I wrote this blog pretty much every day unless I was on the road somewhere. Be reasonable! However, for technical reasons I’m reverting to my previous blog:
insearchofbud.wordpress.com
Please go there for the wit and wisdom, whimsy and gastrointestinal occurrences you have become accustomed to. Also the brown dog, of course.
His scratchy sweater his mom had given him smelled sour like wool, all the more from the cigarette smoke where he and his friends gathered at the dormitory and talked about women, about ultimate reality, about where to get beer. The air was ripe with possibilities, yet forces were in place to deny them any of the desirables. The girls were locked up. Dormitory rules. Stern blue-haired dean of women. Drinking age was 21.
No shortage of women — women their age, more than willing to socialize with them, even slip out the back door to love them up. Carl licked his lips. He loved how they smelled. College was nothing but good. Frustrating, but good, because hope was always alive. Hell, he knew how to get a fake ID card.
Of course he had a mid-term exam in Botany 101 Monday. He and a couple other guys would have to pull an all-nighter Sunday if they were to do well. Hmmm. Let’s see: Kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. He ticked them off. Plants, vascular plants, and so on right down to gymnosperms, pines, ponderosa. He had gotten this from a different all-nighter in the dry winter air with its throat-scratching freezing temperatures. A friend and he had sat up in the basement laundry of South Hall.
Missoula was a party town for college kids. Had a reputation. Come to think of it, Carl wasn’t sure about the order and family of the P. Pine. He’d have to look that up before the exam Monday. His shoes were not adequate for the cold weather. Feet would freeze before he and his friends could make it downtown across the bridge to Eddy’s Club. They’d shoot pool, maybe run into some older women who had been emancipated from the tyranny of dorm life. Maybe he could get some pussy. He was still a virgin.
In just one week everything would change. The Japanese would bomb Pearl Harbor and the United States would declare war and just about every healthy young man would be drafted into the army or navy.
Meanwhile, Carl ticked off the kinds of fungi: basidiospore . . . . In seven days he would have taken the mid-terms, but neither he nor any of the other guys would care about any of that any more.
June 2, 2016 @ 1619
Despite his status as castrato, Gunther likes to kick up a hind leg to mark territory, or maybe it’s not that big a deal if he just needs to pee? He doesn’t kick a foot every time, though. He defies my attempts to generalize his behavior.
And he prefers lifting his left rear, but his right rear sometimes gets the nod.
That would make him ambidextrous. He isn’t a southpaw.
Sometimes he just sort of stretches out and lets it go. Too often, perhaps because of some sort of malformation of his penis, he pees on his right front paw. Doesn’t seem to faze him, though. I mean, he doesn’t shake his wet paw to dry it.
Penny has had to ask me not to bend down so low when I watch him.
Anyhow, in the sleepy morning he once kicked his left back up so high he tipped onto his head.
This was near a chain link fence where a day or two ago he kicked up his left rear, then after he started to tip forward, teetered backward and his foot went through a hole in the chain link. What a panic!
That’s how I like to start my day, giggling.
“You did what?” Mother looked like she was going to cry. Mother always looks like she’s going to cry when she sees me. She hates me.
“I bought watermelons,” I answered. What does she want me to do? Lie to her?
I explained like this. This is how the thing always goes. She asks me for the truth, I tell her, then she looks like she’s going to cry.
So it is memorial day, isn’t it? I always look for something new because I consider myself an innovator. That’s right. I set the trend, I don’t follow it.
So me and my friend Penny were driving on the highway, looking to buy some flowers. I saw a great display across a huge parking lot at a grocery. Turns out they were not flowers, but watermelons. So I bought five of them and placed one on each grave: Grandpa, Grandma, Aunt Ruth Carol, Aunt Corinne, and Aunt Carol Catherine.
Anyway, I always liked the name “Kathleen” better than “Catherine.”
After yesterday’s many activities— Hey. I spent a couple hours cleaning the workshop in the back of NOVA theater.
Our workshop. We inherited it from Nathan Blanding, according to my boss, NOVA Director Dodie Rife. Wow. It was filthy and disorganized. Dodie and I walked through and we discussed the organization scheme preferred by Dan Nickerson. She wants me to note on each tool with a marker, “NOVA.”
The place is mostly packed with used boards and sticks of various lengths, plus a host of nuts and bolts: carriage bolts, machine bolts and nuts, eye bolts. Then a couple dozen kinds of wood screws with phillips heads and star heads. I haven’t figured out the electric drill situation yet, but I’ll go in today. I’ll talk to the shop foreman, Dan Nickerson, who will design the sets.
Like I was going to say, this morning, after yesterday’s activities, I could hardly get my eyes to work together. Nonetheless, I rolled out of bed to take Gunther on his morning quest. His quest to find the perfect pooping place, that is.
Well, G. refused to go and I saw that the black labrador from next door, Suzie, was standing in front of our house wagging. G. loves Suzie, you know. I had to let them romp around together a bit. Little G. looks like he’s trying to mount S., even though G. is a castrato, about a quarter her size. Man, having no nuts doesn’t seem to slow G. around all that much.
Anyhow, ultimately we made it to a yucca on the other side of the block, where he pooped. I said, “what’s the deal, man?”
Reading about my children’s great uncle Vern Wilber Meakins who died shortly after army discharge from WW I of influenza in 1919. Vern’s mother, Cora Jane Meakins, sued the government for a term life insurance settlement, and won when the case was heard by an appellate court.
I don’t have any legal training, but lots of details emerged from the hearing.
— Vern W. was born in 1890, died in 1919, age 29.
— He worked as a teamster and farm hand.
— Drafted into the army in March 1918, discharged in February 1919.
— Married with three children.
— Even in 1919 doctors knew that influenza was primarily a respiratory illness caused by a virus. At that time influenza cost many lives. No vaccine was available then.
— The virus caused an encephalitis that killed Vern W.
— The transcript of the appeal is on line if one googles “Cora Jane Meakins vs United States of America.”
Marshall McLuhan said that “everyone has the best seat in the house.” We should stay where we are. What does that mean to you?
This I got from a freshman journalism class. Personal journalism. Minimalist, terse, telegraphic, tight writing. Keep a journal.
That said, I’ve been reading some family history written by a cousin, Helen Margaret Bonde. One might think that my mother wrote this. Not so. Two women had identical names. Helen has done remarkable research.
In the old family, people lived to be 11. Or 43. Or 3. Or … you get the picture. I don’t know if they suffered melancholy like I do. I’m getting used to it. Now I will address it. I suspect the young people died of respiratory diseases, the older people suffered from cancers.
According to Chinese wisdom, melancholy is an attribute of an inferior man. The superior man is joyful. I am not joyful. We need superior people to be leaders, to take us forward, where we need to go in life; in the world.
Modern medical practitioners, like my internist and psychiatrist, employ a variety of antidepressants and antipsychotics and mood stabilizers for people like me. Sometimes, they even prescribe stimulants, but less often. At this moment, I am on three medicines: two antidepressants that work by differing, but complementary modes, and one antipsychotic that seems to help depression. One side effect is early morning wakening. That’s why I got up this morning at about four. Last winter I usually slept until 9 or 10 a.m. if I had no morning duties or appointments. I didn’t have a dog then.
During the dark hours of last winter my depression was so bad I sat around and wept when I wasn’t in bed sleeping. Of course I thought constantly about death, welcoming the thought of relief from suffering. I wrote about this period in my journal, even publicizing it. This upset my relatives. They feared for my survival, despite my reassurances. How good it is now!
Those days are past, it is June, the birds sing in the morning, and I feel I have energy to pursue writing, my passion. I will not be a great writer because I write only for myself and for the amusement of a few loyal readers.
It’s odd, really. I still feel incredibly sober and sad. Broken hearted really, but I can experience happiness and optimism for the first time in a long, long time. I still think my puppy Gunther plays a large part in helping me feel alive again.
I do a variety of activities and I don’t want to overdo any to the detriment of the others. These days my favorite things are writing, reading, church, singing, working one day a week in a busy pharmacy, taking care of my dog, taking a nap, digging the garden, fussing with pictures.
Writing encompasses a variety of activities, depending upon the subject. Of course histories require research. The best writing comes from experiences about town. Fortunately, we live close to downtown Billings, Montana, and walking takes me to the theater, the YMCA, the restaurants and bars, all in a short period.
Drinking: I like to drink and I would smoke marijuana if it were legal. Trouble is, I’ve experienced low mood after drinking, so an evening without usually heralds a good morning. My drink of choice is wine, therefore I may be called an alcoholic wino. “Wino” is short for Oenophile. This is a fancy name for a drunk. I like drinking, but being a drunk sucks.
I don’t mind staying home. On the other hand, I have some continuing pharmacy education in about half an hour.
What else’s in store today? A friend asked me to repair a door. I need to replace a credit card with a worn stripe. The theater workshop needs cleaning and organizing. I can go there any time I want because I have a key and a code to turn off the alarm.
The best thing is that nobody knows what’s in store. I hope to wake Gunther about 7:30 when I return from the continuing education class. Take him for a walk around the block.
May 31, 2016
Back from touring Western Montana: Lewistown, Glacier Park, Missoula, New Chicago, and Big Timber.
Then tonight I phoned my sister. Hell, she’s got cancer! That, and she still plays bridge at a maddeningly fast rate with three women who are all about to die from some reason or another. Two have cancer and the other has some sort of heart dysrhythmia. I wonder if that fits the national average for women in their 70s and 80s. At least they know what they are in store for. Well, someone will win at bridge. Meantime, that is.
Looking for flowers in Kalispell, I spied a distant store with display out front. Turned out to be watermelons. Then came the inspiration: why not buy watermelons instead of flowers. I would then place a watermelon on each grave: My grandparents, my aunt Corinne, my aunt Ruth Carol, my aunt Carol Catherine. This last died of a communicable respiratory disease in 1919, age three.
My grandmother died in 1967 on Feb. 20, just 80 years and 9 days old. My sister said she had quit eating and drinking. I reminded my sister that grandma had slipped and hit her head in the bathtub. I urged her to read my popular blog, with its tens of readers.
My sister, plagued with her own mortality, has decided to write for one hour a day. In a notebook, words on paper. I find that prospect exciting because Carol is smart. Not only really smart, but she is well-read. You ought to see her collection of murder mysteries, collected by author. She and I briefly mentioned some plot complications she might employ.
This week I plan to attack my own writing project full on. You see, listening to my sister and to several book reviews on the radio this past weekend, I’ve got some inspiration. One problem is insomnia. This is a problem only if you are unable to get up and start writing. Well, I can get up and go out to the living room.
Did you hear about the man who climbed a tree, sawing limbs as he went? Finally he is sitting way up on a tree limb and starts sawing with his chainsaw. He is sawing the limb he is sitting on, but seated next to the trunk, so he is not sawing the limb out from beneath himself.
He saws off the limb, then lowers the saw to the ground with a rope. Then he realizes that he has no way to descend the tree, so he has to wait for his wife to return home.
Our son Todd did something like that when he ascended a rope with Prussik knots, then dropped the Prussiks to the ground when he tried to change over to a rappel. He was still tied off with the rappel, but realized too late that he was unable to rappel unless he could somehow take his weight off the rope he had ascended on.
Todd yelled for help, but nobody was available who could hear him. Checking the time, he calculated that his sister wouldn’t arrive home from school for hours. Todd finally figured out what to do: He hauled up the rope, tied a few knots in it, then using his feet on the knots, raised himself enough to disengage from the tied-off mode to the rappel mode. His next chore was to pass over the knots he had made. He was not successful in this, so he hauled up the rope, tied enough knots in it, then lowered himself by climbing down knot-to-knot.
Sunday evening P. and I ate at Ciao Mambo’s in Missoula. Neither one of us was particularly hungry, so we ordered soup and salad.
I have been allowing myself one carbonated beverage each week, so I ordered a Pepsi. That was supper. Two glasses of Pepsi, half of a big salad, and a large bowl of tomato soup with basil.
Oh yes. I nearly forgot. That day at lunch I had eaten the five-star fire bagel with lots of chilis and meat and cheese. And another fountain drink, root beer.
Wow! I had the most amazing case of diarrhea that evening. Explosive. Also, the five-star fire bagel burned as it passed through. Ruined my evening. I had planned to challenge P. to a game of horse shoes and for Gunther to run back and forth from her to me as we played.
But no. I sat there, on porcelain. Praying.
I can’t seem to get any traction in writing about Carl’s high school life. I guess I’d like to tell about a day in his life from that period, and I have the best kind of evidence, since I have his junior year high school annual. I also looked at his Boy Scout Handbook, studied it really, from that period. He could have been a scout until late in high school, although I doubt that he stayed in scouts.
I don’t believe he joined much of anything, except when he got to the university he joined Sigma Nu fraternity. His parents were proud of that. I phoned several people who couldn’t find any record that he had joined Sigma Nu, except that I went to the UM library and found evidence in a university annual from 1942. I think Carl joined the fraternity in a sort of non-traditional manner, because he skipped fall semester and started as a student in the winter of 1941.
I think I’ve got that straight. He went winter and spring, then fall of 1942 before he dropped out. He left for army basic on March 4, 1943.
What happened between Christmas 1942 until March 4, 1943? I have to assume that he went to jail. Just kidding. On the other hand, if he had gone to jail I’m certain that my grandmother wouldn’t have told me or anyone else in the family. Such things were sort of hushed up. For the sake of the story I could say that he went to jail.
So: Army basic from March to May 1943. Infantry training from May to September 1943. A.S.T.P. In Grand Forks, North Dakota, from September ’43 to March 1944. Infantry in Robinson and then Rucker from March 1944 to November 1944. England from November to December 1944. Missing December 25, 1944. Presumed dead January 1945.
Was he killed? Or was it murder?
Oh, I thought about it a lot. We both did, Penny and me. We prepared and rehearsed several years for our ritual on the Channel Christmas Eve, 2007. (Carl’s ship was hit by a torpedo Christmas Eve, 1944, about 6 pm. The exact time has been stated to be 5:55) My wife Penny and I ordered passports, of course, but we also had to get the dirt. That was Penny’s idea, putting a bit of Carl’s home into the English Channel.
Not just get it, but get it in the right way from near a certain house in Kalispell, Montana, Carl’s home. I think I already told about scooping up the dirt from a driveway on the edge of town on memorial day weekend.
Did I mention that I tore the hell out of my fingernail? Well, I just had a torn nail. Did I tell how we were in town decorating graves and our visit to Bud’s home to get dirt was our second try? The first time no one was home to ask permission. People do this sort of thing all the time, don’t they? My impulse was to just get out of the car, get dirt, and leave. But no, I had to actually ask permission.
May was warm in 2007 when we visited Kalispell. Once we got the baggie with probably four ounces of dirt, gravel, pine needles and my fingernail—well I remembered to take along a plastic bag for the dirt, but it did not occur to me I might also need a tool of some sort to gather up the soil.
The question was: how does someone transport a bag of soil to France? I had asked that question of Bud’s Army buddies at the reunion the year before. Army mortar man Maurice O’Donnell recommended putting it into a woman’s face powder container, or the like.
Instead, I practiced taking a dummy bag of dirt with me on the airplane when we flew to visit our son Todd and his family in Seattle. Well, I even took the dirt from our yard, and it was very clay-ey and even heavier. You know, a quart-sized zip-lock bag maybe one quarter filled with dirt, labeled and rolled up. I managed to get the baggie to Seattle and back: once in our checked luggage; another time as a carry on.
Turns out taking the dirt to France were no big deal at all. I just put it in my carry on suitcase. My guess is people do that sort of thing a lot.
Allan Andrade, an author and expert on the SS Leopoldville disaster, helped me connect via email with Bertrand Sciboz, a French treasure hunter. I did attempt to phone Sciboz, but got an answering message in French that sounded like French jibberish.
By email, Bertrand told me to bring a thousand euros in cash for the trip. Cash, to avoid paying a value added tax. I got euros from the bank across the street from where I worked. Of course I had to order them in, pay the exchange rate, plus a percentage fee. I got five 200 euro notes, big, maybe 4 x 6 inches, colorful, and crisp. I folded them and put them in my money pouch with the passport. Later I got another couple hundred euros to pay for a wreath that I sort of got talked into getting because my Uncle’s body was among about 300 others that were not recovered from the wreckage.
With our computer, I studied maps and photographs of Cherbourg. It sits on this prominent two-lobed peninsula on the Northwest corner of France, the Normandy coast, looking a little like a snail’s head with two eyeballs. It is situated a little west of Utah and Omaha Beaches.
I learned about Cherbourg from Jacquin Sanders’ book, A Night Before Christmas. The US Army and Navy established forts and headquarters there after liberating France from the Germans. The Google Earth pictures showed the huge breakwater and the port of Cherbourg. Also, you could see the giant pier where ferries take people to England.
A hotel is located near the north end of the jutting land, the Hotel Mercure. Our AAA travel agent arranged for our stay Christmas Eve and the night before. She also arranged for a round trip train ride from Paris to Cherbourg.
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