Air Lift Laffs and other laffs

 

 

 

I found this cartoon booklet among the boxes of family memorabilia (okay, junk) I've been rooting through. It apparently belonged to my "other" grandfather.  He flew cargo planes in the Berlin Airlift of 1948-49, as I wrote in an earlier post.

Anyway, I thought I'd preserve this little bit of ephemera from that long-gone and long-forgotten episode in history.  Here are some of the cartoons in the booklet:

And here's another little item I found.  I thought it was an interesting bit of historical ephemera.  My uncle, the one I have written about several times, who I've gone dancing with 'cause he really knows how to cut a rug when it's music he likes, and who served most of his navy career on destroyers, retiring as a master chief (E9), served, as I never knew till I found this letter, on the Montrose during the Viet Nam war.  And how about that for a sentence, huh?

Anyway, behold! (and note his very nice cursive script; um, I think it's his, but maybe it's his mom's):

 

By the way, an absolutely excellent book about APAs is Away All Boats by Kenneth Dobson, who commanded one during World War II.

Here's another bit of historical flotsam I found, from a bubblehead relative, another one of my uncles.  I knew I had some submariner relatives, one of whom served aboard the Growler during World War II and was lost when she was sunk by the Japanese, but this one I did not know about.  I didn't even know the navy used submarines as troop transports.
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And here is a postcard from Lebanese International Airways from, it has to be the early to mid-1960s, because the Israelis destroyed LIA, a commando raid blowing up all their 990s in 1967 in retaliation for a Palestinian attack on an El Al airliner in Italy:  you blow up one of ours, we blow up 10 of yours.  Although I'm not sure that Lebanon had anything to do with the attack on the El Al plane, but what do I know?  That was back in the days when Beruit was called the Paris of the Middle East, and nobody could have imagined what a shit show the whole region has devolved into since (and excuse my French!). Anyway, the reason the postcard is among the family ephemera is that one of my relatives, about whom I have written, flew 990s for LIA and was on the airfield when the Israeli commandos attacked and dashed out to try to stop them from blowing up his plane, but was tackled by his Lebanese co-pilot, thus having his life saved.

And for something completely different here's a button or whatever you would call it that my mother got when she was in high school -- she used to collect buttons and wear them on her jeans jacket, apparently it was a fad back then.  This one looks like it's never been used.  I asked her about it and she didn't remember it, she had collected so many, but thought she had probably gotten it as part of some Ford promotion and it was probably a duplicate.   Anyway, I thought it was interesting that Ford would target high school students to sell cars to.  What a wonderful world it must have been when a high school student could earn enough money after school and during summer vacation to buy a brand new Mustang. A vanished golden era.

This is the gas tank bag my dad had strapped to his BSA Thunderbolt that he rode all around Europe just before he reported to Pensacola to earn his golden wings and then sail off to fly Iron Hand missions over Haiphong during Linebacker II.  He flew to England and bought his bike from Elite Motors, Tooting Broadway, London (can you not just love someplace called "Tooting Broadway?  Honk! Honk!), and had a blast touring the Europe that was, maybe peak non-communist Europe, well recovered from World War II but not yet ruined by the OPEC oil embargo of 1973 and all that has happened since.

Here's a photo of his BSA, or Beezer, as he calls it, parked by some chambre à louer or whatever, back when pop was just a smartass punk in a black leather jacket.  Heh.  He would object to that characterization, informing me that he had joined the Royal Automobile Club and was a member in good standing and had a metal roundel affixed to his motorcycle to prove it.  So he could not possibly have been a punk, although he did admit to owning a custom-made Bates black leather jacket.

 

And here we have the pièce de résistance of this post:  my lieutenant, j.g. bars!  My mom saved them when I got promoted to full lieutenant and sent these home.  Why were they so important to her and to me?  Well, because I think we both worried that I would screw up as a naval officer and get my hapless heinie dropped-kicked back into civilian life.  But, instead, I got promoted!  Will wonders never cease?

Crash!

 I went hiking up into the high country where the snow still lingers and came across this wreck.  I found the identification plate or whatever it's called which told me it was, or once had been, a C-119, the flying boxcar, an Air Force workhorse of the early 1950s.

