A scribble of a first draft (a notion) of something I might do something with...it's fictional...but draws from something that actually happened. I grew up in a day when many of my friends were going to Nam. We were all military kids...socialized in the culture. Most volunteered. Some were drafted. 3 never came back...
Billy was a prairie god of Kansas wheat and winter-sown cornflowers. He was the youngest of six children, the second of two sons, and the only one of her own to take after his mother, Miss Kiowa County and Queen of the Gunter Electric Supply Memorial Day Picnic - two years in a row.
His eyes were sleepy with lashes you were tempted every time to touch, to find gold dust on your fingertips. And they were not intense, but intent, so when you looked into the deep of them, you could see the skies above his grandmother’s farm.
With a smile he shared all his secrets, so that he had none. And we were never in doubt that he was happy to find us in his world.
He was adored. And no woman was immune, including his mother, the little girls in his class, and every teacher who found him standing in front of her desk. From Kindergarten to his last days in High School, Billy Westergaard was the name even the prim smiled at, and touched a thoughtful pen to, before placing that delighted tick, present.
In 1968, Billy was drafted into the Vietnam War. And nine days after he stepped off a CH-47 in the province of Quang Tri, he was killed with a single shot to his left cheekbone.
Two days after that, MSgt. Westergaard’s CO and the base chaplain followed MSgt. Westergaard’s station wagon into family driveway. Mrs. Westergaard refused to let them in the house. She stood barring the doorway, and when her husband went to put his hand on her cheek, she slapped him across the face, and called the chaplain a son of a bitch. And when she went back inside, she locked the door behind her.
For 5 minutes, the three uniformed men stood on the porch, looking down the street, at their shoes, and eventually at each other. And in a collective sigh, they separated. Watching his CO and chaplain walk back to their sedan, MSgt. Westergaard pulled out his keys. In a short bend, he slid one of them into the lock. And then he straightened, and for a moment stood with a small prayer before opening the door.
Showing posts with label military. Show all posts
Showing posts with label military. Show all posts
23 July 2009
25 May 2009
Crypt
In the early spring of 1963, a B-47 pilot lost his life in an ATO-related fire. My memory is vague on this, but I think the wheels did actually lift from the tarmac...that the jet was in the air, and then crashed....
His name was James Meeks. He was a Major in the Air Force. His crewmen were all able to escape, but he was trapped by his own seatbelt, due to negligence by its manufacturer...
That same spring it seemed almost everyone's basement was flooding. The water table was rising, and the earth under our homes was saturated. I mention this, because the night Major Meeks died, I had a dream about him. I dreamed he did not burn to death, after all.
I dreamed
he survived the fire,
only to be drowned
in a small lake,
a flooded quarry
under the sidewalk.
The lid to his crypt
lay in front of our house.
Bits of his flightsuit
were still on fire
floating in the waves
of blood and grease,
his charred hands
still gripping the belt
that would pull him
into the waiting pool.
His name was James Meeks. He was a Major in the Air Force. His crewmen were all able to escape, but he was trapped by his own seatbelt, due to negligence by its manufacturer...
That same spring it seemed almost everyone's basement was flooding. The water table was rising, and the earth under our homes was saturated. I mention this, because the night Major Meeks died, I had a dream about him. I dreamed he did not burn to death, after all.
I dreamed
he survived the fire,
only to be drowned
in a small lake,
a flooded quarry
under the sidewalk.
The lid to his crypt
lay in front of our house.
Bits of his flightsuit
were still on fire
floating in the waves
of blood and grease,
his charred hands
still gripping the belt
that would pull him
into the waiting pool.
24 February 2009
Conspiracies
When choosing between a conspiracy of lies or one of silence, it's better you should choose silence.
Two months before Dad went to Nam, Dwayne ran a table leg through my bedroom door.
He was chasing me down the hall, and I managed to get my door closed before he could make contact. The leg drove right through the wood like a spear.
