Unpredictable Adventures Blog

I’m back. I’ve unloaded some of the activities that were eating up my time so, hopefully, I’ll be able to do a better job keeping up with this in the future. Now back to my first summer at the Academy.

In order to properly use guns of all sorts, we had a class in gun safety. We learned how to clear various weapons. We learned how to disassemble and reassemble a rifle, a .45 pistol, and a .38 revolver. Fifty or so of us assembled in a large open building. Our practice weapons sat on tables in front of us. The instructors demonstrated what we were supposed to do and talked us through our practice while monitors looked over our shoulders to make sure we were doing it right. Then we got to practice on our own.

We were practicing with the .45s when a gun went off. One of the cadets fell to the floor. The monitors rushed to converge on the downed cadet. The rest of us sat in stunned silence while the monitors ministered to him. After what seemed like an eternity, he jumped to his feet, grinning. It had all been staged. The gun had a blank in it, and the cadet was in on it. I have to admit it was one of the most effective safety trainings I ever attended.

These were the days before AR-15s so we were issued M-1 rifles. They were a part of our lives for the next four years. We marched and paraded with them. We practiced manual of arms. We practiced marksmanship with them. We cleaned them until they were spotless or tried – somehow the inspectors frequently found something we had missed, a speck of lint, the glint of oil. I became extra familiar with mine because I spent a lot of time with one on my shoulder, marching tours.

We got demerits for numerous things: dust, a “dirty” weapon, late for anything, poor judgment (It seemed that way), … When we accumulated enough demerits or committed a heinous crime like being late for curfew by a few minutes (a Class 3 offense), we had to march tours as our punishment. That first year I spent most of my Saturdays, rain or shine, going back and forth across the quadrangle with my rifle.

Not all my experiences that summer were unpleasant. We trained at a variety of things: physical training, bayonet fighting, an obstacle course, and as I mentioned before marching. The obstacle course was my biggest challenge. It was tough, and my practice times were poor at best. For the final exam Jim Lorrigan, an ATO, trotted alongside shouting encouragement. When I crawled under the barbed wire, I could hear him, “You can do it! Keep it up!” As I zigzagged across the elevated planks, his “You’re doing great!” urged me on. As I clung to the top of the wall, straining to climb it, he was there. “Climb! You’re going to make it.” And I did. Panting and wheezing I pulled myself up and over the wall, dropped to the ground on the other side, and trudged for the finish line. I made it with my best time, but I wouldn’t have without Jim’s help. I owe him a debt of thanks.

As a grand finale for that summer we got to see what it was like to be a ground pounder. We marched down what is now 6^th Avenue (It turned into a dirt road before we got off it). We turned into Lowry Bombing Range (I think we went through Buckley Naval Air Station, but I can’t imagine it being on a dirt road) and marched to a camp site. Since it was late summer in Eastern Colorado, they were somewhat redundant, but we had pup tents to sleep in.

I don’t remember a great deal about the bivouac, but it was both taxing and intriguing. It had a final exam of sorts. There were a number of scored activities. The two I remember were a compass course which I didn’t do well on and a marksmanship test.

The marksmanship test was to burst a balloon with a .45. The reason it was so difficult is that the .45 bullet moves slower than the speed of sound so it has a bow wave. If it is slightly off dead center of a balloon suspended by one end, the bow wave pushes the balloon aside. We were given five shells to do it. I was one of the few who got it on the first shot.

With that my first summer at the Academy came to a close. I’m sure I’ve left out some things that would be interesting to someone, but as I remember them, I’ll add them to my list and eventually mention them.

Next, the academic year starts.

On the third of June this year I had back surgery. I had a piece of bone removed from the bottom three of my lumbar vertebrae to make more room for my spinal nerve. The procedure is called a laminectomy and is probably the least invasive of backbone surgery. I’ve just about returned to normal now, but the recovery period slowed me down mentally. I’m told the residual effect of anesthesia can last for several days, and that may have had something to do with it. Whatever the reason, I used that as an excuse to not work on my blog or my next book. Now I’m functioning mentally like I was before the operation, so I still have that excuse, but I’m getting back to work anyway.

Checking in at the Academy was a whirlwind of activity, but frankly, it was almost sixty years ago, and I only have vague recollections. To sign in we had to show who we were. I think that was primarily by birth certificate. We were issued fatigues, combat boots, and a bunch of other items. We also got individual copies of Contrails and started memorizing its contents. We got our hair cut. We learned the acceptable responses: “Yes sir. No sir. No excuse sir. Sir, I do not know.” And we met our Air Training Officers (ATOs), First and Second Lieutenants who served as our upperclassmen for the first summer.