Those dogs, by the way, are border collies. I trained them myself. They are very quick learners and very smart.  Together we are a great team, their keen sense of smell and hearing combined with my far-scanning eyes make it very unlikely any predator can surprise us. Were we hunting, no game could escape us. And, of course, they are superb cow dogs.  But they were taking some time off from work to accompany me on my rambles.  

I really am happy to be away from people and the obligation to deal with strangers and all manner of disagreeableness.  Now that I am away from the teeming hordes, I see how ... -- well, never mind.  I don't care.  Why dwell on such things?  I've escaped, that's all that matters.

I spent the night camped out on the mountain, sleeping soundly in my little backpacking tent and sleeping bag, the dogs curled up next to me.  We kept each other toasty warm.  In the morning, I made pan biscuits from scratch (I'd already mixed the flour and other ingredients and stored them in a baggie) baking them in a skillet over my campfire till they were crusty brown on the outside, light and chewy on the inside, fried a couple of eggs and some bacon -- the aroma made me famished -- and chowed down with a will.  Then I washed it all down with campfire coffee -- tossing the fresh grounds into the coffee pot and adding an eggshell to mellow the brew. When it just began to boil, I took it off the flames, threw a dash of cold water in the pot to settle the grounds and poured a cup, steam rolling away in the brisk mountain morning air.

I added the leftover bacon grease to the dogs' kibble for an extra treat for them. Nom! Nom! Nom!

Descending by a different route, I came across a mountain lake.  I thought I might take a swim, but the water was like liquid ice.  I saw that it was stocked with trout, probably by the state Fish and Game department.  They do it by helicopter. El jefe is a fisherman and I know that once he comes home he will love to hike up here and enjoy being the only angler, listening to the chatter of blue jays, wood doves and the wind soughing through the pines.

The day warmed as I descended and soon I was hot enough to take off my jacket, then, after a while, still hot, I unzipped the lower half of my pants and -- voila! -- I was wearing shorts. 

I was not following any path, just making my own judgement as to how best to descend but basically following the lake outlet stream.  Eventually it led to a canyon.  That gave me pause.  It was boulder-strewn and appeared to narrow.  Could I make it through?  I thought about back-tracking and trying to find another way down, but the only other way would be to climb back to where I had camped and then descend the way I had climbed up.  I didn't think I would have enough daylight to do that, plus I didn't want to face that climb.  So I entered the canyon.  And it did narrow, and it was difficult.  There was no wind and it grew hot so that I was sweating heavily.  I took a break, unsnapping and dropping my backpack with a sigh of relief, then took a long drink of water from my canteen. My feet were tired and sore.  I took off my boots and socks and inspected them.  No blisters, thankfully.  I fished an apple out of my backpack and ate it slowly, not because I was hungry so much as to give me an excuse to linger.  I really didn't want to face having to boulder hop and wade down that canyon any more.  But I had no choice.  So, after a few minutes, I splashed water from the stream on my arms, legs and face to wash off the sweat and cool down.  The water was cool, not cold, and when I stood in it with my naked feet, after a minute or so, it actually felt warm, or warmish.

And that was good because not long after I resumed my plod, the canyon opened up and the stream broadened into a wide pool with no boulders to cross it on and it looked too deep to wade.  I was going to have to swim it. I took off my clothes and bundled them into my backpack, along with my boots, taking out the big plastic trash bag I had brought along to cover the pack with should I have been caught in a thunderstorm.  I put the pack inside the bag and tied it tightly closed, making sure to trap a lot of air inside.  Then I gingerly stepped into the water, waiting a minute or two after each few steps to accustom myself to the water temperature, glad it was not icy cold like the lake had been; I doubted I could have survived trying to swim that.  But this was okay, even pleasant, actually, in the close heat of the canyon.  At the last before stepping off into the deep, I tied the backpack to my wrist with a nylon cord so I wouldn't lose it, and let it float free. It seemed water tight, bobbing high on the water.

So I swam and floated down the river, letting my backpack drift ahead of me on the gentle current, my dogs paddling beside me, heads held high.  Being naked in this untouched wilderness canyon, feeling the sensuous caress of the water, I felt like Rima, the girl in W.H. Hudson's novel Green Mansions. What bliss!  I rolled over on my back and watched the sky and the walls of the canyon drift by as I was carried along by the current.  I completely lost my sense of self.  Barn swallows zoomed low over the water, passing within inches of me, so close I could feel the wind of their passage. Their high-pitched chattering was the only sound, until, eventually, I heard a trickle of noise that grew to a mild tumbling rumble of water rushing over rocks, and I knew my Edenic drift was over.  I pulled my backpack to me and pushed myself up over it to get a view of what was head. 

