Solitary

Solitary

Solemnity

Solemnity

“Keeping time,
A marvelous asset,
Free from the entrapment of a timepiece of any kind;
Forever yours, if you so choose.
When dreary, feeling what once was,
Rewards still remain,
Always they’re within the time kept;
Forever yours, if you choose!”

- HK

…Was it that long ago?

        

Four thousand men and some women and children remained gathered beneath me below decks; some asleep, others trying to rest while accepting, being far too weary to accomplish any form of rest as the ship which carried us across the Pacific Ocean, raising and lowering from stem to stern without abatement through the darkest of nights.

Early that morning we were warned of the incoming storm, which was predicted to hit us no later than dusk. The prediction was accurate. That afternoon, the ship’s hands went about their business of “battening down the hatches,” as they referred to it. What it boiled down to was protecting passengers from being swept overboard during the constant swells that endlessly displayed Nature in total command.

The sailors dutifully stretched safety lines from one end of the ship to the other, on both the port and starboard sides. As the late afternoon came upon us, the storm gathered strength.

Once again the voice came over the loudspeaker, “This is your Captain. All hands below decks until further notice.”  

Orders of that nature only applied to hands that didn’t have a working reason to be on deck. Yours truly had a working reason; I was in charge of a guard detail.

The army dutifully works in some strange ways. Why would we need guards on deck in the middle of the night? We were in the middle of the Pacific Ocean – did they think the enemy was going to come onboard at the height of a fierce storm? Besides, we had no declared enemies at that moment in time.

Ours was a troop ship on its way back to the United States from the Far East command sector. Onboard were officers and non-commissioned officers, many accompanied by their dependents. Those with dependents were treated to better conditions than the rest of us who, for want of a better description, were crammed like sardines in a can. But no matter the better living conditions aboard ship, Nature had its own charming way of being the great equalizer. Seasickness doesn’t know any bounds. Throwing up is throwing up whether you’re in a stateroom or in the boiler room.

Our job as guards was to ensure that all passengers remained below decks as ordered. As the storm increased in intensity, it became apparent we were not going to have any trouble with the passengers sneaking up on deck. The ocean was a scary body to behold.  In retrospect, it still brings back the sight of a seasick guy or gal trying to throw up over the rail of a wind-swept, pitching deck. It couldn’t have been a fun experience for the individual who was having their innards thrown back at them as they sought relief from the horrible feeling of incessant rocking to and fro, up and down.

Being alone above decks provided documentation as testament of how humble the humblest of us truly are. My thoughts this day of how it was are as clear for me as they were so many years ago.

***

        

Come on Harv, you’re being a little dramatic aren’t you?

…Only this line holds me from being gone forever. This rope is as strong as any rope ever made; you’d have to throw yourself overboard in order to be swept away.

Whatever, I’m still going to take a look.

Oh my God, this is fucking scary. That water is moving really fast and as the ship goes up, it’s like we’re going airborne.

…Like I’m on top of a building.

…This sound is unbelievable.

The swooshing and gulping of the vacuum created as the front of the vessel left the sea and then slapped down – all the time rocking back and forth as the wind picked up without mercy tossing everything in its way aside like a cardboard box in the wind – stunned and intrigued.

How could I possibly be sweating? Make that sweating like a pig.

The excitement kept building…

Leaning forward, the wind holding me erect as I attempt to get closer to the railing that separates me from the sea. The rope tightens around my arm and wrist.

Then – there it is – just a glimpse allowed by an almost starless night.

Fear and excitement stimulated beyond comprehension.

I pulled back from the rail, knowing this experience would be mine forever. I looked down at the right arm of my rain slicker. My right arm had become suddenly very warm, with reason; the rope had ripped a jagged wedge into my forearm. I was able to wrap my T-shirt around the damage and somehow got the blood to stop.

Stepping back into a corner enclosure by a stairwell, I reached into a breast pocket and found my cigarettes. I remember smiling stupidly over how lucky I was to have dry cigarettes. I placed one in my mouth and lit it as I moved back from the door well. One puff later and a huge swell washed across the ship. I was left soaked to the skin with a burned out wet clump of tobacco stuck to my face. Instinctively, I brushed away the tobacco that had smeared across my face. Using both hands to clear the mess was a bad mistake.