One of the few funny things that day happened during our introduction to marching. I was so uptight that I couldn’t remember which arm went forward with which leg. I actually had to ask, and on that day and many more a question had to start with “Sir, may I ask a question?” I know, it’s sort of an oxymoron, but it was the only acceptable unbidden question.

What made it funny (no one laughed) was that the ATO I asked couldn’t answer it. He, as we all do, walked by habit and didn’t think about which hand went with which leg – until asked. Fortunately, I kept a straight face through the incident – I was too scared to do otherwise, and eventually I was marching.

We were immediately introduced to how our rooms were supposed to be kept: beds made with perfect forty five degree corners, clothing in our drawers neatly folded and in the specified locations, shoes shined till they reflected our image (spit shines), everything in the room dust free, including the top of the door frame. We had reveille at “Oh Dark Thirty” as it was, but to get our clothes and room ready for the morning inspection we were advised unofficially to get up at four and go to work. It was unofficial because we were supposed to be in bed, and couldn’t be told to get up before reveille. In fact, if we were caught out of bed before reveille, we earned demerits, which I had a special talent for.

The meals were something else. As “doolies” we were required to eat at attention, back straight, chin tucked in (that was one of the interesting things about being at attention. I think it was primarily to teach us to keep our heads up straight but it was a de facto deliberate annoyance), arms at our sides when we weren’t using our hands, and feet flat on the floor. While we were eating, we were subject to questioning by the ATOs, stuff out of Contrails that we were supposed to learn by rote and answer with immediately. The one good thing about mealtime was that if we hadn’t finished eating by the time the meals were dismissed, we got to stay and finish – still at attention, but undisturbed.

Toward the end of summer we had a surprise event. One of the hard-ass ATO’s, Lt. Pedjoe, headed up an after-hours pizza party for all of us in the squadron who had gotten that far. We actually got to relax with the men who had been harassing us for weeks – knowing, of course that everything went back to normal in the morning. I assume that all the squadrons did the same. It gave me a different point of view about the ATO’s. I had known it was their job to keep us on our toes, but after that I knew their attitudes were part of the act (It didn’t mean we could cross the line, but we could view them as fellow humans).

I think that’s enough for now. It doesn’t quite cover all of that first summer, but there’s enough to make another entry for next time.

On another note, I’m trying to collect meaningful and/or ridiculous quotations by people who would not normally be quoted. If you see, hear, or say anything profound, self-contradictory, or on after thought just plain funny, send it to me along with whom to attribute it to ­– that can be that world famous sage, Anonymous, or his cohort, Author Unknown.

We didn’t have a lot of money to spare, but I expected to go to college. I new vaguely that I was destined to become an engineer, but that was about it. I started looking for where I wanted to go. There was always the University of Delaware, a good, small school that didn’t cost all that much. That was my backup plan. The only other university I remember paying any attention to was Purdue.

Something brought the Air Force Academy to my attention. I recognized that somewhere along the line I needed to put in military service. After all, Dad had served in the big war as had my uncle Pat. It was in the family. One thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to be in a foxhole if I ever had to face an enemy, and I figured it was better to be an officer than an enlisted man. Besides, the Academy wouldn’t charge me any tuition. In fact, I’d be paid to attend. In addition, my experiences in the CAP had convinced me that I wanted to fly, and at that time physically qualified graduates of the Academy were expected to go to pilot training.

I looked into the application process and sent off a letter to one our senators, J. Allen Frear. Before I knew it, I received a notification to go to a written test in Dover. We filled a whole classroom. I think we were Frear’s candidates for all the academies. My test taking ability took over, and I breezed through the test, which was extensive. I don’t remember if we ever saw scores from the test, but I did well enough to move on to the next level.

Somewhen in there I also went to Wilmington to take the College Board exams. Again, my test taking ability took over. I don’t remember how long each test was, but I do remember finishing each of them before the required time and going out to walk around the campus till it was time to go back for the next test.

It reminded me of taking the standardized biology test when I was in the tenth grade. I had carried a C through the entire year because I didn’t put any work into the class projects. When the scores came back on the standardized test, mine was in the 99 plus percentile. That brought my final grade up to a B. I don’t remember any specific grades from the College Board, but I do know that none of the tests was hard. As I mentioned earlier I never had a problem with tests. You’ll note that I’m not claiming to be exceptionally smart, just to have a phenomenal test taking ability.

The next step was going to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, to the Air Force Base there (I can’t think of the name at the moment). We spent a whole day of testing, both written and physical. To no surprise to me most of the other candidates were better athletes than I. The one significant test was pull ups. I had never before in my life done ten consecutive pull ups, but I did then. I found out later that ten was the minimum passing. I had barely made it.

Sometime before our class trip to DC I was notified that I had been selected to attend the Academy. While we were in DC, I got to meet and personally thank Senator Frear.