 The canyon was coming to an end and the stream spread out into a shallow bed in a sort of valley, more like what we called a flat, which is what it was.  I waded out of the stream and stood in the hazy sunshine while I twisted my hair to wring the water out of it. In a few minutes I was dry, although my hair was still damp, but that was okay, it cooled me.  I fetched my backpack out of the plastic bag. It was dry.  No water had seeped in, as I had feared.  I hesitated about putting my clothes back on, it felt so nice to be au naturel in nature.  But clothing not only provides modesty, it protects against sunburn, insects, and helps prevent cuts and scrape in a tumble.  So I donned them and, curiously, once I had done so, I felt chilly.  So I zipped on the lower half of my pants and slipped into my windbreaker.  I eased into my pack, glad for the extra warmth it provided to my back.

Looking around, I saw clouds beginning to drift down from the heights and I felt a fresh, cold breeze.  I was still pretty high up, the weather was that changeable mountain weather and the day was getting on.  I'd better get a move on and get off the mountain without delay.  The flat was easy walking and when it ended there was a natural trail made by generations of wild creatures that I strode along as it wound down the mountain to the prairie where I'd left my truck.  At the end of the trail, I hesitated, deciding which way to go:  was my truck to the left or the right of where I'd come out?  I looked at the surrounding mountains, looked behind me to see how the peak I'd descended from looked from here to compared to how it had looked from where I'd parked the truck.  I felt stupid for not having memorized that view.  The dogs looked up at me, expectant.  Why was I hesitating? I looked down at them.  Did they know where the truck was?  On an impulse, I clapped my hands  and cried, "Let's go!" and off they ran.  To my left.  I jogged along after them.  What else could I do?  In a few minutes I saw the light of the low sun reflected in a bright glint.  Glass! I thought, it has to be sunlight reflecting off glass and the only glass anywhere around was the windshield and windows of my truck.  It had to be.  And in another few minutes I saw it.  Oh, sweet relief.  I hadn't allowed myself to worry that after climbing and descending the mountain I would get lost at the last minute.  But I very well could have.  

When I got to the truck, the dogs were lying in it's shade panting slightly.  I got them some water which they slurped up and then offered them some kibble, but they weren't interested.  I tossed my backpack in the back of the truck, the dogs jumping in after it, climbed into the cab, drank the leftover coffee in the thermos I'd left on the passenger seat, stone cold but delicious, fired that mother up and bounced and jolted down to the main dirt road and headed home. By ten, I was eating a late dinner of twice-baked potatoes and roast beef, home-made hot rolls and a garden-fresh salad of watercress, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, celery hearts, bell peppers and carrots laced with home-made french dressing -- civilization may have its discontents, but it also has its blessed contentments.  Then I took a long bath and crawled into my bed. I glanced out the window at the full moon, bright and low to the south, rolled over and went to sleep.

Earth Abides

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“

A real cowboy's hat

The machines men are so intent on making have carried them very far from the old sweet things.”
― Sherwood Anderson

 “Some men are daylight readers, who peruse the ambiguous wording of clouds or the individual letter shapes of wandering birds. Some, like myself, are librarians of the night, whose ephemeral documents consist of root-inscribed bones or whatever rustles in the thickets upon solitary walks.”
~ Loren Eiseley

  When I look at the horror show that is this human urbanized life we live, this chimerical civilization, these meretricious modern times, I wonder why I participated in it for so long, believing in its values, succumbing to its ersatz allures. 

It's baby antelope season!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Nature is part of our humanity, and without some awareness and experience of that divine mystery man ceases to be man. When the Pleiades and the wind in the grass are no longer a part of the human spirit, a part of our very flesh and bone, man becomes a kind of cosmic outlaw, having neither the completeness and integrity of the animal nor the birthright of a true humanity.”
― Henry Beston

 “The physical world is entirely abstract and without actuality apart from its linkage to consciousness.”
― Sir Arthur Eddington

“The universe looks more and more like a great thought rather than a great machine.”
― Sir James Jeans

Maybe it's just me, maybe my personality, or perhaps my northern European barbarian ancestors and northern American Indian ancestors calling to me from the ancient past that still exists somewhere in this quantum universe, but when I return from the hurley-burley of the human-centered world to Mother Earth as she was for all of time before this now, I feel a thankful relief, as if some great pressure pushing down on me has been lifted.