The next swell was a qualified wave, lifting me as a toy from my feet and slamming me to the hard deck. Then, I felt myself without control being rushed by the water towards the ship’s railing. There wasn’t time for fear. Both arms raised and lowered frantically searching for the safety line as I moved out of control towards the inevitable Deep Six.

Then, the surrealistic moment of my young life was captured – to remain mine forever.

My body came to an abrupt stop – not by my own doing but rather the braking of Nature’s force was caused by the inefficiency of a deck hand who had carelessly secured a lifeboat to its mooring. There I was, slammed up against the inside wall of a Navy lifeboat that had been wedged by the wind and sea against the opening in the very railing I was there to protect the passengers from.

I said my thank you to a higher power!

The storm broke at 4 AM. Again, it was time for the loudspeaker to come on apprising us of the current weather conditions. A new storm was on its way and would hit us within the hour. Again, the weatherman was correct.

It took fifteen days to cross the Pacific Ocean during that storm-filled trip. Eleven of those days the ship’s entire component of sailors and passengers were confined to quarters below decks.

***

I keep my memories mostly sealed from others. When I’m the holder of my own timeless serenity then, without effort, a solemnity takes over as effortlessly as any true breath of freshness. How else could anyone ever describe what is mine?

So many days and years have endlessly tolled and though free from sound, much of the memory has been scratched away.

Which arm was it – left or right?

Was the night as dark as my words allowed?

It doesn’t take much to stimulate what was once a fleeting moment into a presence, mine alone to keep. Then, thinking always to myself of the treasure of being my singular timekeeper – without a wristwatch or a clock on the wall. Being able to recall for as long as humanly possible and enjoy the recapturing of a solitary instant is when only one word will do…

Solemnity.

Things That Only I Know

At long last I have agreed to write a series of rather important documentation for the entire world to see. 

Since I have been God gifted with so much more knowledge than the average human, it was pointed out to me (by one of the individuals who makes up part of the hordes who love, admire, and respect the wealth – and more aptly put – the girth and breadth of my overall knowledge) to share some of my impressively renowned gleanings.

How this came to pass:

While addressing a rather prominent Beverly Hills bible study group, it became apparent to almost all in attendance, before I even began speaking, this was to become a most important unveiling of my extremely valuable life experiences.

As I took my place on stage I found myself thinking about George Carlin. George had his own personal way of disseminating important information – the facts of life – not known or understood by many.

“Ladies and gentlemen it is my pleasure to share with you a most important list of declaratives, which know doubt will change your adult lives as they have changed mine.”

Instantly the group moved to the edge of their seats. You could have heard a pin drop.

“The original title was War and Piss.

“Leo Tolstoy refused to change the name and so it was years before the book was released in the United States as War and Peace. And then, people bought it not because of the name change, but rather because the large number of pages made the book suitable as a step stool to get up onto the oversized beds in service by the well-known madam Polly Adler – a Polish immigrant who ran a prosperous brothel in Manhattan and later became the well-known author of her autobiography A House Is Not A Home.

“Many of Polly’s patrons returned for her services regularly, not only because she had beautiful girls working for her, but because it afforded opportunity to read Leo Tolstoy’s writings without the burdensome worry of being labeled Communists.”

NOTE: In that era, the height of men was much shorter than it is today. Many of the then Tammany Hall politicians found the “Tolstoy Book Step” of great value when mounting Adler beds.

Proselytize

Was it the late great Harry Hamlet who said:  “To Proselytize or Not To Proselytize”?

“To proselytize or not to proselytize” – It shouldn’t be the question but how often it is.

What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is mine as well.

From the dictionary:

Proselytize

Convert or attempt to convert (someone) from one religion, belief, or opinion to another.

When a person reads the dictionary’s definition of the word “proselytize,” it really doesn’t come across as anything that bad, does it? For most of us the word’s meaning, according to the dictionary, and the way we use it in our society isn’t quite the same, is it?

The vast majority of today’s folks aren’t the least bit troubled by what some consider being outright stealing. In the world of professional sports, the term “proselytize” takes on the most detrimental of meanings. While the agreements between the owners and those who supervise the professional league’s business don’t refer to it as stealing, they nevertheless have very strong and clear verbiage regarding talking to any employee under contract to another league owner without first getting written permission to do so.

In other words, stay way from another man’s people unless that man gives you permission to talk to them with the possible intent of hiring them. And, as is the case with most business organizations, all employees are required to sign non-disclosure clauses.