Finally the day before the big day came. We drove to Washington and what is now Reagan International. After saying goodbye to Mom, Dad, Richard, and Susan, I boarded a Lockheed Constellation for the flight to Denver. I don’t remember anything about the flight other than the airplane type. I spent the night in the Oxford Hotel, and the next morning I carried my suitcase down to Union Station.

Once again my shyness kicked in. The Academy was supplying transportation from the station. I saw the NCO who was driving, but I didn’t know what kind of transportation I was supposed to be looking for and couldn’t work up the courage to approach him to see if he was picking up incoming newbies. After he left, I realized I had missed the bus (or car) literally, and I had no idea when or if more transportation would show.

I lugged my baggage to the nearest bus stop and found out how to get to Lowry. The number 13 bus dropped me off at the old Base Exchange. I can’t recall for sure how I got to the Academy part of the base, but I think there was a base bus.

That’s where the fun began.

When I started writing this journal, I planned to put out a post every Thursday. It hasn’t worked out. I admit I’ve done better with a deadline, but I’ve gotten so far behind that I’ve decided to restart. If I get a chance to do some catching up, great. But for now let’s call today the new baseline.

During the summer between junior and senior year I had my first real job. Somewhere I still have my beat up social security card that I got that summer. I worked with dad at a housing development. Dad was the surveyor and I was the surveyor’s assistant, which meant mostly holding the rod and driving stakes. Interestingly, Carol from the Van Buren Avenue era had moved out to that development, and I reconnected with her (nothing serious, just friends).

Then there was Ellen. I hesitate to talk about her because eventually I hurt her. Her father worked in the political arena – Washington, I think. They returned to Smyrna during Ellen’s junior year of high school. Because we were both “outsiders,” we had a common bond of sorts. For some reason Ellen seemed to take a shine to me. Unfortunately – or fortunately for me considering the long term outcome, I was too shy to take advantage of her interest. I suspect that if I had, I would have gone to the Naval Academy instead of the Air Force Academy and would have had a completely different future from that point on. That would have meant no Carol, no Keith, no Kathy, no Shannon, nor any of the grandchildren. Carol turned out to be keystone of the rest of my life. I consider myself to be the luckiest person alive for having met and married her. But Ellen might have been a good choice otherwise.

I remember tiny bits of trivia about those final years of high school. I remember Spanish class and Mrs. Getty. I thoroughly enjoyed the class, and there was only one person in it who did better than I. She was the daughter of an Air Force member, and she came from Puerto Rico. I remember the Treble Clef (a soda shop — or was it technically a drug store?), especially the jukebox.

One thing I remember vividly was a softball game during phys ed class. I was on the third base side of the field. Rodney was sliding into second, and the right fielder threw a high ball to the second baseman. The second baseman went up for the ball and came down on Rodney’s leg. The bone snapped much like Joe Theismann’s did later. It was clearly visible from where I stood. Because of that broken leg, Rodney was still recuperating when we went on our class trip to DC and he was unable to go.

I mentioned that I was working on overcoming my shyness. I worked on it during our senior class trip to DC. I still have the group photo that was taken on that trip. I don’t remember a whole lot about the trip, but I do remember Glen Echo amusement park, and I do remember meeting a girl from another school that I took up with whenever our classes bumped into each other. For some strange reason it was as if my class wasn’t there and I had moved into a new environment where I could shed some of my shyness. However, and I’m not sure of this, I seem to remember Ellen being annoyed by the attention I paid to that girl.

More about Ellen later.

One other thing about that visit to Washington, I got to meet Senator J. Allen Frear who had nominated me for the Air Force Academy. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll save that for the next post.

After trying door to door sales and I don’t know what else, Dad finally found a job that suited him well, working as a surveyor for a small construction firm. I’m not sure why we moved but the new job prompted a new home. We collected all our worldly goods and moved down state to a farm outside of Clayton.

The place was originally a log cabin that had been added onto. The kitchen and dining area were in the log cabin. Richard and I slept in the attic bedroom over the kitchen. Susan’s bedroom was upstairs in the addition. The living room was downstairs in the addition. The rest, who knows?

Carol and I drove by the place and took pictures while we were in Delaware for my class reunion in 2006. Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I’ve included one of the house. It hadn’t changed much in the 50 years since we lived there. The trailer and RV and the other buildings were new. It appears that since then the house has been torn down. I can’t find a trace of it in Google Earth.

Clayton had a grade school but wasn’t big enough to warrant a high school, so I went to John Bassett Moore Secondary School in Smyrna. My class doubled in size from the one in Blue Eye. JBM has since become an intermediate school, and the new high school was built on the edge of town. I’m sure that the new classes are bigger than 76 students.

My recollections of school there are strangely limited – more the people than the school events. You might remember my description of trying to learn to drive while on Guam. When I turned sixteen I was in no hurry to start driving. I waited for driver ed class to get my time behind the wheel. Passing the class meant I got my license without taking a driver test.