Although I've lived and worked in the world of men all my adult life, now that I am absolutely free of it, I am experiencing a peace of mind, a contentment and, dare I say it, a happiness I was missing. I did not know I was missing it.  But now I do.  And now I can't live without it.  Plus now I have all day every day with the fruit of my loins and can watch them grow day by day, teach them, provide an adult example for them, play with them, and just know they are around and so am I.  I can also be available to assist my parents should they need a bit of help, and I do enjoy interacting with them.  I can also be of service to other relatives should the need arise.  And I help out around the ranch as I am able to.

So I am busy and there are plenty of demands on my time. Each day flies by and before I know it I am closing curtains and turning on lights. And when it's time to go to bed just about as soon as my head hits the pillow I am asleep and don't wake till morning.  Before, I often lay awake for hours, my mind racing, thinking about the day past, planning the day to come and the many days afterward, worrying about all sorts of things, often things I could do nothing about, or do nothing about until they actually transpired, if they ever did.

“It is eternity now. I am in the midst of it. It is about me in the sunshine; I am in it as the butterfly in the light-laden air. Nothing has to come; it is now. Now is eternity; now is the immortal life.”
― Richard Jefferies

“What is this thing called life? I believe
That the earth and the stars too, and the whole glittering universe, and rocks on the mountains have life,
Only we do not call it so--I speak of the life
That oxidizes fats and proteins and carbo-
Hydrates to live on, and from that chemical energy
Makes pleasure and pain, wonder, love, adoration, hatred and terror: how do these things grow
From a chemical reaction?
I think they were here already, I think the rocks
And the earth and the other planets, and the stars and the galaxies
have their various consciousness, all things are conscious;
But the nerves of an animal, the nerves and brain
Bring it to focus; the nerves and brain are like a burning-glass
To concentrate the heat and make it catch fire:
It seems to us martyrs hotter than the blazing hearth
From which it came. So we scream and laugh, clamorous animals
Born howling to die groaning: the old stones in the dooryard
Prefer silence; but those and all things have their own awareness,
As the cells of a man have; they feel and feed and influence each other, each unto all,
Like the cells of a man's body making one being,
They make one being, one consciousness, one life, one God.”
― Robinson Jeffers

“I won’t see this year again, not again so innocent; and longing wrapped round my throat like a scarf. 'For the Heavenly Father desires that we should see,' says Ruysbroeck, 'and that is why He is ever saying to our inmost spirit one deep unfathomable word and nothing else.' But what is the word? Is this mystery or coyness? A cast-iron bell hung from the arch of my rib cage; when I stirred, it rang, or it tolled, a long syllable pulsing ripples up my lungs and down the gritty sap inside my bones, and I couldn’t make it out; I felt the voiced vowel like a sigh or a note but I couldn’t catch the consonant that shaped it into sense.”
― Annie Dillard

I still can't really grasp how large the ranch is, especially when considered with the tens of thousands of acres of BLM and state land we lease in addition to our own holdings, from foothills to snow-capped mountains to plains and prairie, fertile valleys to barren badlands.  I could saddle my horse, load a pack horse with supplies, set out in whichever direction I felt like and pass out of sight of the workings of man, aside from the trail or abandoned wagon road I follow, in very short order and not see them again for weeks.  And, should I choose, I could make my way cross-country, following no trail, though that can require serious concentration when the terrain gets rough or when it begins to climb.  But if the elk and antelope can traverse the trackless wastes, so can a horse and rider.  Were I a hunter, I would encounter enough game to keep me well fed, though I would be content with less bloody fare.