Using the sport of football as an example, you might be able to fathom the impact it would have if a team got their hands on an opponent’s game plan for an upcoming encounter. The bottom line, without question, is that proselytizing is not a nice thing to be doing. It’s definitely dishonest.

What if you’re invited to dinner…. You’re enjoying the host’s cooking and experiencing great pleasure over the ingredients chosen for your repast, so much so that you decide – without asking for your host’s permission – to empty out their pantry clandestinely. (The fools turned their backs on you.) That’s called STEALING or as another word, the now well-explained: proselytizing.

Wiggle Room

Good bad or indifferent, there are always those who seek out wiggle room in all they attempt to accomplish in life, or in any pursuits of the good life, or even a slightly better life than fate has bestowed upon them.

Here are some personal definitions I’ve developed along my way. 

·      I prefer jeans to fit snuggly, no wiggle room.

·      As a child I felt comfort in the way my Dad held my hand while we crossed a street together, certainly no wiggle room.

·      People who set an appointment saying they’ll be there at a time they add an “ish” to – as in sevenish or eightish. If you’re running a company or if you’re in a management position never put an “isher” in charge of anything; you’ll go broke.

·      Stay away from those folks who use the words “typically” or “assumed.” The only way the word assume is typically a good choice or has an acceptable usage is in the sentence, “Typically, those who assume anything are more often than not incorrect in their assumptions.”

·      Tomorrow will do. The person who delivers that assumption is absolutely wrong to begin with. What tomorrow brings is secret. There is no wiggle room. If you can do it today, do it today. 

“I’ll get to it tomorrow chief,” he said assuredly. My God, he thought, it will only take me a few hours; that’s plenty of wiggle room. He never showed up for work the next day. It seems a hurricane hit his town. The incident became part of the man’s history, permanently, without wiggle room.

“This, A Short Biographical Teaching”

There was this lady named Lizzy

Lizzy, always late, always in a tizzy

Contemplation was her thing, whether slow or busy.

Each and every item, which came her way

Always destined for extensive decision-making,

God give me an hour or two extra she’d pray

Rarely did it happen that way.

The simplest was placed on her list of things to do.

But her list got longer,

There was always something new.

Then notes.

Then notes about the notes,

About the notes.

And more notes,

You guessed it,

About all those notes!

But all was never to be lost,

Lizzy hired more help.

All the old sacraments

Would certainly be tossed.

This new helper, however

Did come with a problem,

She was an “isher”

And a tomorrow seeker.

Poor Lizzy, so distraught

The extra help for naught.

Her situation was weaker

Her helper it turned out,

Also a seeker.

Then entering

Neat as a pin, his looks and sound

Shear bravado when this guy was around.

He did all he could today,

Nothing left for tomorrow.

No piles of stuff ever to be found.

Smiling, and dancing, he forever clowned.

Daring deeds along with those of minor account

Never left undone,

No minute amount would mount.

One goal only, a chosen populous to astound. 

These, the sounds that reverberate within my skull

As I prepare to exude my latest creative vibe.

I just got the idea I’ve been searching for

All these many years.

When others waste valuable time,

Mine are meaningful and yes, sublime.

Unlike Lizzy

Wondering,

Mind wandering

Searching for an insightful ending.

Then shouting out:

Oh manure, I’ve forgotten what I was thinking about

When I began my explanation of how I think

About things beginning or ending.

Where are my notes?

I should have made more notes.

All those historical quotes.

If only I was more like her.

If only I made some notes.

They sat there together,

Beneath the mounds of paper.

He had brought her a gift,

A brand new shredder,

This would surely elate her.

Not so was the case,

Insinuation written on his face,

Try making some notes

Maybe it would fill your brain’s empty space.

You may have surmised

A compromise was devised.

She kept her notes in a new room,

Just hers alone,

Free from scorn, no worry about time

While he, on the other hand

Used her notes,

Somehow making them rhyme.

They stood watching a sunset,

Sipping and celebrating their tidings divine.

Her notes became his stories.

They filled both their spaces

Never again rushing to save time.

Without poetizing what was hers,

He scrambled within.

If we marry, he quipped

What’s hers will become mine.

Veteran to Veteran

For most of us, Veterans Day comes once each year and its scheduled on a calendar date allowing banks, and schools to observe it. As an example, this year Veterans Day falls on a Sunday so it will be observed on Monday, the first workday of the week. The once-a-year observance has been going on since the Veterans Day designation began.