Sometime after getting my license, I started going to VFW (I think) sponsored dances. I spent most of my time just standing around and listening. However, there was a girl in the class of ’57, Gayle, who had caught my eye. As far as I was concerned she was the prettiest girl in the whole school. I wanted desperately to dance with her, but I couldn’t work up the nerve to ask her.

After about six futile evenings at the dances, I used Dad to help me take action. I told him what the situation was asked him for an ultimatum: if I didn’t ask her to dance the next time I went, I couldn’t take the car any more. It worked, but it wasn’t easy and it was only one dance.

The most defining thing about living in Clayton was my introduction to the Civil Air Patrol. Reynolds Jones, the local commander, and a state police captain who lived in Clayton (I wish I could remember his name) started a cadet squadron. They recruited in the high school and met in the National Guard armory (I think – I admit that my lack of memory is frustrating). Reynolds had a farm on the east side of the highway. He had a runway and a Piper Cub, and part of cadet training was to fly with him or the captain who had a Cessna 140 or 120 (again, I think). I immediately fell in love with flying. The captain introduced me to stalls and recoveries. Reynolds introduced me to cross country flying.

Part of our training included a “TDY” to Grenier AFB in New Hampshire. We got to spend time on a real Air Force base and sample real Air Force duties. A group of CAP cadets from all over Delaware flew up to Grenier in an Air Force airplane (either a C-47 or a C-54). I spent part of my time there helping in the mess hall, more learning the ropes than KP. I also got a tour in the paint shop (where the paint fumes irritated my nose and throat) and part of supply. We took advantage of the base movie theater and watched a war movie. I believe it was To Hell and Back, Audie Murphy’s autobiography starring Audie as himself.

By the time I had reached high school, especially in Smyrna, I had learned one important thing about myself. I could overcome some of my shyness by changing my behavior each time I moved. There was something about my new acquaintances not already knowing that I had a specific behavior programmed into me that made it easier to modify that behavior. My junior year I made an attempt at a quantum leap in behavior modification by trying out for the school play. It was probably the toughest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I can still remember it.

I was standing in the wings with some other students who were also trying out. The previous student had left the stage, and it seemed as if we had been waiting forever. Then I heard the dreaded word, “Next!” I looked around. Everyone was pointing at me. I swallowed hard, squeezed my script, and walked out onto the stage. It was brightly lit, completely empty, and enormous – at least, it seemed that way at the time. Looking over the footlights I could see my audience: the director and assistant director of the play, the school’s two English teachers. Talk about feeling alone! “Mr. Savage, it says here that you’ll be reading for the part of Arthur (or whoever). Is that correct?”

I nodded my head.

“Very well, proceed.”

I read my lines fairly well – not as well as I would have liked, but fairly well. I answered some questions, and I was beginning to feel pretty good about myself. Then the director asked me for a stage whisper. A stage whisper? I didn’t have the foggiest idea what a stage whisper was. The try-out went downhill from there. By the time they got around to asking me to laugh, I was already giggling hysterically. That whole episode was embarrassing. I had known it would be, but I stepped onto the stage anyway. Unfortunately, I had gotten out of my comfort zone and into my panic zone. Needless to say, I didn’t get the part.

The trip from Missouri to Delaware was not particularly memorable. In fact, the only thing I recall was driving through Pennsylvania on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It was my first encounter with a limited access highway and with a toll road. I think the thing that fascinated me most was the gas station/cafés in the islands in the middle of the road.

I’m not sure what Dad did at Chrysler or, for that matter, what Chrysler did in Delaware, but Delaware was our new home. We moved into a duplex in Wilmington on Van Buren Street and when summer was over I started school at P. S. Du Pont, which was a high school then. There were more kids in my class than there were in my whole school in Blue Eye.

When we left Missouri, school was already out, but it wasn’t in Wilmington. Mom and I went to P. S. Du Pont and set up my schedule for the coming year. Because Blue Eye didn’t have algebra for the ninth grade, I was a little behind. I decided it would be best for me to catch up. I signed up for algebra and geometry for the tenth grade. The counselor wasn’t optimistic, but signed me up anyway. Then I went on summer vacation.

While the other kids my age were still in school, I wandered around becoming familiar with my new environment. Wilmington was the first city I had ever lived in so it was intriguing. One of my excursions took me down Van Buren Street to Brandywine Park. Somewhere near where the zoo is I found an odd treasure, a collection of foundations where the building(s) had been demolished (or that’s what it looked like to me). All of these concrete or stone relics stood out in a kind of bowl where grass had overgrown everything. I encountered a policeman there. He asked me why I wasn’t in school, and I told him. He took me at my word. I’m not sure whether he believed me because I didn’t have a Wilmington accent or he decided my explanation was too good to be an excuse for playing hooky.