I have veered off a trail and ridden across a prairie and then begun an ascent of the foothills only to discover old blaze marks on trees, healed over by bark ages ago but still visible, telling me that the path I've chosen is a logical one selected by others long before me. So, reassured, I continue on, spotting other blaze marks as I keep to the natural trail.  And should I climb above the tree line, there are old ducks (rocks stacked atop each other) showing the way to the pass, and a downward path to a lake or pond, damned by beavers once before they were hunted out by John Jacob Astor's men two hundred years ago, but now preserved by rock and tree falls and silt build-up.  In some places, they (the beavers not Astor's men) are making a come-back and there are fresh beaver dams here and there.

Once, a cowpoke looking for strays that had gotten themselves into some very rugged country took a break in the shade of some rocks that formed a shelter from the weather and his glance by chance fell upon a pouch woven of fiber. Picking it up, he felt its heft and, opening it, discovered flints, knapping tools and arrowheads.  Being of Indian stock himself, he replaced it where he found it, apologizing for disturbing the spirit who guarded it.  Does that sound silly?  It doesn't to me.  Looking around, he saw a faded petroglyph. He touched it with his hand.   Above him, he saw the rock was blackened by smoke.  Some time later, taking a class in archaeology at the local community college, he mentioned to his instructor his find and together they went to the site, finding the remains of what appeared to be a single night's campfire, the pouch and the petroglyph.  Carbon-dating revealed the site to be between 800 and 850 years old.  Explaining it to me, after saying this, the cowboy paused, looked away, then said, "That's ten thousand full moons ago."  Eight-hundred years doesn't seem so much.  We think we can grasp it.  But ten thousand full moons?  Can you encompass that with your mind?  Would the comparison have occurred to you?  Do you even notice the moon?  The man whose life and work is in nature as God created it does. The moon waxing and waning, season after season, over and over and over again...beyond what the mind can understand. And then there is a man, traveling alone perhaps, seeking shelter for the night.  He makes a little fire.  He eats. Maybe he watches the moon. He sleeps. In the morning he moves on, forgetting his knapping pouch.  He never came back for it. Why not? It was valuable and necessary to survive.  Did he make the petroglyph or was it there when he came?  Did he put his hand out and touch it?

I could drive out some old rutted, abandoned road as far as my four-wheel drive would take me, park it, shrug into my frame pack, sling my rifle over my shoulder, and head for the high country, or maybe follow a stream as it meanders along, cutting canyons here and there, wading or boulder-hopping through their cool shadows, then emerging into bright sunshine, all the while keeping a wary eye out for bears.  Where the land opens up, I may find myself  passing through herds of antelope, elk or buffalo, flushing pheasant and grouse, and where marshes and ponds are, there are moose. And ducks and geese, herons and sometimes egrets and cranes. Of course, deer are everywhere. As are coyotes.  Resting in the shade of a tree, I may hear the scream of a mountain lion.  If it's close, it sends a jolt of fear through me and I feel for my Winchester, the touch of it reassuring. I thank again my grandfather for teaching me to shoot by tossing old tobacco cans into the air or side-arming them skittering along the ground, ordering me to "shoot the head off Prince Albert!" And by-and-by I could. Every time.  My grandfather believed that a good hunter only needed to take three bullets with him: one might be a dud, and, were his game-shot somehow unlucky, he might need that third to finish off his quarry -- but shame to him if he did.

I could leave the truck I left behind unlocked, the ignition key in the glove compartment or dangling from the rear-view mirror. No one would come along.  And if someone did, he would not bother anything. He might leave a note saying he'd passed by and to blow the horn if I needed him for anything.  He'd write down the date, too, in case I came back a week later so I would know he was long gone.  Being long gone is now all that I wish to be. 

 “In the world there is nothing to explain the world. Nothing to explain the necessity of life, nothing to explain the hunger of the elements to become life, nothing to explain why the stolid realm of rock and soil and mineral should diversify itself into beauty, terror, and uncertainty. To bring organic novelty into existence, to create pain, injustice, joy, demands more than we can discern in the nature that we analyze so completely.

Hope this won't be "last photo before she was eaten."