November 11, 1918, is generally regarded as the end of “the war to end all wars.” In November 1919, President Wilson proclaimed November 11 as the first commemoration of Armistice Day. The original concept for the celebration was for a day observed with parades and public meetings and a brief suspension of business beginning at 11:00 a.m. At the urging of the veterans service organizations, the government amended the Act of 1938 by striking out the word "Armistice" and inserting in its place the word "Veterans." With the approval of this legislation (Public Law 380) on June 1, 1954, November 11th became a day to honor American veterans of all wars. Later that same year, on October 8th, President Dwight D. Eisenhower issued the first "Veterans Day Proclamation.”

At first, the holiday was less a celebration, and more a somber prayer day in memory of those who lost their lives serving the country during World War I - the war to end all wars, as it was known. Today, Veterans Day represents a time in which whole communities get together for parades, barbecues, and a good-time-was-had-by-all event. It’s almost a direct resemblance to what takes place during our Fourth of July festivities. But ride by a veterans’ cemetery on this day of earned observance and without words spoken you will emotionally experience camaraderie with the millions of veterans who have served.

And for those of us who belong to the uncomfortably huge club known as American Veterans, the remembrances are and will remain everlasting. I don my Veterans cap proudly this once each year and usually without words salute those who have done the same. It’s a big club we’re in. We don’t pay dues; we’re all paid up for a lifetime. There is no voting for leadership, we’re all the same. There will not be campaigning or heralding of virtue, merely a hello, a salute, and perhaps a thank you for a job unselfishly done is all that is needed.

Have a healthy and happy Veterans Day everyone. And, oh yes, there is one more thing to be said. The reason our big club exists is here for all to share. God bless these United States of America and all the veterans who have helped to make it stand.

Blind Date

My favorite game is not my favorite actual happening. I’m referring to a game we played in an acting class way back when I was a teenager. The teacher who introduced us to the game used it as a stream of consciousness drill. It worked out so well, and we all became so proficient at it that our teacher had us perform it for a larger group of students than just those taking her particular class. We thought we were hysterically funny; we weren’t.

Years have gone by and the game is still being played all over the country. Truth be told, “Blind Date” is far more suitable as a workout drill for adults than it is for teenagers. But then again, anything requiring a degree of reflection is better suited to those with some real life experiences to draw on, either through their own eyes or the eyes of another.

Our acting class had thirty of us in it. The mix of boys and girls was pretty equal. About 60 percent of the students were wasps and the balance was a rainbow society. It was the very early 50s; the racial divide was just what the name implies. 

As a reference, it was just four years after Jackie Robinson became the first Negro to enter the rarified air of Major League racism.

I doubt if Southern California felt the heat of separatism as much as many other parts of the United Sates; we were certainly a far removed society from that of the Deep South.

By now, you most likely are wondering what baseball, Jackie Robinson, and integration has to do with a high school acting class. The answer summed up in one word: everything!

We students were in for an awakening. Our brilliant teacher, a gorgeous strawberry blonde woman named M.L. Jones, was as much a life teacher as she was an acting mentor.

Miss Jones, an aspiring actress herself, was intelligent enough to get her teaching degree early on as a backup as she made the daily rounds trying to break-in to a world she had dreamed about since childhood. Like so many acting teachers before and after her, not every dream comes true. M.L. Jones was one of those teachers who was absolutely adored by her students. She had a way of making us all, without exception, feel good about ourselves. She always made time to go the extra step it takes to make a teacher an exceptional teacher. What I was about to learn from M.L. was a slice of endearing and not so endearing life. In her own way, she was far in front of the so-called pundits whose responsibility in society, they thought, was to explain to everyone what was right and wrong with people.

Miss Jones lived at a time when her leadership was unnoticed by most around her. She toasted our differences and found alternative directions for most of us by pointing out our individual areas of excellence. I can remember one Monday morning showing up for a Theater Arts workshop she was conducting. I had just had my hair cut so short that I looked like a drowning rat. It was the baseball season and short hair was the thing to do. I really looked disgustingly bad. There was no hiding it. All of my classmates had either the giggles or something demeaning to say when they caught site of me, everyone except M.L..

We were standing at the side of the stage when I caught site of her holding a pencil up as she squinted and looked at my head as if she was a surveyor of a building location. When I looked at her with a question in my eyes about what she was up to, Miss Jones pointed out to me what a marvelous head shape I had. She sure had her ways about her. Can you imagine, almost bald, gaunt and unattractive, and this woman tells me what a great head shape I have. It took me forever to figure out she couldn’t have been serious. Anyway, it made me feel good, at a time when I needed to feel good. Can you dig it?

***

“OK all of you, settle down, we’re about to do our Blind Date drill. Now that you’re all seniors, I’ve decided to add a little spice to the drill.”

At this point I got the wrong idea, as did many of the other students, especially the guys. We thought this was going to be a time M.L. was going to heavily touch on sexual overtones as the main ingredient of our scenes.

NOTE: Here’s the way the “Blind Date” drill works.

The teacher chooses two students – a man and a woman – to go up on stage and take a seat facing each other either at a table, on a bench, or at whatever is available. They might also begin their scene while standing as if they just came upon each other at a prescribed meeting place.

The premise is they are meeting for the first time on a blind date.

They do not begin until the teacher calls out what their attitude and mental attributes, positive or negative, are for the scene. The teacher is, in essence, functioning as a profiler by describing the characteristics of the people our two actors will portray.

As an example, the teacher could say to the guy – he is taken and almost overcome nervously when he sees how attractive the gal is. The gal might be told she is deeply disappointed at the way the guy is dressed.

Neither actor is allowed to speak to each other. Instead, their individual emotions are verbalized as stream of consciousness when they turn and tell their story to the audience. Each actor speaks until receiving a change signal from the teacher.

The teacher may change the required attitude for either one or both of the actors as the scene plays out. At any prescribed moment, the teacher signals either one or both actors to switch from stream of consciousness to dialogue, keeping the same attributes in place as part of the scene.

Without exception, each scene takes on an almost completely different flavor when we change from the internalizing of emotion to the dialogue between two people meeting for the first time. During the two full school semesters playing the “Blind Date” drill was a never-ending challenge and reward sequence. None of us ever knew what the outcome of a scene might be.

***

It came at a time just a month or so prior to graduation. Most of our classes had been academically wrapped up. It was the best of times, going to school totally void of pressure. It was baseball and a seemingly endless variety of fun and games. Time skipped right along – the senior prom, grad night, and then back to the serious business of baseball.

The last weeks of our contemporary theater class were upon us. We all looked forward to a last crack at the “Blind Date” game, not only because of the fun and games aspect but because Miss M.L. Jones alerted us to be expecting a little different approach this time around – something to take with us. In the classroom, we all anticipated a last shot at laughs all the way around. We were in for a well-planned surprise.

M.L. Jones began the class with a serious countenance, which in itself was a surprise.

“What’s happening out there?” She asked us.

(No response, not even a whisper was heard).

“Well maybe you haven’t noticed but the University of Tennessee admitted its first black student.”

Again the classroom became quiet, not out of surprise or shock but simply because none of us knew what to do with M.L.’s announcement.

“Okay then, let’s get right to Blind Date.”

I think a student or two asked about what the surprise she had planned was but the request was ignored.

“For today’s first blind date, the first couple up will have recently graduated from a southern university; that university is the University of Tennessee. Both of you are extremely confident people. Both are good students and both are articulate. I’ll give you the rest of the background after you have taken your places on stage.”

It once again grew quiet in the theater when M.L. called out the two participants. The two she chose were well-known and popular around campus. The girl was white, the boy was black.

“The year is 2002. There have been many social changes in our country. When you say hello to one another you are outside the restaurant the two of you have decided to have coffee at. Your mood is pleasant, but this will be the first time either of you have dated outside of your ethnicity. As you begin to internalize you share all of your true emotions, everything from within, including fear.”

What the first couple did with it was enlightening to experience. We had grown up somewhat and M.L. Jones was aware of who we had become. It came out as her gift to us although at the time it is doubtful if any of us understood the depth of our teacher’s ability to teach.

The next couple to take the stage was cast in reverse. The girl was black, the boy was white. The time period was current times. If they did date regularly the consequences could be of extreme proportions, especially compared to what the first couple was asked to portray. The meeting place was an out-of-the-way bowling alley, extremely noisy and crowded. They were to meet at the front reception desk.

The two began to play the scene and all of us were enthralled with the reality of their presence. After a few moments, M.L. signaled them to stop as she simultaneously offered an additional instruction to them. They were now to play the scene as if they were seated at a park bench. They’d been dating for two months.