That summer I met Edwin and his cousin Michael (I think). Edwin and I became close friends for a while. They lived next door to each other on Elliott Place so they were really less than a block away. I can still vaguely recall a kind of ball game we played. Across the street from them was a multiple garage structure (still there) so we didn’t have to be concerned about breaking windows. We took turns throwing a rubber ball at Edwin’s front steps. The only objective I can remember was trying to hit the edge of the step so the ball went up like a fly ball. Because of daylight savings time we could be out playing after 9:00 o’clock. One other thing about Edwin, his family had the smallest station wagon I have ever seen, a Cushman four-seater.

Across 25th Street from Edwin on the corner of Monroe Street lived Carol Ann and her sister Nancy. Carol was as tall as I was and a little thin but good looking. I can remember seeing her (across Market Street) several years later. She was wearing a gray suit and looked like a professional model. She and I became close friends.

On the corner of Van Buren and Concord pike there was a deli (still there, although I believe they’ve changed the name). I’d save up my money and as often as I could afford it, I’d go there for goodies like apple pie a la mode and chocolate sundaes when I’d saved up enough money.

I walked to school that year. We didn’t have a lot of money because Dad got laid off and was job hunting much of the time, so when it was mildly cold I wore Dad’s sports coat to school. It didn’t cover me a much as my cold weather jacket. About half way to school an Irish setter would bark at me. I wasn’t afraid of dogs, and I would just walk on by. Then one day he changed his tactic. He sneaked up on me from behind and nipped me on the back side where Dad’s Sport coat exposed me. From then on I didn’t trust him and was careful to walk by his house on the opposite side of the street. I also kept my eye out for him.

When I got to Delaware, I joined the Boy Scout troop in our church. I worked my way up to First Class but stalled out there because I had to contact someone to be my adviser for the merit badges I needed. I was too shy to do it. The one thing I remember was in one of our meetings four of us got together and formed a quartet. To my ear we sounded good, but that was the one time we did it.

While we were in Wilmington, Richard got into some kind of beef with the pastor of the nearby Presbyterian Church. I think it started out as a disagreement with his sons. The upshot was the pastor punched Richard and broke his jaw. While he was recuperating I picked up his job as a paper boy. The route wasn’t that hard, but at one point I had to collect and my shyness got in the way again. I had a dickens of a time just knocking on his customer’s doors.

We only spent about a year in Wilmington. I want to cover one more item and move on to Clayton.

My Boy Scout troop went on a bike ride in rural northern Delaware where it’s really hilly [The highest point in the state is fifty feet above sea level]. We were riding in a wooded area on a cobblestone road that led downhill to a creek and a stone bridge. On the opposite side of the bridge the road took a sharp right, and a rock retaining wall blocked any possibility of going straight ahead. As I started down the hill, the brake locked up. Only this time it locked up the wheel to the sprocket which meant that the pedals were turning with the wheels. The pedals knocked my feet clear, and they were turning so fast I couldn’t get my feet back on them. I remembered the bike on Guam and bailed out. This time I landed without getting hurt.

The bike was one I had borrowed for the ride. Once I walked it down the hill, I was able to jump up and down and put enough weight on the back pedal to break it loose. I was able to finish the ride, but I was very careful on hills and at stop signs. An interesting sidelight of this incident is that after the ride was over, I bought the bike from my friend for two dollars, learned how to work on the brakes while I was fixing it, and used it for several years.

Next up, we move to Clayton.

After Denver we drove across eastern Colorado and Kansas, stopping once to visit one of Dad’s friends who ran a motel. I think he had some kind of wild animals in a tiny zoo. I vaguely remember feeling sorry for the animals, but we were only there overnight.  We drove through Springfield on our way to Branson. Our objective was to buy a farm where Dad could find a job in construction. Table Rock dam was scheduled to be built soon, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity. It felt like there was a sign for a realty or real estate company every ten miles or so on the roads we took. One of them was a big conglomerate that had offices everywhere we looked. We had a catalogue from the company, and we made our way to the office in Branson.

I should mention that in those days Branson was not the entertainment hub of mid-America. It was a good sized town that was the supply center of farming country.

Dad checked in with the realtor and somehow (I think the realtor new someone) we ended up in a trailer park for a few days while Dad and the realtor looked over properties. Eventually they found the perfect place: 104 acres with a house and some outbuildings that would have frontage on Table Rock Lake when it was full. The house lacked a few amenities, like electricity and plumbing, but that was not uncommon in that area at the time. The cost? A mere $4000. I suspect that if the property were still intact, you couldn’t touch it for one hundred times that much now.

