half years old due to some double promoting by grade school teachers seeking to avoid damage to their dispositions and life expectancies. Secondly, and probably more meaningful, I was significantly short on talent.
The final home game in my senior year, we had Elkart down 28 to 0 with two minutes to play. Suddenly, Andy yelled for me to go in at tackle. We kicked off to Elkart, and I headed downfield looking for the ball carrier. An Elkart blocker came at me and was able to hit me right in the hands with his head. Unfortunately, the official next to me took a dim view of it and penalized us 15 yards.
For some reason, Elkart then ran a couple of plays at me, and too slow and dumb to get out of the way, I made the tackles. When the game ended shortly after, the Elkart coach walked over to Andy and wanted to know who the devil was the big Irishman put in at the end of the game to rough it up.
***
SPEED TRAP
Small town speed traps--you don't hear much about them these days. But they did exist in some areas at one time. Maybe they still do.
Way back when, in the '30s, ten of us lighthearted teenagers piled into two family cars borrowed for the evening and headed into a neighboring state for a roadhouse about 30 miles distant. Coming to a stoplight in a small town just over the state line, the two of us drivers staged a race as teenagers still often do. It was close till a third auto entered the race and pulled us over. Luckily, the state trooper let us off with a warning, and we continued on to the nightclub.
We five couples were having a grand time laughing and singing when the MC thought it expedient to introduce a local justice of the peace who was running for reelection. Thoroughly unimpressed, we continued singing while the JP glared at us to no avail.
The Saturday festivities wound down and we left the club and headed home. Driving in the lead, I was less than diligent when a sudden gust of wind forced the right wheels onto the shoulder. Unfortunately, the wind had picked a spot where a trooper was standing next to a car giving the driver a ticket.
The trooper evidently had no sense of humor, even though I missed him by at least a foot. He leaped into his vehicle, gave chase, and flagged us down. What aroused our suspicions of a trap was the fact that he also pulled over Howie driving behind me, and Howie had done nothing untoward to deserve being detained. The policeman told us to follow him to the JP's office in the same small town where we had been stopped on the way up.
You guessed it--it was the same JP from the nightclub! He eyed Howie and me and said $200 bail for the two of us--a considerable sum in those days. He gave us one whole hour to raise it, one o'clock in the early A.M. on a Saturday!
My good friend Bill volunteered to try to secure the bail from his uncle who had access to his family's office safe. While the others went home, Bill took my family car and headed back to our hometown and woke his uncle. Uncle gave him the office key and the safe combination. As the minutes ticked away, Bill fiddled unsuccessfully with the safe before discovering he had the wrong one.
Finally, he got the $200 and hopped in the car for the return trip. Meanwhile, the trooper who had originally stopped Howie and me on the way up, walked into the JP's offlce. When he spotted us, we revised our thinking to how we would look in stripes and tried to estimate how much time off to expect for good behavior.
In the meantime, about four miles out of town, Bill in my car ran out of gas. No self-respecting TV sitcom writer today would dare to put out such a ridiculous scenario, but all this actually did happen.
Fortunately, Bill was able to hitch a ride with a trucker and came running up with the $200 clutched in his hand just as Howie and I were being placed into the squad car for the trip to the county slammer.
Later, Bill's uncle was able to recover part of the bail money, but I will tell you one thing. For years afterward, the only thing I could have been arrested for when driving through that village would have been for parking on the highway.
***
OLD TIME SCHOOL HIJINKS
I hate to sound like an old fogey (are there any young fogeys?) but when my generation was teenaged, the hijinks we indulged in were truly innocent most of the time. There was little vandalism or rowdyism, and usually, we were just juveniles being boisterous and enjoying youth as we were supposed to.
Oh sure, on Halloween and other times, a few outhouses were pushed over, garbage cans relocated, windows soaped, and the like. Or we'd call up someone, telling them we were from the public service company, and ask them to check to see if the corner street light was burning. When they returned to the phone, we would tell them to please go blow it out.
Then, there were the usual calls to the cigar or drug stores inquiring if they had Prince Albert (tobacco) in the can. If the reply was in the affirmative, we'd say to please let him out.
In school, when our "deportment" was something less than exemplary, we might be kept after class (ninth period) or sent to the principal's office, neither event being something cherished. In Miss Morgan's art class, I recall spending more time standing in the hall outside than sitting in the classroom. It happened so regularly the janitors dusted me off thinking I was part of the building.
Now, sometimes, we also pulled stunts that were really weird and not in the best judgment, to put it kindly. Away at college, one afternoon, Bill, Jerry, and I were riding around in Bill's Chevy and came to a corner refreshment stand. I told Bill to stop and I'd buy us all ice cream cones. Both he and Jerry declined my offer, so I got myself one and returned to the car.
"Give me a lick," requested Bill. I refused, pointing out that I had offered to get him his own cone. Bill again asked for a lick, but I was adamant. This time Bill threatened: "Give me a lick or I'll drive to Chicago!" Chicago was 150 miles away but I was stubborn.
"You can drive to San Francisco for all I care," I told him, "but you are not going to lick my cone."
So we drove to Chicago, had dinner, and drove back. You might say, the 300-mile trip was solely for the lack of a lick.
In high school one first day of April, my buddies and I determined to pull an April Fool's trick on the kindly physics teacher, Mr. Troyer. Since I sat next to the door, I was elected to interrupt him during his exposition of some theorem and inform him someone in the hall wanted to see him. When he would stop and walk to the door, all of us would then holler "April Fool!"
At the appointed time, I executed my part of the plot. In annoyance, the teacher stopped his discussion and walked over to the door. As he looked in vain for the visitor, I started to call out "April...." I did not finish because there was a deafening silence from my co-conspirators. It was my first memorable experience with a shafting--a classic double-cross!
Mr. Troyer whirled around, pointing his finger at me. "April Fool to you, Fred Hoodwin--three ninth periods!"
Well, that was one way to learn about life,
***
FLYING MONKEYS
Hey, men: any of you out there ever have credibility problems with the little woman when you come rolling in at 2:00 in the A.M. and she doesn't swallow your unimaginative tale of a flat tire and broken jack or perhaps of sitting with a sick buddy in the emergency room?
How about the opposite scenario when something actually happens that is weird and unbelievable but 100% true and she, of course, rejects it with a "Don't give me that bleep bleep!" Damned either way, you are a victim of the born loser syndrome.
Many years ago while in college, I was on my way one spring day to meet my girl Jean at the library to put in some required studying. An acquaintance, Ed, came along, stopped, and asked if I were interested in making a few bucks. "Sure, why not", I answered, "like doing what?"
He looked at me and replied "Catching monkeys."
"Nice seeing you again, Ed". I started to walk on.
"No, I'm not kidding. Some monkeys escaped from the animal psychology lab and the professor has offered a reward for their capture. They have been spotted in the trees near the football stadium."
Such an intriguing prospect sounded like much more fun than boning up on medieval English history on a beautiful spring afternoon. I joined him and we detoured past the library so I could cancel my date. Jean was waiting outside and was disappointed when I told her I had a sudden change in plans. She asked why.
"I am going to hunt monkeys."
"Come on, now. Quit trying to be cute."
"No, dear, it's true. Ed and I are going monkey hunting."
She glared at me and stamped off muttering something about it was too early for drinking and how could I make up such trash or did I have terminal spring fever?
When we arrived at the park near the stadium, sure enough, some simians were frolicking in the apple trees. Uncertain just how to proceed, we picked up some rotten apples and started throwing at them. Through sheer luck we hit one and he fell to the ground unhurt. We pounced on him and put him in a carton we had brought along.
Starting back for the professor's office, we cut by the library and I went in and beckoned to Jean. She came out and I pointed to the box and told her to look inside. Her eyes became as big as the proverbial saucers and she gasped: "It's a monkey!"
From that time forth, my credibility rating with Jean soared from the normal low of routine feminine suspicion to a superior one of unquestioning trust. (For at least 2 or 3 days, anyway.)
***
POO ON A E FOO
Though the great depression of the '30's was a sobering influence, those of us fortunate enough to go to college did manage some lighter moments occasionally.
Living in a fraternity house meant the usual quota of pranks, like short-sheeting beds, hiding clothes, and the like. Once, every piece of furniture and clothing in my room was moved up to the attic and carefully reassembled in perfect order. Then, one day, I had determined that my good friend from my hometown, Bill, should walk to school. This was easily accomplished by my removing the distributor rotor from his Chevy.
That night, an underclassman, Jerry, came into my room with the information that he was about to paint our fraternity's motto on the sidewalk in front of a sorority several blocks away, with which we were friendly. When I told him that it wasn't really very clever, he challenged me for something better.
A moment's thought brought to mind the then-currently popular cartoonist who had his characters conversing mainly with "oo's". From there it was easy to arrive at "Poo on A E Foo", a parody of the sorority's name, as our contribution to current sidewalk graffiti. Jerry thought that was super and insisted that I join him since I had provided the inspired authorship.
So there we were a little while later wielding the paint brush in front of the sorority. We had finished "Poo on A -" when suddenly a car stopped in front of the house. Jerry, facing the street, whispered, "The cops!," and we heard a car door open.
Jerry started to run and had a couple of steps on me when I shot by him so fast, it spun him around twice. As I sped across a side street and vaulted a six foot fence, I heard a grunt behind me signifying that Jerry had been captured by the gendarmes. Continuing cross-country at a pace that holds the record to this day, I found sanctuary back at the house. When the fellows wanted to know where Jerry was, I told them to try the city jail.
Bill and a couple of others drove there and sure enough, there was Jerry behind bars hollering for a lawyer. Bill bailed him out and they returned to the fraternity.
Incredibly, both local newspapers featured the story on their front pages the next day, while the varsity cross-country coach was looking to sign me for his squad. Even more incredibly, *Time* magazine, the following week, used the "Poo on A E Foo" incident in its section on education as a commentary on the sad condition of the country's higher education system of the day.
The mystery of how the police happened to come along and catch us was solved when later Bill confessed that he had turned us in to get even for my swiping the distributor rotor. In fact, he was parked nearby in his car watching the whole bit.
So I told Jerry not to pay back the bail money. I don't remember now whether or not he did.
***
OCS
Those of you who remember the popular movie "An Officer and a Gentleman" may have wondered if the pressure-laden routine of unending harassment of the naval officer candidates was authentic or merely another Hollywood invention and exaggeration. Based on my experiences in OCS, Officer Candidate School, during World War II, I must say the movie was quite accurate in depicting the unrelenting stress inflicted on the candidates.
The idea was that in the absence of actual combat to test potential military officers, the schools applied all this pressure in an attempt to weed out those who can keep their cool and leadership capabilities from those who could not. At first, these courses lasted three months; hence, the common unflattering term for their graduates of "90-day wonders." Later, in the spring of 1943 when I was accepted, the terms were lengthened to four months.
Basically, the schooling was divided into two categories: academics and military. The academics, of course, centered on the specialty of the school; in my case—anti-aircraft artillery, then a division of the Coast Artillery of the Army's Ground Forces.
The balance of the day was devoted to military training, largely close-order drill, which was marching by the numbers. Everywhere we went, we marched at attention with "bird-dog" lieutenants hovering, constantly barking commands and criticisms. They especially relished klutzes like me who had had little previous training. One officer in particular, if you can imagine, somehow jumped into ranks with us as we marched and stationed himself directly behind me speaking commands into my ear to pull those shoulders back, back, back, and dig in those heels.
Later, I became so proficient at bracing that blood circulation actually cut off at the shoulders and my arms would become numb. Despite my giving it an all-American try, the officers decided that I had indeed qualified for two weeks in the "Special Training Detachment," more commonly known as "Boot School". Here, all day long, we did little else but march, do the rifle manual of arms, and take turns acting as drill sergeants commanding the platoon.
At the end of the two weeks, either you were as proficient at marching skills as a West Point cadet, or you were gone. Somehow, I survived, returned to the regular school, and hung on till graduation day.
All the time in school, I had been writing my mother how tough it was and the doubts I entertained about making it. So when the day of commissioning finally arrived, I had to be the only OCS graduate in history ever to receive a congratulatory telegram from his mother addressed not to "2nd Lieutenant" but to "Officer Candidate."
I sort of expected it since on my first weekend pass home after enlisting, the dog barked at me and I discovered Mom and my brother had invested heavily in Japanese war bonds.
***
OLD TIME FUN?
This is for you other old guys out there, but if any of the younger generation cares to read along, well, be my guest. Anyway, have you ever spent time idly reminiscing about your younger days and suddenly recalled pulling a really dumb stunt in which you looked the Angel of Death in the eye, laughed at him, and came away unscathed?
I have, and each time, the hands start to tremble, the moisture on the forehead turns warm, and the words spoken or visualized read like this: "Oh, no! Not me! I didn't really do something stupid like that, did I? How did I ever miss getting the big zap?"
In high school sometimes at night, my buddies and I would split up and pile into "Tuffy" Stephens's family Pontiac and my family Chevy and play a game of "tag". Usually, Tuffy, in the lead, would try to lose my car by darting into alleys and doubling down side streets, twisting and turning to elude us.
This one evening on the East side, Tuffy cut off Michigan Street, a main thoroughfare, and headed north on a street that crossed unguarded over the South Shore railroad tracks, and then he turned down the road paralleling the railroad. Nearly one block behind, I gunned the Chevy trying to narrow the gap.
You guessed it. As we cut over the tracks, an oncoming train rang its bell furiously and to our horror, was practically on top of us. You have seen those old Keystone Kop movies in which, during a chase, the train misses the speeding car at a crossing by one-half inch. Well, this one was closer. Had I been born one second later or were the car one coat of paint larger, that South Shore would have propelled us into eternity.
Tuffy was waiting for us as we turned down the street. "Gee", he grinned, "that was close!" Then, naturally, of course, we resumed the chase.
Some of you probably have never driven in the mountains. Where the peaks soar anywhere from 47O00 to 12,000 feet, the view is spectacular. But the driving ain't like good old pancake-flat Indiana. Sometimes, the two lanes are narrower than some of Michigan City's alleys and they don't include frills such as guard rails or shoulders. To make it even more interesting, occasional fallen boulders and washouts serve to keep your attention. The 500 or 1,000 feet sheer drops assure that if you go over the edge, your car better have wings or soon you will have some, assuming you go to the nicer place.
During World War II, in 1943, three of us Army second lieutenants stationed near Riverside, California, one afternoon decided to venture up into the San Bernardino mountains. With me driving my Ford V-8, we set out for Big Bear Lake, 6,000 feet up in beautiful wooded country. Our hearts were young and carefree and the narrow road provided awesome and perilous viewing as it climbed ever higher, winding back and forth.
Upon reaching Big Bear, we decided to celebrate by having a few beers. Finally, we headed back down but stopped at Lake Arrowhead first, at 5,000 feet. Sampling the stock of brew there approvingly, we figured that we should not slight the rest of the saloons on the way down to the ground floor. So we didn't.
Well, by the time we reached the 2,000 foot level, we were all flying higher than the P-38's stationed at nearby March Field. Why I didn't drive over the edge and why the Big Guy upstairs gave us a bye that day is beyond my comprehension. But that was another one I owed Him.
So it wasn't a total loss, we stopped for a nightcap at the lovely Arrowhead Springs Hotel in the foothills above San Bernardino. Waltzing into the lobby we encountered Hollywood movie star and comedienne, famous in the late '30s and '40s, Joan Davis. Still feeling little pain, we suggested that she invite us to her suite for a drink. To our surprise, instead of calling the M.P.s, she graciously did ask us up. After a quick highball, we had enough sense left somehow to depart with thanks.
Ah, vive la guerre!
***
KAMIKAZES
Sometimes I think back to the Christmas day during the war in 1944 when our convoy of merchant ships plus a few destroyer escorts left Tacloban bay in Leyte in the eastern Philippines to head for Mindoro, the island just south of Luzon. I was the Army cargo security officer on board a Liberty ship carrying 9,000 tons of Air Corps bombs, and why anyone should be concerned with the security of such cargo escaped me then as well as now.
But there I was, together with about 32 crew members and a Navy armed guard contingent, headed by a lieutenant, j.g., on board to handle the ship's armaments consisting of one five-inch cannon and six twenty-millimeter anti-aircraft guns. We had left San Francisco about four months previously and spent much of the time anchored off New Guinea, unloading a little, reloading a little, but mostly just sitting there waiting, true to Army tradition.
Finally, in November, about a month after Gen. Douglas MacArthur waded ashore during the invasion of Leyte, announcing that he had indeed returned, we joined a northwest-bound convoy and anchored after a few days in the bay at Tacloban. The trip was slow since the underpowered Liberty ships, 430 feet long, could do only about eight knots. The joke was that when the steward threw overboard the garbage at night, it floated past the ship, going in the same direction.
We sat in the bay for weeks, getting blase about our touchy load, the occasional lifeboat drills and quipping that if we did get hit, we needed not life jackets, but parachutes. It got so we didn't bother to come on deck for the nightly air raid, although, once in a while, I did go topside to watch in fascination as all the gun crews lowered their barrels to horizontal, chasing the lone low-flying Japanese intruder and wondered how the gunners missed hitting the other ships at anchor. Then, for the first time, we learned of the possibility of attack by suicide planes, or Kamikazes, but shrugged it off with "so what".
The tough old Irish ship's captain made it clear frequently that he considered the Navy gunners and me to be "non-essentials" on board and a waste of government money, besides. It was probably true in my case but he was to change his mind later about the gun crew.
The day after Christmas dawned sunny and clear as we cruised north of Mindanao. We had been promised a 24-hour air cover, so we were not too worried when general quarters sounded about 10:00. It turned out the 24-hour cover was mostly Japanese and some of their planes were attacking. I was standing on the top deck near the funnel when I spotted a slow-flying plane diving on the ship next to us, about 400 yards away.
Fascinated, I watched the Kamikaze crash into the base of their funnel. Suddenly, there was thunderous explosion--the ship evidently had had a load of ammo like us. In horror, I saw its sides fly along the water engulfed in smoke and with dark clouds reaching high into the sky. Twisted pieces of one-inch boiler plate rained down on our ship and we heeled over and rocked back and forth like a canoe in a gale.
In one micro-second instant, our ho-hum attitude switched to one of an unadulterated all-consuming fear. With a load of 9000 tons of bombs, there was no place to hide from the fanatic suicide pilots. But our gun crew was magnificent! Time after time, they shot down or damaged the Kamikazes and stopped them from reaching us. After the attack was over, the Navy gunners figured they had personally accounted for four Jap planes— not bad for a lightly armed non-naval vessel.
The next two days we were attacked frequently, and about nine or ten other ships were damaged, but no more were sunk or blown up. However, one day we observed directly overhead a Zero dog fight with an American fighter. The Zero caught a fatal burst and started diving out of control directly at our number one hold, where the extra sensitive primers and detonators were stored. In horror, we stood watching helplessly but at the last moment, the plane exploded and parts fell harmlessly into the ocean on the port and starboard sides and pieces of the fuselage landed on the deck. So it wasn't a total loss, later in quieter times, while unloading, some of us made aluminum watch bands from the Zero's fuselage.
Finally, we reached Mindoro and dropped anchor in the bay. The island was crucial to the invasion of Luzon and the re-taking of Manila which was to occur later. That afternoon, the captain broke out the slop chest for the gun crew and told them to take all the beer, candy, and cigarettes they wanted, with his compliments. Yes, he no longer considered them "non-essentials".
Then he announced that from then on, to hell with regulations! We would all "abandon ship" nightly and sleep on shore, since he was damned if he was going to be a sitting duck all night long for the crazy Japs. And that is what we did each night, sleeping in foxholes each of us dug for ourselves a couple of hundred yards inland.
The next day at twilight when we had already gone ashore, we heard gunfire from the bay followed by a tremendous explosion. We all cheered, figuring it was our ship that had been hit and now we could leave this bleeping place and head homeward. But when we ran down to the beach, we discovered that it wasn't our ship that caught it, but one that had just arrived that day and anchored next to us. Another ammo ship with its poor forsaken crew who never had a chance.
Finally, the DUKWs, the amphibious Army vehicles fascinating to watch, finished unloading our cargo, the bombs. My orders entitled me to return home expeditiously, so I said my good-byes and headed for the airstrip. I managed to hitch a ride in a C-47, the Army version of the DC-3, flying down to Biak, then New Guinea. Unfortunate~, I was bumped at Hollandia, New Guinea, and ended up in a Navy transport hold for the trip back to San Francisco. But that was another story.
***
SICK SICK SICK
If any of you have ever been seasick, you will agree that there are few feelings worse, especially when realizing that, in the event of an extended sea voyage, your mal de mer is just not going to go away. That is, unless you are sufficiently fortunate to have access to dramamine or some other modern drug that usually suppresses the overwhelming nausea.
Unfortunately, during World War II, those drugs were not available and those suffering from seasickness got little treatment except sympathy and the advice to lie down outside on deck midship in the fresh air, where the motion was not as severe. Normally, I am a fair sailor, while my wife used to get seasick taking a bath. But in rough seas, even experienced seamen sometimes will admit to feeling queasy or worse.
Returning to the States after a rough trip in the Philippines, I ended up in New Guinea on a Navy transport sailing on the three week trip back to San Francisco. My second lieutenant status counted little with the Navy even though we were allies, and they assigned me to the number one hold in the bow together with a big bunch of G.I.s.
This hold was designed to carry cargo but bunks had been installed along the sides and center in something less than luxury first-class accommodations. Also, in rough seas, being in the bow it would be subject to the greatest motion—up and down, up and down, not to mention rolling side to side, too.
And that is what happened as soon as we left port and entered the stormy open ocean. The normally calm Pacific belied its name and for the entire trip, it was up and down, up and down, rock and roll, rock and roll. The nausea claimed me, and for the first ten days, I was afraid I was going to die. Then for the second ten days, I was afraid I wasn't going to die. Stubbornly, I did not miss a meal. Just as stubbornly, my stomach rejected every one.
One day in desperation, I staggered up to sick bay and asked the pharmacist mate for some medication . When he haughtily informed me that seasickness was all in the mind, I would have strangled him on the spot had I the strength.
By the time we reached San Francisco, I was so thin, I didn't bother to open any doors when passing through. I just slipped underneath.
Reporting to my office, they said they were sure glad to see me since they were shorthanded and they were assigning me to another ship leaving in two days.
My thoughts were unprintable in this, a family book. I immediately called my mother in Michigan City and told her that she was sick and to climb in bed and stay there. Then I put in for an emergency leave to see my poor sick mother. When the local Red Cross came to check her, Mom put on an act worthy of an Oscar, and my leave was approved.
After two recuperative weeks at home, I returned to San Francisco refreshed and ready to try the Pacific a few more times.
***
BOATING ADVENTURES
Being longtime boat lovers, my brother and I picked up an old mahogany Chris-Craft motorboat after the end of World War II. The hull was much stouter than modern fiberglass ones, which I came to appreciate one dark midnight while cruising on Lake Michigan with a sweet young thing.
Returning to the harbor from the west in the darkness, I aimed between two beacon lights near the entrance. A wee bit too late, I discovered the lights sat on either end of the outer breakwater. Luckily, we bounced off safely with little damage, unlike some modern boats recently making the same error and going to the bottom.
That was one hard-way lesson learned. Another came one beautiful windless September day when four of us and my brother's English setter, Useless, cruised over the calm surface of the lake to the Whitcomb Hotel resort in St. Joseph, Michigan. We tied up in the St. Joe River and enjoyed a couple of relaxing hours with the massages and steam room, although Useless didn't care much for the latter.
Returning to the boat, we noticed that a wind had sprung up and the lake did appear a bit choppy. In blissful ignorance, though, we headed out into the lake. Immediately, not spray but huge waves broke completely over the boat.
In about two seconds flat, we achieved 100 percent respect for Lake Michigan and all other sizeable bodies of water when strong winds spring up. It took ten minutes of careful maneuvering to turn back without capsizing and we were very grateful to dock at the local yacht club. The five of us were indeed happy to take the bus home.
Eventually selling the Chris-Craft, we were boatless till some years later when my brother bought a small used inboard runabout which I had use of occasionally. One Sunday afternoon, my wife, four-year old son Andy, our dog Rusty, and I boarded the boat at the dock and I started the motor. Water in the gas caused it to sputter and throw raw gas into the bilge, a deadly combination.
Suddenly, there was a flash explosion and the four of us ended up with second and third degree burns and spent two weeks in the hospital.
One positive note: that incident did more in our area to promote safe boating techniques, including the sale of life jackets, than years of Coast Guard warnings and propaganda.
***
(In 1998, Dad prepared a speech for the Lion's Club. I had previously explained to him, over lunch, his Michael teachings chart, so he decided to incorporate that. He sent me this, his first draft, asking for my changes or additions. I don't think I saw his final version.--SGH)
I kept this topic secret--I was afraid that half of you wouldn't show up if you knew I was speaking, and the other half, if you knew my topic. Glad to see all of you present did have confidence in me.
Anyway, the title of my presentation is "My Book, My Son the Channeler, and My Surprise Ending."
In 1986, as you may recall, the Rotary Club started a campaign called "I Buy Michigan City." It was intended to persuade more local citizens to trade with Michigan City merchants. To show how serious they were, Rotary spent $10,000 for publicity and promotion.
This prompted a short letter from me to the Anvil Chorus in the "News-Dispatch," congratulating Rotary on their endeavor, but stating, "I just bought Michigan City, and will give you Rotarians 30 days to move out. Have a good day." I signed it as a member of the Lions Club.
Naturally, one Rotarian responded in the paper, "All the Lions--in the zoo!" It was my former golf partner and we had a lot of fun corresponding in the paper with numerous light-hearted insults.
This started my career of writing to the paper. Over the next 13 years till the present, I have submitted over 180 articles and letters. 124 were published in the Anvil Chorus and the Viewpoint columns. The paper turned down 24. Also, 30 were printed in the "Bitcher"...excuse me, I mean to say "Beacher." I stopped writing for the latter when Jerry Montgomery cut my pay 50%. When I calculated that 50% of nothing was still nothing, I left in a huff. I believe they quit building the Huff in 1970, but it was a very fine automobile.
Lately, my sons and some friends were pressuring me to turn the articles and letters into a book. So last year I picked out 62 suitable writings, including many rejected by the newspaper, and started to retype them for the book.
1 was doing okay at this until my sons now insisted I should use a computer as a more efficient means to copy. Fighting desperately all the way, I reluctantly agreed and in October the cursed contrivance arrived.
Soon I discovered what real trouble was upon attempting to digest the instructions which were written strictly for Rhodes scholars and members of Mensa. Despite two courses at the high school, my computer comprehension was near zilch.
On top of sheer incompetence, the computer frequently bawled me out. Like "Naughty, naughty, you idiot. You just flubbed up the discombobular circuit. Go to your room!" Three times when my fingers fouled up the keyboard, the following occurred:
1. I bought a ten year supply of tampons.
2. I purchased 5000 shares of "dot's nice dot com" a high tech penny stock. My 5000 shares are presently valued at $1.98.
3. After talking at length to somebody in Korea, I was informed that I had just married Rev. Moon's daughter.
Finally, I completed the manuscript. My articles selected come in four categories: commentaries, documentaries, fantasies, and poetic parodies. I mailed complete manuscripts to three publishers and sample articles to 25.
So far, ten have mailed rejection slips, leaving eighteen more who may or may not answer. Probably, I will wait until this fall before considering self-publishing or forgetting the project. May I point out that the authors of the bestselling "Chicken Soup for the Soul" queried about 35 publishers before being picked up by a small outfit in Deerfield Beach, Florida, not far from my winter home. Currently 20 or 25 "Chicken Soups" have been sold totaling 35 or 40 million copies.
My second segment concerns my son Shepherd, who channels for a living. What is channeling, you ask?
Channeling is "a means of communicating with any consciousness that is not in human form by allowing that consciousness to express itself through the channeler." It can be in words, energy, emotion, movement, etc. To be explicit Shepherd channels an entity of 1050 departed souls known collectively as "Michael."
Before you start passing judgment and rolling your eyes skyward, I ask you to consider this: Go outside at night and gaze up at the heavens. Can you explain how all the stars and galaxies got there and who put them there. If a force known as God created them, where did all the material come from? Etc.
Such knowledge is beyond our comprehension, at least, for now. Imagine going back to my two grandfathers born about the time of the Civil War, and telling them what was coming in our time: TV, radio, automobiles, planes flying at four times the speed of sound, the Moon landing, etc.
So do not dismiss channeling offhand as being beyond reality. Michael Crichton, famed author of "Disclosure" and "Jurassic Park," channeled at one time. You are probably aware of movie and stage actress Shirley MacLaine's involvement, also, in this field.
Right here in Michigan City on West Coolspring is the Spiritual Science Church, run by a Mrs. Novak. She regularly invites in strangers and sits them down in a circle, telling them things about each that she had no way of knowing previously.
A lady of my acquaintance had lost her husband twenty years previous to her visit to the church. Mrs. Novak stood in front of her, correctly named her husband as Fred, and described some unusual arm movements he customarily made.
The Michael entity has described a very complex social structure, usually in amounts of seven. For example, all of us can be categorized as one of the following soul types: warriors, kings, scholars, artisans, sages, priests, and servers. I am supposed to be a king with chief features of stubbornness and arrogance, and have an attitude of realist. The good news is we have all lived before and will live again.
Shepherd has written three books about channeling and Michael: "The Journey of Your Soul," "Meditations for Self-Discovery," and "Loving from Your Soul." He must be doing something right, since he has sold over 18,000 copies so far. An oddity is the fact that the latter title was published in Finnish. This brings to mind the old crack "She wouldn't do it for a Swede, but she would for a fin (five dollars).
Channels are not capable of predicting the future with certainty, and do not claim to have the solution to every problem. For instance, if there is not yet a medical cure for AIDs on the horizon, channeling will probably not come up with one.
Channels can express themselves either by speaking or writing. For some channels, channeling is like taking dictation, maintaining a clear distinction between themselves and the channeled entities. In the other extreme, channels go into a trance, leaving their bodies and allowing the entity to have complete control over them, often remembering nothing when returning to consciousness. In the middle ground, channels stay conscious to varying degrees and move responsively with the entity.
The ability to get information varies--maybe there is much about a health problem, but little about relationships. Sometimes, intuition may enter into the procedure.
A good channel is maybe 80% accurate—it helps if the subject cooperates and is totally honest. If the channel is fatigued, affected by drugs, caffeine, or alcohol, the results may be unfavorable.
Now for my 3rd topic-the surprise ending.
***
NOTE FROM SHEPHERD:
At the end, he simply wrote "Harriet & Shepherd"; he didn't need to write it out since he'd told the story many times already about how I had communicated with Harriet when she passed over. She showed me a picture of a three-drawer chest and emphatically said, "The middle drawer! The middle drawer! I want David to have what is in the middle drawer." Unbeknownst to me, they had bought a little desk with three drawers the year before (in Florida, where I hadn't been in years), and Harriet kept her securities in the middle drawer. David is her son.
Something similar happened last week, by the way. Pat's first cousin Donna Karnes lived in Laguna Beach and we were friendly. She passed over around March 9. I attended shiva at her daughter Terri Meisberger's home. Her widower Jody Karnes has, himself, had psychic/spiritual experiences, and while we were casually sitting on the patio, I got a message for him from Donna: she showed me an image of a stout green bottle with a narrow neck. Donna wanted him to open that bottle and drink it. Jody vaguely remembered such a bottle. When he got home, he found it: it was plum brandy, which Donna would drink when she was constipated. It turns out that, when I gave Jody the message, he, too, was constipated, which I obviously didn't know.
Incidentally, this kind of mediumship is not the main work I do, which is channeling Michael and doing other forms of intuitive/healing work, but it does help people to know that the soul continues after death, which is a great comfort.