The story was that Dwayne was simply walking down the hall carrying a table leg, and tripped over something on the floor right in front of my bedroom door, which caused him to twist around just I happen to be closing my door.
Well, we all got the belt for lying, and just two days before we moved to Sacramento, Dad repaired my bedroom door. The inspectors from Base Housing never knew.
We lived in Sacramento for a year waiting for Dad to come home from Nam.
And he wasn't back 2 weeks when my youngest brother, Hugh, kicked in the bottom panel of our bathroom door.
Patrick had done something to piss Hugh off, and when he ducked into the bathroom to escape harm, it pissed off Hugh even more.
After we got over how cosmically spooky it was that we should be dealing with another door, we went into action. We knew that no story whatsoever would convince Dad this was an accident. So, taking a page out of Dad's book, we decided to keep our mouths shut, and repair the door.
Mom and Dad were spending the day house-hunting back up near where we lived before, and they weren't due back for another 8 or 9 hours.
We didn't have any wood, and quite frankly, no one had exactly stood around to watch Dad repairing the first door, though he did tell us more than once the particulars of his brilliance in hiding Dwayne's crime from the inspectors. Something about making diamond-shaped biscuits, one for each side of the door...fitting them in, and sanding it all even...then re-painting. We had no idea how to duplicate his process, so we decided that tape might do the same trick...give us something to paint over.
There was plenty of matching paint. The entire interior, including all the doors, had been painted just before we moved in, and there were still 2 gallons in the garage. And there was never a shortage of masking tape in our house. Mom used it for everything. Mom was always refinishing or painting something.
So we carefully removed the splinters and sanded the panel and wiped it clean. Then, strip by strip, we taped from one end of the panel to the other, overlapping the tape by the just an eighth of an inch. It was a group effort. Hugh pulled the tape, and Patrick measured 24 inch sections, and then Hugh cut the tape, and handed it to me.
The panel was 20 inches tall, and the masking tape was a little more than an inch wide. It took me over an hour just to apply it. There were many fuck ups that could not just be undone...I couldn't remove just one strip of tape. Each time a mistake was made, I had to remove everything, and start over again. And every noise outside convinced me that Mom and Dad were about to burst in and catch us.
Dwayne had a delicate hand so he painted a fine coat over the taped panel, and we took turns holding the hose from Mom's hairdryer to blow heat on it. And still Dwayne waited an extra hour before he would risk painting another coat...and with that coat, he also painted the entire door.
While I'd been taping, Dwayne vacuumed the living room and the hallway. While Dwayne painted I cleaned and rewaxed the kitchen floor. Hugh and Patrick spent most of the time arguing while they cleaned their bedroom, putting away all toys, and re-making their beds.
The house reeked of paint. So we got the idea to repaint the other 3 doors in the hall, and what the hell, why not the one to the garage? We had the perfect cover. After all, we'd be moving soon...weren't we gonna hafta paint those doors, anyway? Such helpful children no two parents should be so lucky to have.
5 hours after we finished painting and cleaning, Mom and Dad came home.
As soon as they smelled paint Mom went looking in the kitchen cupboards for missing dishes, and Dad made a quick inspection of our rooms looking closely at all the windows. (oops. that reminds me of another story for another time.) They both checked for broken furniture and carpet stains.
Obviously they were suspicious. Obviously, we were obvious. I mean, everyone knows rule number one: if you know you're in trouble, clean your room, do the dishes, and paint the house.
We moved back to Beale 3 months later, and on that last day in the-house-we-lived-in-while-dad-was-in-nam, each of us kids must have looked at that panel a half a dozen times.
Dad never knew.
Two months before Dad went to Nam, Dwayne ran a table leg through my bedroom door.
He was chasing me down the hall, and I managed to get my door closed before he could make contact. The leg drove right through the wood like a spear.
The story was that Dwayne was simply walking down the hall carrying a table leg, and tripped over something on the floor right in front of my bedroom door, which caused him to twist around just I happen to be closing my door.