The land has changed significantly since we left but I believe I’m in the right area. My best guess is that the farm was along what is now Route UU

We did get electricity installed but we settled for the existing outhouse and a cistern that collected rainwater from the roof as our plumbing. We got a horse for riding and a pig for eating and we were set.

The horse was named Myrtle, if I remember correctly, and we called her Myrt. Richard took to riding her right away, but she sensed my unease and would never go faster than a walk when I rode her. I don’t recall exactly how it happened, but Myrt was involved with us meeting our neighbors, two kids about our age who lived on the adjacent farm. They rode two draft horses, bareback. Strangely, I don’t remember having a whole lot to do with them.

Our school was in the border town of Blue Eye. I was in ninth grade there. The biggest disappointment for me was I expected to take algebra in ninth, but there weren’t enough students in my grade to have more than one math class, so that’s what we had – math. I did get to participate in glee club, and I still like to sing (despite my voice tending to give out). I think the biggest influence on me was our social studies teacher. He was the archetype conservative. He even advocated that the first ten amendments should have never been adopted. While I didn’t always agree with him, he definitely indoctrinated me into the concept that the government should keep its hands off anything that could be done by private citizens (I added “without harming other private citizens”). He also got me interested in history, where I had always considered it to be boring.

We always seemed to have pets in the house. While we were in Missouri, we got a kitten. I don’t recall having a dog. I remember the cat for an odd reason. Sometime in the middle of winter I caught a particularly nasty bug. I was in school when I came down with chills and fever. I was so out of it that I snuggled up to one of the radiators in the school library to keep warm and ended up in bed for a few days. While I was recuperating, the cat slept with me on the bed. As I began to feel better and was getting bored, I did a pencil sketch of that cat. Mom thought it was so good that she kept it from then on. I remember seeing it at her house in Glenmora, but I don’t know what happened to it when she died.

I did have occasional flashes of brilliance with art. Going back to Guam, I baby sat for friends of ours one night. This being before the days of widespread television, I read magazines to keep busy. I stumbled on a photo of Marilyn Monroe, and did a sketch of her. It was the same quality as my cat sketch.

While we were in Missouri, Dad kept waiting for the dam project to get underway, but it was delayed. Since we were living on our savings and had a $2000 payment due in July, Dad started looking for other jobs, first close to home and then farther away. When he finally found one, it was in Wilmington, Delaware. We reluctantly packed up and left.

Next arriving in Wilmington.

Before I get started, I’d like to welcome any new readers. I started this blog primarily to discuss what I have written and what I am currently working on. I discovered right away that I wasn’t going to be able to post once a week if I restricted myself that much. After much interior discussion I realized that the one thing I could write about on a regular basis was me. I’m not claiming to have an exciting history, but members of the family had urged my mom and my wife’s mom to record what they could remember from their childhood and on. Neither of them did, and that part of the family history is gone forever. I decided to rectify that situation and had a blog in place that was going virtually unused. Thus I started recording what I could remember of my past.

Recently, I wondered if anyone who stumbled across my book Peacemaker might be interested in my life and what led me to write. I figured I could make it available. It couldn’t hurt. I also plan to throw in some comments about Peacemaker and my work in progress, Teleportal.

This is what you are looking at now. It is July of 1952. My family has just returned from four years on Guam, and I have just turned fourteen.

Since my last post I looked up the General A. E. Anderson. She turns out to have been put in service hauling passengers around the Pacific in October of 1949. Since we went to Guam in September of 1948, she had to be the ship that took us home rather than the one that took us to Guam. There are several write ups about her on the Internet, if you’re interested.

The trip to Guam had been non-stop, but going back to the States we stopped at Wake Island, a coral atoll so low that a small tsunami would have completely flooded it, and at either Midway Island, home of the Gooney Bird (Laysan Albatross) or Johnston Atoll, which barely has room for a runway. We didn’t dock. Instead, we sent a tender ashore with mail and what-not at each location.

We also stopped at Oahu, and I immediately fell in love with Hawaii. We stopped long enough to do some touristy things. We visited an orchid hot house (yes, even on Oahu they protect these special flowers when they grow them). I was fascinated by the incredible variety. We stopped at a hotel for lunch. I ordered a cheese burger. I know, no sense of adventure. This place turned out to be a pretty high class establishment. When my sandwich arrived, it was open-faced. The cheese was a sauce. I was supposed to eat it with a fork. Instead, I closed the sandwich and ate it what I considered the normal way. I dripped cheese sauce all over. I believe it was on this trip that I first saw the Upside Down Falls. Somewhere on the Pali Highway in the mountains outside Honolulu there is a view of a waterfall that when the wind blows strongly enough starts down but gets blown upward so hard it turns around and doesn’t reach the bottom.