In the world there is nothing that is truly explanatory. It is as if matter dreamed and muttered in its sleep. But why, and for what reason it dreams, there is no evidence.”
~ Loren Eiseley

  “Since the first human eye saw a leaf in Devonian sandstone and a puzzled finger reached to touch it, sadness has lain over the heart of man. By this tenuous thread of living protoplasm, stretching backward into time, we are linked forever to lost beaches whose sands have long since hardened into stone. The stars that caught our blind amphibian stare have shifted far or vanished in their courses, but still that naked, glistening thread winds onward. No one knows the secret of its beginning or its end. Its forms are phantoms. The thread alone is real; the thread is life.”
― Loren Eiseley

  “There are some delightful places in this world which have a sensual charm for the eyes. One loves them with a physical love. We people who are attracted by the countryside cherish fond memories of certain springs, certain woods, certain ponds, certain hills, which have become familiar sights and can touch our hearts like happy events.
Sometimes indeed the memory goes back towards a forest glade, or a spot on a river bank or an orchard in blossom, glimpsed only once on a happy day, but preserved in our heart.”
― Guy de Maupassant

“I will shed no more tears like a spoilt child.
For whatever happens we have had what we have had. No one can take that from us. And I have been alive, who was never alive before.”
― Daphne du Maurier

  

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The radio play Earth Abides, adapted from the novel of the same name by George R. Stewart, first broadcast over the CBS radio network's sustaining series Escape on November 5 and November 12, 1950.  Worth a listen.

Earth Abides, Part I 

Earth Abides, Part II 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remains of a life

 

Lately, I've been rummaging around in old boxes and suitcases, even ancient steamer trunks, stored at the ranch in various sheds and attics by assorted relatives over the decades.  Above are two items from my "other" grandfather, as I call him.  I never got to see him very often growing up because he had been a career Air Force pilot based in New England for much of his life, and that's where he retired, whereas I grew up overseas or on the west coast -- Whidbey Island, North Island -- and when I had vacation, I stayed with relatives in the mountain West most of the times.

Anyway, I found his old wings in a box of assorted doodads in a large suitcase that contained old uniforms, photographs, including a lot of slides, copies of orders, personnel files and that sort of thing.  There are three types of wings -- the plain ones, the one with a star, as above, and then one with a star surrounded by a wreath, near above and to the left.  That's apparently the most senior one, the command pilot badge, while the star denotes a senior pilot (I just looked it up!) and the plain wings are what a new pilot is issued.

Friends lost, I imagine.

I've written about his career before, how he flew in the Berlin Airlift in 1948-49, served in the Korean War in the earliest days as a Douglas (not Martin) B-26 pilot and Forward Air Controller on the ground when the Chinese attacked, and afterwards served with the Strategic Air Command flying B-47s and later B-52s, including flying bombing missions during the Viet Nam War.  The severely scratched up silver and gold artifact above is his cigarette case that he got during the Berlin Airlift.  As near as I can make it out, it says, "Operation Vittles, 1949, with the map of West Germany and the symbol for

From steering yoke hub

West Berlin in gold as is the airplane, presumably a C-54.  How it got so banged up, I have no idea, of course, but to me it is redolent of an active, adventuresome life.  I can imagine him fishing out a Camel or Fatima after successfully managing setting down a plane overloaded with sacks of coal, one engine out, on a GCA landing at night in the fog during a Berlin winter.  Or maybe snapping it open and extracting a Lucky Strike or Old Gold after surviving a danger-close air support call on the retreat to the Hungnam perimeter, or making it safely home after dodging Yak-25s on the border of the USSR during a 10-hour flight in a Stratojet, or ...; well, you get the picture. 

That old cigarette case holds more than cigarettes.  It carries a lifetime of memories; I hold it in my had with awe.   And so does this old cigarette lighter I found in the same box with the case. It's pretty battered, too, but you can still make out Mt. Fuji and a pagoda. The flint still sparks but the fuel is long spent or evaporated away. Just like the life in the hand that once flipped open the lid, spun the wheel to ignite its flame, lit that cigarette. 

Explanation of this photo to the right says "I Company, 23rd Infantry, 2nd Division, Wonju.  When the ROKs broke and ran these guys stopped the Reds.  Went into the fight with 160 men, came out with 58."

 To the left is a photo of some village in Korea during that war.  South Korea looks a lot different today, to say the least.  In the early days of the war the ROK and US forces were driven all the way back to Pusan, where they were finally able to establish and hold a defensive perimeter.  The fighting was quite savage, truly war without mercy. But today? Pusan, or Busan as it is now romanized, is a spectacular city with direct flights to Saipan's gorgeous beaches and resort hotels.  Saipan, too, was the subject of a vicious fight, some 50,000 killed in about three weeks of combat, and once was famous for its suicide cliffs where Japanese civilians leapt to their deaths rather than be captured by us and handed some charlie rats and a change of lice-free clothes.