Surprisingly, the two of them play the improvised scene as if it was being lived in the moment. They talked of their struggles with most people not accepting their ongoing relationship. Then, the girl became solemn as she spoke of her Father’s displeasure. Miss Jones brought the scene to an end, and announced who the next team would be.

She used the term “team” and we got that the mixed couple premise had come to an end for the day.

I can’t recall how I was feeling in that moment. I do know a new adult form had been introduced. The power of the substance would take years before a truer form was there for me to grasp hold of.

***

Senior Prom night, one final item to relate. There they were the second couple from class. It became clear to me why the scene was so unbelievably real. They were actually a couple. It may have been improvisation at a high level of performance, but I wonder if the two of them could have really pulled it off with such great believability if they had truly been meeting on a “Blind Date.”

M.L. Jones had found a way to help them, as she found a way to help every one of her students. Stanislavsky maybe a driving force for me, but when it comes to improv my thoughts often drift back to M.L. Jones. 

What a difference a few decades make.

The Year of the Tweet

I conducted my own impromptu poll of those described by me as “The Thumbers” – those people who successfully communicate through electronic devices by the use of one thumb on each hand, used singularly or in tandem, with reckless abandon.
 

As a casting director, what I do for a living is called profiling. My question posed to all who are part of the “thumbing society” is, what do you derive as being so pleasurable about what you call “tweeting?”

• Why is it called a tweet?

• Why not call it a burp, or a slurp; or what about stealing a baseball term and call your tweet a bunt?

•  Is a bad tweet a possible foul ball? You might call it a charm. In that way, when some person not in your “thumbing crowd” inquires about what you’re up to, you could reply by saying, “I’m charming.”

There was a time period when the term “Thumbing” had to do with hitchhiking, or hitching a ride with somebody.

Carrying on, whether some like it or not, in my era of baseball an umpire who threw a player out of the game was described as having given him the thumb.

As a soldier going off to battle, his friends and relatives might have offered him thumbs up. By and large, thumbs have always been a congenial digit. If a buffoon gives another buffoon a digital expletive it will usually be a finger other than a thumb.

And…speaking of thumbs, during this latest industrial travel gamut of mine, I familiarized myself with the art of the tweet. My first discovery was that a tweet must never be confused with anything remotely considered an art form. If Rembrandt were alive today, I doubt if he would ever consider doing a tweet. 

For sure, he used his full strong right arm, as opposed to his thumbs when he created his masterpieces. The same would definitely apply to George Gershwin. You be the judge, ten talented fingers compared to two thumbs usually being supported in one’s lap as they perform their tweeting.

According to reports, everyone in the world is a tweeter.  Come to think of it, tweet must be international because there is no such word in most of the languages of the world. So where in the name of you-know-what did the name tweet come from? 

Well, I looked it up, and now I feel really dumb about the whole thing.

It did come from a bird chirping. The logo for the company running this worldwide event actually has a bird designating what they do. The number of tweets being sent each and every day of the week totals in the millions, and they predict it will be billions in short order.

I wonder if it would be a polite gesture to walk up unannounced to a stranger, and enquire if they tweet? Would they indignantly offer, “Go tweet yourself?”

Kim Choo: Lost and Never Found

The northern outreaches of Korea were an abstraction on my own and very personal, daily canvas. They were almost all surreal days for me. 

At age nineteen, my only self-recognizable skills were those that had been God-gifted to me as an athlete. It had never occurred to me that reading and seeing were all part of the form that would ultimately play the leading role for all my life. I guess at age nineteen, the number of items on my personal lists of life, though not yet discernable, would have read and resembled the girth of a telephone book of a fairly large town.

You don’t have to be a boy of nineteen in order for wars of any kind to not make sense. Not liking war was the single strongest bonding point for American troops – without exception. Age had nothing to do with it. Boys of eighteen as well as the oldest of the seasoned veterans of many worldwide encounters had the same chapter and verse in common; to a man, we hated it.

Moms and Dads, whose dream was to send their boys and girls into harm’s way, were nonexistent. It was a given; fear was the order of the day. Every element of life for a soldier, young or old, was a constant retort that reached to new heights requiring more than any preparations allowed for.         

And, with fear came an ever-present enjoinment and numbness along with simultaneous exaggerations of my senses. Alterations to sight and sound often inexplicably distorted. The heat and humidity of July were an unforeseen luxury when compared to the grotesqueness of everything else surrounding us.