One of the passengers on the ship was a redheaded army brat named Iris. It was love at first sight — but I was too shy to even talk to her. We crossed paths while touring Oahu, and I couldn’t even wave. Oh well, it would never have worked out. She was headed for Kansas, and I was on my way to the backwoods of Missouri. As we were driving through Kansas on our way to Missouri, I could swear I saw her in a school bus we passed, but I’ll never know. I even worked up the courage to wave. And then she was gone.

Our next stop after Honolulu was San Francisco. Before we left Guam we had ordered a new Ford. It cost us all of $2400, and we picked it up in San Francisco. From there we visited my new Aunt Ruth’s family and drove through Yosemite National Park. I don’t know which came first. The only thing I remember about Ruth’s parents’ home was that while we were there, the Seventeen Year Locusts were out and incredibly loud.

I suppose I should digress briefly. My uncle Pat came to work on Guam while we were there. He met and fell in love with a pert redheaded company nurse, Ruth. They got married while we were on Guam. One thing I’ll always remember is that Ruth gave Susan a shot in front of the rest of us. She was so nervous (family presence, I suppose) she had a hard time giving the shot. At one point the syringe came loose from the needle with the needle stuck in Susan’s arm. She did finally get it done.

I remember one thing about Yosemite and that was driving along a stretch of road that had an incredible drop off on one side. There was a wide valley below. I could swear it was over a thousand feet beneath us, but I suspect it just seemed that way.

Our next stop was Denver. Our friends from Guam, the Cooks, had returned to the States before we did. They had a home in south Denver, which at that time bordered farmland. The house and the farmland are all gone now. We spent several days with them visiting the mountains and getting to know something about this beautiful state. Strangely enough that had nothing to do with us settling here when I retired.

Our next stop was Missouri. More on that the next time.

In case you’re interested, I have a website that right now focuses primarily on Peacemaker, gordonsavage.com.

I’m sure there are many things about Guam that I’m not remembering right now. I’ll come back to them when I think of them. For now I’ll cover what I have on my list.

At some time during 1951 the company finished erecting new housing at Camp 1, and we moved there. I don’t remember much about the new house. It had vertical walls like the Butler buildings in Camp 2, and I’m fairly sure it was made of metal. The one thing I do remember is that in addition to a regular refrigerator the company provided what we called a reefer, a double-sized refrigerator without a freezer compartment. Why I remember that I don’t know.

Camp 1 was on the west side of the island, somewhere near where the Builder’s Club was. Stanley Brown’s family moved about the same time to a private home near the camp. I rode there on my bike once in a while. One time some local kids were out with their dog. It came up behind me while I was riding by and bit me on the heel. That was the first time a dog had ever bitten me. It wasn’t a big deal, but for some reason I remember it.

I also remember a kapok tree on the route. It was the biggest (real) tree I had seen on Guam. It had been so long since I had had a tree climbing fix that I had to climb it. I picked some of the pods and examined them. They were full of white cotton-like fiber, which now makes me wonder if they are related to cottonwood.

I became a Boy Scout while I was on Guam. I got my first taste of camping out while I was in the troop. There was a stream a few miles east of Apra Heights north of what is now route 17. At one point it widened into a small pond, smaller than the swimming hole at Camp 2 but large enough to swim around in. My first camp out was there. The weather on Guam was so mild that my camping gear consisted of an oil-cloth table cloth and a bed sheet. My breakfast consisted of eggs and fried spam. Don’t laugh. It was actually good.

The navy ran a snack bar called the Canteen somewhere around Apra Harbor. The whole family was out for a drive one Sunday, and Dad had elected to not wear a shirt. Who needed one, right? But then he ran out of cigarettes. He pulled up at the Canteen and because of not having a shirt recruited me to go in and buy him some cigarettes. First of all, as I mentioned earlier, back then I was pretty straight arrow, and I was sure I wasn’t supposed to buy cigarettes. I tried to talk Dad out of it but to no avail. Eventually, I went inside. I told the clerk the situation as it really was, and, of course, he turned me down. I suspect he thought I was a kid trying to get myself some cigarettes and had come up with the most unique story he had heard.

Sometime while we were on Guam I got a snorkel and began to try to use it for surface diving. I believe it was at the Builders’ Club that I dove into a coral branch. It poked me in the chest, and a tiny piece broke off. As far as I know that piece is still circulating in my body — at least that was the old-wives’ tale I was told about coral. Of course the branch was dead, and being a calcium compound, it has more likely been absorbed. I carried the scar for a long time but can’t even find it now.

Dad was an estimator while we were there. One of the projects he had a part in was building the dam that now hold the Fena Valley Reservoir. We drove up there at least once to see the progress. There was a cave near the dam that an underground stream came out of. I suspect that cave is under water now but it was interesting at the time. We tried to get a close look, but it was a hive for mosquitos. Patty Cook was with us and she and one of us (I say Richard. He says it was me) were covered with mosquitos and bites. I mean really covered.

We took more than one trip to the South End of the island. We went by Talafofo Bay each time. We’d stop at an overlook and take in the view. At that time there was a Japanese ship, the Aratama Maru, sunken near the entrance to the bay. Her masts and the wheel house were above the high tide mark so we could always see her, and I always wondered what her story was. There is now a monument with a picture of her (the wreck has been removed from the bay) and some kind of description (Unfortunately the photo that Google has is too fuzzy to read the details, but other sources say she was abandoned by her crew when a torpedo from an American warship struck her amidships and ignited her cargo of gasoline. She drifted for seven days before coming to rest on a shallow shelf in Talafofo Bay).

Dad had a game he would play while we were there. The overlook had a steep drop. When one of us kids would get close to the edge, he’d come up behind and yank us back while shouting some kind of warning. Talk about getting your adrenalin pumping.

One time we stopped somewhere along the route, Talafofo I think, and paid for water buffalo rides. The two things I took away from that were that these big work beasts were surprisingly gentle – and their skin was incredibly loose. If you weren’t precisely on center, the skin would move so far you couldn’t stay on.

A narrow dirt road was the only way to get to the South End back then so we usually went as far as Inarajan or occasionally Umatac and then turned around to go back home. One time, however, we continued on from Umatac up the west coast to Agat and on to home. I notice one thing looking at recent photos. When we were there, all these villages were almost at the thatched hut stage, now they are surrounded by modern homes.

I’m sure there were other things about our stay on Guam I could talk about like Christmas without cold. However, this will have to do for now. I do remember that the whole time I was there I kept lamenting about not being home (the States). Now I’d like to go back and see how much it has changed.

We left Guam so that my fourteenth birthday took place onboard the ship (the USS General Anderson, I think). More about that next time.

First of all let me clarify. I didn’t really learn to drive on Guam. I saved that to my junior year in high school. Still, I did make the attempt.

When I was a kid on Guam, you could get your learners permit at fourteen, so when I turned thirteen Dad started trying to teach me how to drive.

The first time out was on an unused navy runway which was then Orote Naval Air Station. Dad drove me, my brother Richard, and my sister Susan over there one evening and sat me down behind the steering wheel. He walked me through the process of starting the car, using the clutch, shifting the gears, steering, and so forth.

For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about when I say using the clutch, in those days automatic transmissions were hardly more than a gleam in some engineer’s eye. We had 1938 Plymouth sedan. It looked somewhat like a Volkswagen Bug only larger – much larger. It had a manual transmission (maybe you’ve heard the term “stick shift”) with three gears. The gear shift lever was on the steering column. Oh, and it had bench seats front and back. That meant Dad could sit next to me.

With several false starts – killing the engine, grinding gears, etc. – I started driving up and down the runway. I was beginning to get the hang of it when flashing red light showed up behind us (This was long before light bars with blue flashing lights and stroboscopic headlights). “That’s the shore patrol,” Dad told me. “The red lights mean you need to stop.” Actually, I don’t remember his words, but I suspect I cleaned them up a bit.

Apparently some navy brass had seen our lights running up and down the runway and decided we didn’t belong there. Fortunately Dad was able to be civil, but we were told politely to leave and not show up there again. I didn’t get to drive us home.

My next time out was in the housing area. I’m pretty sure it was a Saturday morning. Dad drove Richard, Susan, and me over to the perimeter road and put me behind the wheel again. I should mention that the old Plymouth was like driving a tank using a steering wheel.

After a quick hands-on briefing Dad sat down beside me and gave me the go-ahead.  I pushed in the clutch, pulled the shift lever down and toward me into first gear. I eased out the clutch, and we were off. I got into second without killing the engine or doing much damage to the gears. Then I shifted into third and reached the speed limit, 25 miles per hour. I made the turn at the bottom of the hill without any major problems, drove across the south end of the camp, and successfully turned up west side road.

I was starting to feel pretty good about myself. I hadn’t made any big mistakes and I was headed for home. About half way up the west road it happened. Over the hill coming the opposite direction was the first car I had seen all day. Back in those days I was as straight arrow as they came. I knew I wasn’t old enough to be driving on a public street. I panicked. I threw up both hands and yelled, “Aaah!” The car drifted across the road onto the left shoulder. At which point Dad grabbed the steering wheel, and I put on the brakes. Fortunately, Dad kept us from going over the embankment which dropped about ten feet into the boondocks. Unfortunately, when I put on the brakes, I neglected to push in the clutch and killed the engine.

We were stopped dead on the wrong side of the road. All I could do as the other car drove around us was … smile and wave. Boy, was that embarrassing. And Richard and Susan got to witness the whole thing.

Funniest thing, Dad never did try to teach me how to drive again – ever.