I found this medal to the right in another box, this one full of a jumble of medals, service bars, ribbons, badges, patches and what not.  Nothing was in a presentation box.  They were all just kind of dumped in this old Muriel cigar box.  This one interested me because on the reverse the inscription reads, "For service in defense of the principles of the charter of the United Nations."  Not in defense of Korea, not in defense of America.  The UN was a big deal in those days and a lot of faith was placed in the ability it had to eliminate war and punish those who sought to instigate it.  I know, I know.  Vain hope.  But still...  I do so wish the UN had succeeded. Don't you?

Oh, what happened to my grandfather?  He lived through it all, flying war surplus C-47s in Central America, all the Cold War incidents and episodes, three hot wars, and retired without a scratch, as far as I know, to a comfortable home in New England where he lived out the rest of his life in peace and quiet.

A Whitetopia that was

Happy days in Dolton

Digging through a bunch of old papers and other junk in a store room, I came across a cache of photos from my relative the news man's early days as a police beat reporter.  I've written about him before, how he never intended to get into the news business but planned to be a journeyman printer with his own shop, but because he knew how to touch type, when he was drafted, the army put him to work on a division newspaper and that, ultimately, led to a 40-year career in the news biz, mostly newspapers, but also radio and television. He got to hang out with people like Len O'Connor and Mike Royko.

Anyway, one of the stories he told me about his early days working the cop news on the south side of Chicago and the suburbs in that area was how blacks would prey on the businesses and homes of such bedroom towns as Riverdale, Dolton, South Holland, Harvey and others in that area.  These towns when he reported on them in the early 1970s were pleasant white communities enjoying a solid middle-class life thanks to all the nearby factories and steel mills that provided  employment at good wages.

Each town had its own police force, which diligently kept the peace and enforced the law.  Of course, the homeowners were peaceable and law-abiding.  It was the outsiders who raided to loot and rob who had to be guarded against.  My relative told me of how when you called the cops they responded immediately to a break-in, burglary, armed robbery, whatever it was, and they would pursue the felon no matter what until they got him. Since each town's cops only had jurisdiction in their community, they would hand off a hot pursuit of a perp to the next town's cops as the bad guy fled through them.  The Cook County Sheriff's Dept. would also join in the pursuit, as would the Illinois State Police.  He told me of several such chases in which multiple police cars were wrecked, one, in which, if memory serves, 14 police cars crashed chasing a bad guy, and another where the bad guy crashed into a gas station fuel pump, which exploded in a huge fireball.  But they did get the bad guy.  And usually alive, without gunplay.  And, he said, regarding fleeing felons, never mind what the judge would hand them, the cops would tune them up on the spot.  Only then would they face a judge.

Anyway the second, here are some photos of his that I thought were interesting illustrations of those days.  Most of the photos in his archive, if I may call it that, are just negatives, only a few prints.  So I only had a handful to select from.

This one on the left looks like a press conference with cops...I don't know.  But what interests me is the uniforms and the hair styles, and that guy in the background who looks like a Weegee-type news photog. He's even wearing a trench coat!  Note the photo of President Nixon, which fixes it in time.

The photo on the right is of a cop dusting for fingerprints after a burglary.  Thieves climbed up on the roof of the building and cut a hole in it and climbed down into the business to rob it but the alarms went off and the cops were on the bad guys like that.  Note the policeman is armed with a revolver.  Probably an old reliable Smith & Wesson .38.  And I bet should he have ever had to use it, he would have administered a pistol whipping, not emptied the cylinder.  Those times were far less shooty than today. Maybe that's because the police were more respected in those days, even by criminals, and cops had the authority and backing for what they needed to do on the spot, and were certain that any bad guys they nabbed would do hard time.

This photo on the left shows the end of one of those epic car chases, ending as they usually did with the perp crashing his stolen car, and the cops swarming him and hauling his sorry ass off to the calaboose.  It looks like a Cook County Sheriff's Department deputy and an Illinois state trooper were in on this bust.  I think the car is a Lincoln, but I'm not sure.  Usually the bad guys stole Cadillacs or Lincolns.