Well, we all got the belt for lying, and just two days before we moved to Sacramento, Dad repaired my bedroom door. The inspectors from Base Housing never knew.
We lived in Sacramento for a year waiting for Dad to come home from Nam.
And he wasn't back 2 weeks when my youngest brother, Hugh, kicked in the bottom panel of our bathroom door.
Patrick had done something to piss Hugh off, and when he ducked into the bathroom to escape harm, it pissed off Hugh even more.
After we got over how cosmically spooky it was that we should be dealing with another door, we went into action. We knew that no story whatsoever would convince Dad this was an accident. So, taking a page out of Dad's book, we decided to keep our mouths shut, and repair the door.
Mom and Dad were spending the day house-hunting back up near where we lived before, and they weren't due back for another 8 or 9 hours.
We didn't have any wood, and quite frankly, no one had exactly stood around to watch Dad repairing the first door, though he did tell us more than once the particulars of his brilliance in hiding Dwayne's crime from the inspectors. Something about making diamond-shaped biscuits, one for each side of the door...fitting them in, and sanding it all even...then re-painting. We had no idea how to duplicate his process, so we decided that tape might do the same trick...give us something to paint over.
There was plenty of matching paint. The entire interior, including all the doors, had been painted just before we moved in, and there were still 2 gallons in the garage. And there was never a shortage of masking tape in our house. Mom used it for everything. Mom was always refinishing or painting something.
So we carefully removed the splinters and sanded the panel and wiped it clean. Then, strip by strip, we taped from one end of the panel to the other, overlapping the tape by the just an eighth of an inch. It was a group effort. Hugh pulled the tape, and Patrick measured 24 inch sections, and then Hugh cut the tape, and handed it to me.
The panel was 20 inches tall, and the masking tape was a little more than an inch wide. It took me over an hour just to apply it. There were many fuck ups that could not just be undone...I couldn't remove just one strip of tape. Each time a mistake was made, I had to remove everything, and start over again. And every noise outside convinced me that Mom and Dad were about to burst in and catch us.
Dwayne had a delicate hand so he painted a fine coat over the taped panel, and we took turns holding the hose from Mom's hairdryer to blow heat on it. And still Dwayne waited an extra hour before he would risk painting another coat...and with that coat, he also painted the entire door.
While I'd been taping, Dwayne vacuumed the living room and the hallway. While Dwayne painted I cleaned and rewaxed the kitchen floor. Hugh and Patrick spent most of the time arguing while they cleaned their bedroom, putting away all toys, and re-making their beds.
The house reeked of paint. So we got the idea to repaint the other 3 doors in the hall, and what the hell, why not the one to the garage? We had the perfect cover. After all, we'd be moving soon...weren't we gonna hafta paint those doors, anyway? Such helpful children no two parents should be so lucky to have.
5 hours after we finished painting and cleaning, Mom and Dad came home.
As soon as they smelled paint Mom went looking in the kitchen cupboards for missing dishes, and Dad made a quick inspection of our rooms looking closely at all the windows. (oops. that reminds me of another story for another time.) They both checked for broken furniture and carpet stains.
Obviously they were suspicious. Obviously, we were obvious. I mean, everyone knows rule number one: if you know you're in trouble, clean your room, do the dishes, and paint the house.
We moved back to Beale 3 months later, and on that last day in the-house-we-lived-in-while-dad-was-in-nam, each of us kids must have looked at that panel a half a dozen times.
Dad never knew.
11 February 2009
Wearing the Uniform
I looked up from my lunch today, and watched four folks come in wearing blaze orange vests, reflection tape, and tan redwing boots. I had no idea who they worked for or what they did for a living. But clearly, they worked together. They were a unit.I remember what that feels like, sitting with friends, sharing a goal, sharing a purpose, wearing the uniform.
Cammies, scrubs, corporate smocks with a name tag, it doesn't much matter as long as you match - cohesion under the guide-on, wearing the colours, prayer cloths offered to the gods of Purpose.
And shoptalk. I loved it. Lunch at the mess hall, margaritas at the O-club, slouching around the hospital cafeteria, eating hot pizza after a particularly long day in the OR. It didn't matter if we were debating dexon v. chromic, reciting stock numbers, or suggesting new DD acronyms. We shared jargon, spoke in our own secret language, comprehended by club members only.
It's funny to think back on it. I don't know that it occured to any of us that our language might be regarded as exclusive. But thinking on it now, I see it as part of the uniform - as important as the nametag, the strings dangling from a spent OR mask, or the subdued rank on one's collar.
I miss that.
08 November 2008
VFW
Sitting with friends
at a long table cluttered
with bowls of oatmeal
and cold stacks of pancakes,
he holds his coffee mug
with both hands.
And recites the memory
of a cold ditch in Korea,
of hot chinese metal
and smoldering wool,
and the certainty
that he would burst into flames.
at a long table cluttered
with bowls of oatmeal
and cold stacks of pancakes,
he holds his coffee mug
with both hands.
And recites the memory
of a cold ditch in Korea,
of hot chinese metal
and smoldering wool,
and the certainty
that he would burst into flames.
22 October 2008
Cuban Pickle Crisis
When I think back to the 50s and 60s, I remember that it was the era of Flying Saucers and Green Men from Mars...Xenophobia was pandemic, and paranoia ruled the day.
On October 22, 1962, President John F. Kennedy made a speech from the oval office, and frightened Americans everywhere sat in front of their televisions watching as he informed them that "large...offensive weapons of sudden mass destruction" were aimed at our country. We were doomed.
October was a major month for canning, and that particular day, we (women and young girls) were all busy putting up pickles. 12 women from 4 families on Pease Circle did what women had been doing for generations. We preserved the harvest: corn, cucumbers, tomatoes, and green beans, mostly. We did this as a small community. We were military, so we didn't have generations of continuity - only a shared heritage of preserving foods.
The threat of annihilation didn't stop us. It didn't even slow us down. Every waking hour was spent slicing, blanching, sterilizing, and filling jars. In fact, the chance that we might spend the rest of our lives underground lent an urgency to our mission. Another jar sealed was another blow to Communism.
Once the jars were cooled a bit, they were divided among the 4 households.
About 4 or 5 hours after JFK's speech, pickles stored in kitchens and porches on Pease Circle exploded. For 20 minutes, there was pandemonium. A broken window, reports of a gunshot, yelping dogs, women in housecoats pouring from every home...some armed with bats, some with rolling pins. Mrs. Janek carried a .22, and Mrs. Gorgone a BB gun. The MPs were called in.
In the end, the Russians removed their offensive weapons, and we lived to can another day.
Naturally, some doggerel:
Housecoats made the uniform
for twelve domestic soldiers true,
and curlers were the headgear worn
by several of the kitchen crew.
October, Nineteen Sixty Two
forever we will celebrate
when weapons in our pantries blew,
and invading aliens met their fate.
Green men scattered 'cross the lawns,
these marinated men from mars
glowed eerily in morning's dawn,
done knockered by exploding jars.
The juice of pickles, kosher dill,
had foiled their commie pinko plans.
It slushed their brains, and broke their will,
and gave them really stinky hands.
On October 22, 1962, President John F. Kennedy made a speech from the oval office, and frightened Americans everywhere sat in front of their televisions watching as he informed them that "large...offensive weapons of sudden mass destruction" were aimed at our country. We were doomed.
October was a major month for canning, and that particular day, we (women and young girls) were all busy putting up pickles. 12 women from 4 families on Pease Circle did what women had been doing for generations. We preserved the harvest: corn, cucumbers, tomatoes, and green beans, mostly. We did this as a small community. We were military, so we didn't have generations of continuity - only a shared heritage of preserving foods.
The threat of annihilation didn't stop us. It didn't even slow us down. Every waking hour was spent slicing, blanching, sterilizing, and filling jars. In fact, the chance that we might spend the rest of our lives underground lent an urgency to our mission. Another jar sealed was another blow to Communism.
Once the jars were cooled a bit, they were divided among the 4 households.
About 4 or 5 hours after JFK's speech, pickles stored in kitchens and porches on Pease Circle exploded. For 20 minutes, there was pandemonium. A broken window, reports of a gunshot, yelping dogs, women in housecoats pouring from every home...some armed with bats, some with rolling pins. Mrs. Janek carried a .22, and Mrs. Gorgone a BB gun. The MPs were called in.
In the end, the Russians removed their offensive weapons, and we lived to can another day.
Naturally, some doggerel:
Housecoats made the uniform
for twelve domestic soldiers true,
and curlers were the headgear worn
by several of the kitchen crew.
October, Nineteen Sixty Two
forever we will celebrate
when weapons in our pantries blew,
and invading aliens met their fate.
Green men scattered 'cross the lawns,
these marinated men from mars
glowed eerily in morning's dawn,
done knockered by exploding jars.
The juice of pickles, kosher dill,
had foiled their commie pinko plans.
It slushed their brains, and broke their will,
and gave them really stinky hands.
31 May 2007
Monuments
In a small factory,
passing in close order -
white danby marble,
42 inches high,
13 inches wide.
At the end of the belt
a woman rocks the sanding arm
back and forth
making chalk -
precise hollows
for the black paint that will spell a name:
my son,
born here,
died there,
too young.
passing in close order -
white danby marble,
42 inches high,
13 inches wide.
At the end of the belt
a woman rocks the sanding arm
back and forth
making chalk -
precise hollows
for the black paint that will spell a name:
my son,
born here,
died there,
too young.
24 January 2007
...feelin' nostalgic again.
I was walking down SW Higgins, and noticed that the Senior Center is having Pinochle Night. Damn, but I miss Pinochle. I’m still too young to join the seniors, and folks my age are busy cruising the chatrooms or watching CSI.I miss the sound of people chatting over the kitchen table. I miss the power going out at least once a week, and mom heating coffee over a candle flame.
Growing up military, everybody's parents played Pinochle. It was the poor man’s Bridge. They played partnership when men were home, and cutthroat when they were gone. And if the power went out, that didn’t matter. They’d play Pinochle by candlelight.
Pinochle for our parents always included refreshments. The table was always crowded with victory mugs, open beer cans, cigarette packs, Zippos, and ashtrays. Back in the day, everybody smoked. Cigarettes were practically free to GIs. I can still see them all talking with cigarettes in their mouths, squinting against the smoke burning their eyes!
My dad used to smoke 4 packs of Pall Malls a day, and my mother, 3. I can’t remember a single adult who didn’t smoke at least 2 ½.
Remember when ashtrays were a part of the décor? Ceramic, ironstone, and glass…and some even of crystal. There was at least one in every room. I remember some butt ugly ones carved and polished from granite and marble. Some even had matching lighters. I think they came from Italy. Very, very large. Of course, no one actually soiled them with cigarette tar and ashes. They were just for saying, I was stationed at or near Italy.
And you could pretty much tell which family’d been stationed where. People who’d been to Germany always had an over-carved, Black Forest cuckoo clock. People who’d been to Turkey had the requisite, decoratively engraved, matching ensemble of brass bells, brass decanters, brass ashtrays, and brass end tables. And people who’d been to Japan had geisha dolls and silk lampshades – pagoda shaped, of course. (These are the days before Japan started dominating the electronics market.)
And every house on base had a hideous, gigantic wooden fork and spoon hanging on its dining room wall. I don’t know where they came from. We had to be the only Air Force family in 50 states that didn’t have the set. Although we did have an obscenely large wooden bowl my mom served salad in, with its own too-large wooden fork and spoon. And yes, I think they matched the set hanging on those other walls!
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