I remember how we stood around one day, soaked to the skin though it hadn’t been raining. It was before the days of heat or cold weather indexes. Our motor pool humidity thermometer registered 100 percent humidity along with a 108-degree temperature reading. Just when a guy is as scared as he thinks it’s possible to get, along comes an incident blunting out fear and replacing it with a new distraction. This time we rebounded, becoming one, as a conversation of how miserable we were took the place of fear, if only for a momentary respite. 

Big Joe, from “The Windy” (that would be Chicago), came upon a small detachment of us as we desperately involved ourselves with digging in to get as far beneath the earth’s surface as quickly as we could. For those of you who don’t understand the term “digging in,” simply stated it means attempting to save our asses from being blown off.

Big Joe stuck that Chicago-smiling head down into our hole and said, “This fucking stinks, don’t it?”

We all began laughing hysterically.

I guess it was one of those times when in order to understand the humor of the moment you would’ve had to have been there. Laughing beats crying for sure; it certainly beats the hell out of fear, if only as a small diversion.

It didn’t last long.

I felt the sick eerie feeling return in short order, once again being announced by the merciless man-made tirades of inhumanity.

Three days later, Monday, July 27, 1953 at 9 PM, restoration of somewhat normal bodily functions began to return; the Korean War had been suspended. Some called it a police action. Who cares what they called it. Pain and suffering will always be pain and suffering, not a laughing matter.

480,000 U.S. troops fought in the Korean War: 36,940 killed, 103,000 wounded, 8,142 MIA, and 3,746 POW.

Today, I choose to remember other things. Things that do fall into the category of what American boys and girls are trained for. What I recall are the happenings, the product of pride and pure-to-the-core Americanism.

Let’s get to my personal admissions before scribing a further retrospective of a little boy and the country, which along with him has raised itself from the ashes of a war-torn society.

Following one of the coldest winters on record, we celebrated the 1954 New Year in traditional Army outpost fashion. The Army airlifted everything imaginable to make our New Year’s dinner far more than merely palatable. It was one of those famous all-you-can-eat affairs. 

By now, I had been moved from 38 miles north of the 38^th parallel to the capital city of South Korea – Seoul. I was assigned to an engineer company, spending days and often nights repairing the Korean infrastructure.

One marvelous spring morning I was excited over a new directive, which was summarily read to us by our rather nasty company commander. It was official word from Eighth Army Headquarters.

“To all personnel serving in the Far East Command, we will be forming baseball teams from the officers and men of the Korean Theater of operations. Teams will be chosen from those serving any and all battalions and at Division levels.”

Our company commander immediately made his personal announcement stating that no one under his command would be allowed to try out for the group baseball team. In my mind, I instantly uttered the words, “eat me,” along with a few other gems I had gleaned during my life’s travels to date.

At the time, my daily work assignment was that of a 10-ton bridge truck driver. If you don’t know anything about trucks, just trust me. It’s one big truck.

I knew if I showed up for the tryouts, I’d most likely run into a few other Southern Californians. I wasn’t disappointed. Service sports teams were a form of professional sports. At the time, our South Korean teams were the equivalent of a class “A” or “AA” league.

I was able to pull my huge truck onto the parade grounds where the tryouts were being held and, in short order some really good feelings once again stirred my emotions. There were more than a few guys from Los Angeles taking part. At first glance I recognized this was a formidable group to deal with.

The tryouts lasted about two weeks. The soldier picked to be the team’s starting catcher was a kid I had played ball against in high school. He made it a point to fill our team manager in with regards to my exploits as a baseball player and, low and behold, the next thing you know I was being called into our despicable company commander’s office.

I stood there at attention as he read me the riot act for disobeying his orders by trying out for the baseball team. He made it very clear he would be dealing with me when the season was over and I was ordered to come back to his company command. It was difficult for me to stand before him and not laugh in his face. I don’t know how I kept from doing so.

Now, it was really like the old days. When a guy makes any service team, preferential treatment is the order of the day. The bottom line was the government was paying me to play baseball.

I loved every minute of it.

***

The Army engineers made constructing baseball diamonds a top priority. It was the order of the day from Eighth Army Headquarters. Our team was assigned to an empty dormitory at one of the campuses of the University Of Seoul – South Korea’s finest educational facility. Life became quite pleasant.