To the right is a photo of the Cook County Sheriff Department deputy pictured above left counting the recovered loot the robber got.  It would be cataloged and then returned to the store keeper, sometimes the very same day.  They didn't dawdle back then and the red tape was minimal.  Crook robs, cops catch, your money returned, crook goes to the slammer.  

Now this photo below is different.  It shows a neighborhood get-together in suburban Dolton in 1973.  The back of the photo says "pet parade."  I suppose it was a kind of street party where neighbors would gather with their pets and enjoy a nice time together.  I've colorized it to bring out just how pleasant and enjoyable it must have been, with lots of families, lots of children, lots of dogs -- and, you will notice, everybody is white.  It was Leave It to Beaver land for real, prosperous, safe, peaceful and pleasant.

Today, the factories and steel mills have long since closed and Dolton is more than 92 percent black and just barely 5 percent white, mostly elderly who can't afford to move. It's plagued by crime, drugs, gangs and street violence.  Here's a photo I found from a Sun-Times article about Dolton in 2022:

The photo, taken by Anthony Vazquez, shows Martin Luther King Blvd in Dolton.  The story says the suburb is like a ghost town with abandoned stores and buildings infested with druggies and the homeless.  A crime stats website describes Dolton today thusly:

"Dolton has an overall crime rate of 7,484 per 100,000 residents. This is one of the most dangerous regions in the United States. This means that your chances of becoming a victim of any type of crime in Dolton is 1 in 13 if you reside there for a year."

Dolton, Ill. Crime Rates

A couple of more end of police chase photos.  The bad guys never got away and never got far.  Too bad about those stolen Cadillacs:

 

Old couples

 What makes a marriage last?

I've asked both my mom and dad that.  Boomers, they married late after having very rich and, some would say, adventuresome youths -- my father being a naval aviator participating in Linebacker II, the Christmas bombing, etc., during the Viet Nam War, my mother being an Army nurse during the same conflict and then a volunteer with the Barsky Unit of CMRI in Saigon after her service.  They'd both seen a lot of the world, including visiting the Soviet Union; in fact they first met on a ship sailing from Yokohama to Vladivostok, although they didn't date seriously for a couple of years after and marry a couple of years after that.  Then, once they married, we kids, two brothers and me, the youngest, came along some years after that.  And this year they will celebrate their 46th wedding anniversary.

Watching their interactions, it's clear they enjoy each other's company and are happy and comfortable together.  They will sit in the sun room and talk with each other for, it seems, hours about any subject under the sun -- current politics, the stock market, friends and relatives, their careers, places they been and things they've done, recipes and what to have for dinner, their children and grandchildren...just anything.  Now and again, they fall silent.  One may gaze out the window while the other reads something or checks his or her phone, then the conversation picks up again.  

Of course, that's not their whole day, and often they are apart for most of it, if not all of it, doing their separate things. And of course, when they  were working, often they would be apart for long stretches.  When my father was on a cruise, he would be gone for months.  During the Gulf War, he was away for eleven months. 

So what's the secret to their long marriage?  They shrug.  They don't know.  Just take it easy, don't be a self-centered jerk, be considerate, think of the other person first, always remember why you fell in love with them, and so forth.

But I think there could also be a predisposition to staying married, an inherited or genetic component.  One of my sets of grandparents were married for 51 years before the husband died, and another set was married for 68 years before the husband died.  Neither wife remarried, not that that was realistically expected to happen at their ages -- at least, I wouldn't think so.  

My mother did say, when we talked about this, that you should not rush into marriage hastily, but get to know the person quite well, analyze your own emotions and make sure you are not projecting a personality on the individual that is not really theirs.  Don't ignore or dismiss their faults but think about whether you can live with them.  And don't ignore or dismiss your own faults.  Be pitiless in your self-evaluation.  Try to see yourself as the other person sees you.

I would add, based on my experience, imagine what it would be like if the person you love, whose life means more to you than your own, should abandon you.  What black depths of despair would you endure?  Why would you let that happen? So, dear friend, do all that you can do to see that that never, ever happens.  Love, yes.  But also be worthy yourself of being loved.

 Two musical takes on the same thing; if you can do anything to prevent it happening to you, do so: