LEARNING THE PHONETIC ALPHABET

I guess I knew there were such things as the phonetic alphabet and tear gas, but in 1970 I became intimately acquainted.

Anyone who has known me has heard all these stories, and Rooney and Tear Gas will post later. Let’s talk about learning the phonetic alphabet, which we were supposed to know when we arrived in the class.

The drill instructor was…sharp. Creases in the uniform, proper tilt to the Smokey Bear hat, direct stare that was difficult to take, impossible to return. Tall, impossibly thin, black and apparently from Boston because some words were pronounced funny…”alpher,” “Indier” and Lima sounded like a primate from Madagascar. And he carried a big stick.

The stick was his attention-getter. When we made a mistake, the stick was whacked against the side of the podium with the result something like a rifle shot. We were already a little bit spooked, so this was effective. Plus, he would boom out, "KOOOOO REC SHUN!!"

The class was about 50 and when we came in, we counted off. Not knowing why, you promptly forgot your number, so when DI yelled, “Birdblue three niner, this is Birdblue one, over!” the guy who counted off to 39 usually just sat there. Silence. Gunshot slap of the stick…repeat the call. Pushups all around.

Now, notice, it is not “bluebird.” You had to pop up at attention, say “Birdblue one, this is Birdblue three niner, over.” And it is not “thirty-nine,” it is “three niner.” And so on. He changed up the call signs all the time, and they were always ripe for mispronunciation. And that damned stick. And yelling "Correction."

Reflecting, however, we considered our MOS—Armor Scout. We were supposed to go in front of the tanks, find something to shoot at and, before they killed us (which in Viet Nam was pretty quick), call in some coordinates. NOT YOUR OWN, SOLDIER!! The enemy’s location. When doing this, it would not be in the calm comfort of your arm chair, most likely calling in close air support, under fire in the mud, so you needed to be able to perform radio protocol second nature. Without thinking about it. Just like Staff Sergeant Rifle Stick taught you.

Wonder if they can get away with this kind of training these days—after all, it was harassment. The millennials who have always gotten a ribbon, win or lose, will surely be offended.

NO MONEY VERSUS BEING POOR

Growing up in rural Nebraska in the 1950’s and 1960’s, it seemed we had very little money. But it didn’t feel like we were poor. We had two pairs of jeans, one pair of shoes for work and another for Sunday, and enough to eat. Operating the dairy allowed our family to keep the farm while our friends and neighbors went broke and moved to California.

When we sponsored the foreign military students at Ft. Leavenworth, we made some terrific friends and met some great people. One of the couples we met were educators at a small town north of Leavenworth, and they described a situation that would be defined, in my book, as “poor.”

The little girl came to the first day of third grade in shabby clothes and had only a bag of chips for lunch. Upon inquiring the teachers found out that she and her family had just moved there and the reason she had no “real” food was because they didn’t have a refrigerator.

The teachers and administrators took up a collection, bought a second hand refrigerator and delivered it to the family. They were thrilled, and the little girl started to come to school with good lunches. Then, one day, it looked like things had really changed because she showed up with a new dress and new shoes.

“Looks like you got a new dress?”

“Yep. We sold the refrigerator.”

Who Sez...

Who says the financial markets are efficient?

Boosted by a recent stock surge, Facebook's (NASDAQ:FB) market capitalization has overtaken that of General Electric (NYSE:GE). The social network's 26% climb this year has brought its market value to $275B, compared to GE's $273B. Some are expressing concerns: GE racked up $149B in sales last year and employed more than 300,000 people. Facebook reported $12.5B in sales and employed roughly 9,200.

Something is a bit haywire.

I mentioned Apple the other day, worth more than all the auto companies in the world? Well, minus a few, but you get the idea. Is this an indicator of some sort of calamity? Hell, I don't know, but it might mean that when investing your savings, keep your eyes open and your wits about you.

Oh, and by the way, doesn't "sez" make more sense than "says"?

South Carolina

I loved the people I grew up around. They were honest, by and large, predominantly Christian and generally just good folks. Somehow, looking at the media on a daily basis, I have lost track of how those folks went about their lives.

 

Now, the recent events in South Carolina have demonstrated how people are supposed to act. Not the shrill voices who make the news, but first the people of the church where the gunman murdered nine of their friends. They spoke of forgiveness. This weekend, the KKK and a bunch of rowdies on the other side demonstrated, like that makes a difference.

 

One older gentleman, suffering from the heat, wearing a racist shirt with a swastika was helped to safety by an officer. A black officer. The picture has gone viral because that is not what the news tends to cover. I'm inspired. These are good folks. I think I'm a fan of South Carolina.

 

 

HOT

Imagine Foghorn Leghorn saying it. “It’s …I say, Boy…it’s HOT!” The weather says it is 7:00 in the evening, 93 degrees and the “real feel” is 106. It feels like the summer of 1965 and Rich and I were BUILDING BRIDGES.

Plunk on top of the natural heat in the middle of Nebraska in July and August the fact that we were always in a hole where no breeze could reach, we worked six-to-six, 11 hours per day, six days per week—nearly bathed in creosote.

Let’s talk about creosote for a bit. The first day on the job, I wore my usual leather gloves, and in the heat I naturally was dripping sweat. Sometimes, it felt natural to wipe the sweat from my brow or cheeks. BIG MISTAKE. Creosote has been banned, but the materials we used for much of the bridges were infused with the stuff, and when driven into the earth for the back and wing walls, and for the pilings, we were the ones who sat under the hammer and guided the planks/poles. Meaning this fine spray mist of creosote soaked us.

It feels like a sunburn, but worse. When you get out of the sun, apply some soothing gels, it lets up. The chemical burn keeps on burning. Quickly we learned never to touch our faces and always wear hats, long-sleeves and rags under the hats to protect our necks. Looked like a poor-man’s version of Lawrence of Arabia.

Over the 4^th of July 2015, half a century beyond the events to be described, Rich’s sons asked me to tell a couple of stories about those days. They had been so gracious as to invite us to their pool, how could I resist. And you know how reluctant I am to tell a story.

Rich was a “specialist.” He made more money than the $1.35 per hour, straight time, no over time that I made. He was the welder. On top of the poles that had been driven into the creek beds, a superstructure of steel beams was welded along with a metal pan tacked in place. As one of the last steps in the process, concrete trucks would show up, fill the concrete bucket on the crane and we would pour into the pan created. A lot of the concrete was driven out with wheelbarrows by, guess who?

Being raised on farms, we really didn’t know any better. We thought everything was done the hard way.

Early that summer, while Rich and I were putting in over 100 hours per week with the fertilizer company, there had been floods that washed out the rickety bridges on the country roads. I have no idea how long those bridges lasted, but I have driven around a few times and the bridges we put in are still there, 50 years later.

I had not heard of “water poisoning” then, but it is a wonder we didn’t experience it because we drank Igloo after Igloo. But one day, it rained us out. The creek where we were working started to come up, and they decided to call it a day. The job site was quite away from home, on the Skeedee, no that’s not right, maybe Plum Creek? maybe?? Remember, the word is pronounced, “crick.” Anyway, I rode with Rich and on the way back, on the Belgrade road, we popped over a hill and, unlike the near side that was dry, the other side was wet. They had been grading it, so it had no gravel, just dirt, and it was grease.

The car started to slide, Rich said, “Here we go,” and I just sat (no seat belts, a bench seat) and said, “Yep.” I remember distinctly that I had my legs crossed as we went into the ditch.

Again, we were farm grown, so we didn’t know that somebody else was supposed to figure out a solution for us. We walked to a nearby farm, borrowed a tractor and pulled the car out.

A moment about the car. Rich always had nice cars, but this one was pretty good—a 1957 Chevy Bel Air in the classic Tropical Turquoise and India Ivory. Not a convertible, not a V8, so not perfect. But NICE.

 

 

I’m not sure whether he had this car before or after the Chevy, but it was a classic and I think it was in the same color as this picture…and that, my friend, may be why he dated and married the coolest girl in school.

 

 

Anyway, another adventure. Take 66 hours times $1.35, remove a few social security dollars and some taxes, and we were working for right at $100 per week. Not bad. Not bad.

Stand by for a few more stories as they occur to me…for instance, I must tell you about the 104-hour work week, the only time I have ever clocked in and out and amassed over 100 hours in a week. Rich was there with me.

Best Quote

An executive said recently that her final question to an interviewee is: “What is the best quote you remember?” I challenge anyone to read that and not think of a quote of their own.

Since quotes and clever sayings have been an abiding hobby of mine (I recently ran on to a daily calendar page from 1972 upon which I had written, “Fragile as November ice,” which apparently appealed to me on that day), my mind was flooded with quotes. Most of my remembered quotes are either amusing or snarky in some way, and not fit for repeating in an interview situation, so I was discarding them as soon as I remembered them. One, however, might work.

The event was the Ak-Sar-Ben rodeo, and one of the events-within-the-event was for a few of us from the Nebraska National Guard and Reserve units of all branches of the service to receive medals from the Governor, James Exon, recognizing us as Outstanding Soldiers. The irony cannot be ignored, but that isn’t the point.

At the preceding dinner, the speaker was not the Governor, but an admiral who they must have flown in from somewhere else because I can’t think of a job for an admiral in Nebraska. We braced ourselves for something sleep-worthy, and I will never forget his opening—“I feel like the movie star’s seventh husband on their wedding night. I know what’s expected of me, but I don’t know how to make it interesting.”

Make it interesting. What a concept. When writing or in any job, that isn’t a bad motto. It stuck with me for something like 40 years, and I thank that Navy officer wherever he went, whatever he did and hope he lived up to his advice. Oh, and I still have the medal and a picture of the gov and me.

Canadians

The Chicago Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup Monday night. Great celebration and joy all around. But Stan Mikita wasn’t celebrating. You see, Stan wasn’t remembering. He has dementia.

Back in the day, to coin a phrase, they played without helmets. They played in the winter against foes from the Original Six, with names like Bruins and Rangers. Not “Lightning.”

His wife said that “Stan knew the risks every time he laced up the skates,” so they won’t be suing anybody. Besides, she said, “It won’t help.”

 

Sad that one of the Blackhawk greats can’t join the others, but refreshing that his family appreciates how this Slovak boy, raised in Canada benefited from professional hockey. Yep, those Canadians. Eh?