When we played our games there seemed to be hordes of children hanging out. In our own limited way, we were rock stars. Koreans in general were great baseball fans. They knew and understood the game.

Exactly how 8 year-old Kim Choo came to us escapes my memory. He appeared one day out of nowhere. He was this unbelievable, cute little boy. Ragtag would be putting it mildly. His clothing barely covered his little body.

Kim Choo looked at us as if we were Gods. I’ll always remember his first day with us. We were on our way back from our second workout of the day. It was early spring and the team was doing two-a-days, in an attempt to round into shape for our season opener that was just around the corner. When we arrived back at the dorm, there he was, waiting for us huddled up against the side of the building.

My friend Bob was an instant ringleader. In nothing flat, the little boy was being taken care of by his own personal team of 20 guys not that much older than he was.

That night, Kim Choo slept in his own cot at the end of the dorm. The next morning, he joined his new adopted family being served in an Army mess hall. The little guy was a human beam of ecstatic light. Every one of us to the man enjoyed the sight of this little boy’s newfound welfare. What we were up to was against all rules and regulations. That is not to say the higher ups didn’t know about our adoptee.  Our officers in charge, along with our lead sergeants, were all in on playing the game. The fact is our group commander, a full colonel, had been a baseball player at West Point. It was the colonel’s doing which got all of us into such fine digs at the University dorm.

The next morning Bob began collecting money for the Kim Choo Fund. In short order, word got out that our division baseball team had adopted a Korean orphan. The money began to pour in. Nothing travels faster than word of mouth spread by American soldiers. Overnight Kim Choo went from ragtag to well dressed, including a tailored, matching baseball uniform. He traveled with us as our very proud batboy.

Quickly, Kim Choo was able to communicate with us in his own version of broken English. A Korean professor at the University recommended we get Kim Choo into the grade school the faculty had set up for their own children. It was a private school and had to be paid for. It was no problem a kid with all those Fathers taking care of him. At first, Kim Choo resisted going to school but after a while, he enjoyed how the other kids loved having a real live batboy as a fellow student.

The last time I saw Kim Choo was in the winter of 1954. He had come to visit with me at my new assignment as the head of an engineer supply point. My ex-company commander never did get to get even with me. The West Point Colonel found out (from me) what the mean company commander was planning and saw to it that I had as good a job as the Army had to offer.

As for Kim Choo, I never saw his face again. We had all continued to look in on his welfare for quite some time. The excess money turned out to be enough to get him all the way through high school and well into college.

That was 58 years ago. Today, the then little Kim Choo would be 67 years of age. It was a proud moment for all of us. I’m sure somewhere out there other soldiers have given some thought from time to time about our little batboy. But you know what… if it wasn’t us and a little boy named Kim Choo, it was many other American men and women who would have proved representatives of our country and what we’re really all about.

It is reported the South Korean people have prospered as a capitalistic society. Their hospitals, factories, schools, and yes, even their baseball teams are something to behold. I somehow think a mature man named Kim Choo has had a great deal to do with it.

 

 Kim Choo, circa 1954 

 

Seoul City Stadium: That’s da harv, circa 1953. 

There were 30,000 Korean baseball enthusiasts in attendance.

A day I will always cherish.

Rarely an Epilogue

And now a secret: rarely do I write an epilogue. Choosing to look at what has actually transpired isn’t particularly difficult for me. Like in accounting as a business practice – it is what it is – no more, no less. But when it comes to the unknown, that’s a different mindset requirement as far as I’m concerned.

The little boy known to me only as Kim Choo was an integral performer in my life, as my life transformed itself. From boy to man, from fear to happiness, from uncertainty to at least a modicum of belief in the future, this little boy helped to dissuade cynicism from taking hold.

While I do have great curiosity regarding how he turned out as a man, I take solace in the fact we few American soldiers offered this little guy a helping hand for one reason only: joy. Complete and unabridged.

To a man, none of us had an ultimate goal or the slightest thrust of self-service. There wasn’t a politician amongst us when it came to Kim Choo. I doubt if many of us knew what an ulterior motive was. The bottom line quite simply was a little kid looking up to some bigger kids.

If I were able to write what I pray happened for Kim Choo, the epilogue would be short and meaningful, and with my personal ulterior motive.

Perhaps, he turned out to be the man and contributing citizen I know he was capable of becoming.