Up-catchings
It is nice that some readers have missed my blogs! Yesterday was another day too full of necessary activities to have a blog ready today. Generally I write my blog the day before posting, and keep it in the word processor till posting time. (That gives me a copy for future material to dig a book out of, and in the opposite order, which the book would need.) But last night that was impossible.
Although the sky is currently a bit overcast, it seems a great day, for I slept till almost 9:30 (went to bed at almost 2:00 A. M.), and so far as I recall, have no engagements out today. I keep thinking of the family, of course, and still ache over the loss of little Johnny, and trust that all of those in the air on return flights are and will be safe. Just think, Melissa, my granddaughter-in-law, will have circled the globe by the time she gets back to Tripoli. Not only that, but little Rocco will have circled the globe before the age of one! Something to tell his grandchildren someday.
Before I arose today, the telephone beside my bed announced a toll free call. I did not take it. When I checked the message in the kitchen, I learned this call was from my publisher with its hundreds of employees—I think hundreds—who left a number for me to call back. Whatever that was, it was not the same as the number on Caller ID. Furthermore, when she spoke the number to call, one digit did not register at all. She repeated it the same way with that digit still missing. So, I called the number on the Caller ID and voiced that complaint and gave my number clearly and twice for a call back. So, that “engagement” is hovering over what should be a brain trying to concentrate on writing. I hate to be on edge about an expected call. One gets to walking around the house, with one arm elongated—by a portable phone, in my case the make of around 1995, a sensible size. The two new-fangled phones in the house, mini-sized, and loaded with extras, I detest, and really don’t use. One morning before I got up, that new-fangle beside my bed, said I had a call from “An-o-nym-ous,” with the stress on the “nym.” Funny, of course, but that’s not the phone for me. It came from Wal Mart, a store I don’t like. I’ve been inside one about three times and don’t anticipate returning there. Wal Mart did not make the phone, of course, but is guilty of selling it.
Anyway, my publisher is planning to place my first novel Death in Time in BookExpo 2010, the biggest book event in North America. It will be held at a convention center in New York, and display 5,000 books, 150 of which will be from my publisher. When you consider it publishes 5,000 books a year, and mine was chosen as one of the 150, it sounds super, right? I don’t see it that way. I think they probably chose those that did not sell big as some others did. Well, I told them at the beginning of our relationship I would not be traveling around the country signing books, and that’s what’s needed for big sales.
The people who attend this BookExpo are mainly editors, publishers, agents (both literary and Hollywood), but anyone who happens to be in town can attend. The exhibit lasts three or four days in June, I believe (that proves how excited I am, I can’t even recall the dates), and the visitors will have small catalogues showcasing the books by genre. Mine will be in a mystery catalog. I have written a new description of this and have approved their rendition of it. There are two things that prove most interesting to me. One is that mystery sells more copies than any other fiction genre. The second one is that the publisher sends out 500,000 emails advertising one’s book. I imagine one email advertises all 150 books, but they don’t say it just that way over the telephone; one gets the impression all those emails are going out just for my book. No way.
Now to scratch out some time for the second suspense novel, now in progress, with the same Private Investigator, Nate Griswald.
♥
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Some Situations That Control Our Lives
Just before the weekend started, my computer failed in three important categories: no banking privileges, no blogging, and no reading of others’ blogs. Then all day Monday was devoted to family, with little Johnny’s funeral service, then continuing service for family at the cemetery, and with the family’s gathering at the home of one set of Johnny’s grandparents. Weather-wise, it was a perfect day with bright sun and gentle breeze. The sad occasion had its happiness too, happiness in the fact that our dear little one just moved to a better place and to the loving arms of Jesus. I am pleased to have his bodily remains placed with those of my husband John and our son Philip.
What a large crowd our family members were! Some of my grandchildren I had not seen in years, for they don’t live near me. My oldest grandchild, Jill, one of those long-not-seen ones, impressed me greatly with her charm and poise as she spoke of her children and husband who were not present. But if I write something about each one of them here, and you read it, you wouldn’t have time to do your Christmas shopping for this coming Christmas. So I’ll mention a bit about a grandson, in my other son’s family, and then just three more. My remarks about the others can seep into future blogs.
Grandson Josh arrived late, because of other activities he was engaged in. I happened to be near the front door when he came in with a lovely tall young lady, whom he introduced. I didn’t stay long after that, and didn’t really get to know her, but off hand, I’d say, you may be lucky, Josh. Good first impression.
The other three are Allison, Philip, and Emma, my great grandchildren. They had just had a dream disappear from their lives and their hearts ached. I hugged them all, and talked at length with Emma. She was wearing a new dress—like most children these days, she lives in pants and shorts and tops—but she was proud of her new dress, and toyed with two bracelets on her left arm. Her hair was held back off her face and sparkles from some ornament pinned there put her at the top of the charts. What a doll she is!
Philip, 13, is special, not just because of who he is in his own right, but because he bears the exact name of our youngest son, who died at age 19 from leukemia. I’ve heard wonderful reports of how Philip is quick to voluntarily help his mother with chores. And he told me he loves to read. That’s important in my book.
The eldest, Allison, I’ve heard, reads everything she can get her hands on. Now that’s one of the best things I can hear of a great-grandchild. She had a new dress too, the color complimenting her thick dark auburn hair. Now sometimes I miss on color, but I think it is auburn. I’d love to hear her talk about books she’s read, but the opportunity was not there that day.
In California these children are home-schooled and live about a block and a half from the town’s library. As is usually the case in home schooling, they are far above what the same-age children are achieving in public schools.
So with the events of Monday, it was not until Tuesday that my computer tech came out to take a look at Pete, and then decide to take him to the office and rework him entirely, whatever that process is called. Today I got Pete back. He’d had a virus and I don’t open mail I’m not sure of. So he caught it some other way. I can’t make up for the days you found no new blog here—you poor deprived dears—but I still have the gift of gab. What a phrase. I wonder if the word “glib” came from that phrase.
Check here soon for, what seems so far, to be an awfully good novel. You can get more reading done when you have no computer.
♥
Just before the weekend started, my computer failed in three important categories: no banking privileges, no blogging, and no reading of others’ blogs. Then all day Monday was devoted to family, with little Johnny’s funeral service, then continuing service for family at the cemetery, and with the family’s gathering at the home of one set of Johnny’s grandparents. Weather-wise, it was a perfect day with bright sun and gentle breeze. The sad occasion had its happiness too, happiness in the fact that our dear little one just moved to a better place and to the loving arms of Jesus. I am pleased to have his bodily remains placed with those of my husband John and our son Philip.
What a large crowd our family members were! Some of my grandchildren I had not seen in years, for they don’t live near me. My oldest grandchild, Jill, one of those long-not-seen ones, impressed me greatly with her charm and poise as she spoke of her children and husband who were not present. But if I write something about each one of them here, and you read it, you wouldn’t have time to do your Christmas shopping for this coming Christmas. So I’ll mention a bit about a grandson, in my other son’s family, and then just three more. My remarks about the others can seep into future blogs.
Grandson Josh arrived late, because of other activities he was engaged in. I happened to be near the front door when he came in with a lovely tall young lady, whom he introduced. I didn’t stay long after that, and didn’t really get to know her, but off hand, I’d say, you may be lucky, Josh. Good first impression.
The other three are Allison, Philip, and Emma, my great grandchildren. They had just had a dream disappear from their lives and their hearts ached. I hugged them all, and talked at length with Emma. She was wearing a new dress—like most children these days, she lives in pants and shorts and tops—but she was proud of her new dress, and toyed with two bracelets on her left arm. Her hair was held back off her face and sparkles from some ornament pinned there put her at the top of the charts. What a doll she is!
Philip, 13, is special, not just because of who he is in his own right, but because he bears the exact name of our youngest son, who died at age 19 from leukemia. I’ve heard wonderful reports of how Philip is quick to voluntarily help his mother with chores. And he told me he loves to read. That’s important in my book.
The eldest, Allison, I’ve heard, reads everything she can get her hands on. Now that’s one of the best things I can hear of a great-grandchild. She had a new dress too, the color complimenting her thick dark auburn hair. Now sometimes I miss on color, but I think it is auburn. I’d love to hear her talk about books she’s read, but the opportunity was not there that day.
In California these children are home-schooled and live about a block and a half from the town’s library. As is usually the case in home schooling, they are far above what the same-age children are achieving in public schools.
So with the events of Monday, it was not until Tuesday that my computer tech came out to take a look at Pete, and then decide to take him to the office and rework him entirely, whatever that process is called. Today I got Pete back. He’d had a virus and I don’t open mail I’m not sure of. So he caught it some other way. I can’t make up for the days you found no new blog here—you poor deprived dears—but I still have the gift of gab. What a phrase. I wonder if the word “glib” came from that phrase.
Check here soon for, what seems so far, to be an awfully good novel. You can get more reading done when you have no computer.
♥
Friday, April 23, 2010
For National Defense
Recently some high-ranking military personnel demanded public schools serve more healthful lunches to students, especially cutting down on salt and sugared soda pop. It is a matter of national defense, the military said, for many young people who have tried to enlist were turned down because of obesity or a tendency toward it. This is a situation that could easily bring about serious health problems the military would not be responsible for.
In our unfortunate economic circumstances at the present time, perhaps the only jobs available to many young people are in the military. Historically, this has happened time and again, but this has to be the first instance so many are denied the privilege on the basis of being too fat. In past generations some enlistees might have been too thin in weight because times were bad, but that did not disbar them for serving and the military soon straightened out the weight problem by building up muscle strength. But the reverse plight is much more serious.
As I see it, yes, parents and schools must effect a change, but so should manufacturers who produce the food. How about tasty whole-grain buns for those hamburgers, with a warning not to eat potatoes with the bread? Two starches a meal should be outlawed. That practice alone at school and home could quickly wipe out tons of teen-age overweight. Diabetes has already reached almost epidemic status. It’s time we took it seriously.
♥
Recently some high-ranking military personnel demanded public schools serve more healthful lunches to students, especially cutting down on salt and sugared soda pop. It is a matter of national defense, the military said, for many young people who have tried to enlist were turned down because of obesity or a tendency toward it. This is a situation that could easily bring about serious health problems the military would not be responsible for.
In our unfortunate economic circumstances at the present time, perhaps the only jobs available to many young people are in the military. Historically, this has happened time and again, but this has to be the first instance so many are denied the privilege on the basis of being too fat. In past generations some enlistees might have been too thin in weight because times were bad, but that did not disbar them for serving and the military soon straightened out the weight problem by building up muscle strength. But the reverse plight is much more serious.
As I see it, yes, parents and schools must effect a change, but so should manufacturers who produce the food. How about tasty whole-grain buns for those hamburgers, with a warning not to eat potatoes with the bread? Two starches a meal should be outlawed. That practice alone at school and home could quickly wipe out tons of teen-age overweight. Diabetes has already reached almost epidemic status. It’s time we took it seriously.
♥
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Meet Some of My Friends
Thursday is my day out, for getting my hair done, shopping at a supermarket, and meeting various appointments, if I’ve been lucky enough to arrange them for that day. So it is a good time for my driver and me to have lunch out too. It’s something to look forward to, often my only social event of the week. This is good, for the writing life is a lonely life, it is said. But not really lonely, if one’s day is filled with characters met in the writing. And that is exactly what happens for serious writers.
Two days ago I finished reading the latest suspense novel by a highly paid writer, one of the highest paid in the country, and found much bad writing. If you’re interested in writing, let me point out some of her errors. When she introduced her characters, she did not give the reader time to become accustomed to the name before she brought on the next character. The way to manage that problem is to repeat numerous times the name of the first character, so that he can be solidly set in our brains, and, most important, give us the opportunity to get inside the head of that character so that we know him well. If he is the hero or the villain we do not necessarily need to know at this point. In fact, the longer you can keep us guessing, the better. However, when we do learn what he is, all the foreshadowing needs to be in place, so that we can say, “Of course, why didn’t I see that earlier?”
Characters are the reason for the story. If we had no characters, we’d have no plot and their names should suit the roles they play. The writer mentioned above is not expert at this job by any means. Many of her characters’ names sound too similar, such as a secretary named Nan working for a man named Gannon. Even though this could happen in real life, you have to remember, what you are writing when you write fiction is not real life, but it should be realistic. That is, it’s something that could happen. This writer probably makes up her characters’ names herself. “What?” you might ask. “Don’t all writers do that?” Absolutely not. I don’t, for one. When I first meet my characters, they already have names and a whole family history. My job is just to get them to reveal the story they are living at the current period of their lives. Although I may have an idea for the ending of the story as I write, I do not know what is going to happen on the way to that end and those characters may change my mind. I know nothing until my characters know something.
In one short story of mine (which won first prize, statewide, by the way) the POV (point of view) was that of a man. Since he was telling a story not really about himself much, he had no reason to say, “My name is” whatever. His name had nothing to do with what he was experiencing. But when a plainclothes detective asked him his name, “Archie Madison” popped right out of his mouth. I did not know till that instant what his name was. Until then, there was no reason for me, or any reader, to know his name. That spontaneous reply furnished enough excitement that I had to wait a few minutes before continuing with the story. That is one example of the story’s writing itself. And that’s what you want to happen.
I could go on with this for several hours, but it’s Thursday, my day out. See you later.
♥
Thursday is my day out, for getting my hair done, shopping at a supermarket, and meeting various appointments, if I’ve been lucky enough to arrange them for that day. So it is a good time for my driver and me to have lunch out too. It’s something to look forward to, often my only social event of the week. This is good, for the writing life is a lonely life, it is said. But not really lonely, if one’s day is filled with characters met in the writing. And that is exactly what happens for serious writers.
Two days ago I finished reading the latest suspense novel by a highly paid writer, one of the highest paid in the country, and found much bad writing. If you’re interested in writing, let me point out some of her errors. When she introduced her characters, she did not give the reader time to become accustomed to the name before she brought on the next character. The way to manage that problem is to repeat numerous times the name of the first character, so that he can be solidly set in our brains, and, most important, give us the opportunity to get inside the head of that character so that we know him well. If he is the hero or the villain we do not necessarily need to know at this point. In fact, the longer you can keep us guessing, the better. However, when we do learn what he is, all the foreshadowing needs to be in place, so that we can say, “Of course, why didn’t I see that earlier?”
Characters are the reason for the story. If we had no characters, we’d have no plot and their names should suit the roles they play. The writer mentioned above is not expert at this job by any means. Many of her characters’ names sound too similar, such as a secretary named Nan working for a man named Gannon. Even though this could happen in real life, you have to remember, what you are writing when you write fiction is not real life, but it should be realistic. That is, it’s something that could happen. This writer probably makes up her characters’ names herself. “What?” you might ask. “Don’t all writers do that?” Absolutely not. I don’t, for one. When I first meet my characters, they already have names and a whole family history. My job is just to get them to reveal the story they are living at the current period of their lives. Although I may have an idea for the ending of the story as I write, I do not know what is going to happen on the way to that end and those characters may change my mind. I know nothing until my characters know something.
In one short story of mine (which won first prize, statewide, by the way) the POV (point of view) was that of a man. Since he was telling a story not really about himself much, he had no reason to say, “My name is” whatever. His name had nothing to do with what he was experiencing. But when a plainclothes detective asked him his name, “Archie Madison” popped right out of his mouth. I did not know till that instant what his name was. Until then, there was no reason for me, or any reader, to know his name. That spontaneous reply furnished enough excitement that I had to wait a few minutes before continuing with the story. That is one example of the story’s writing itself. And that’s what you want to happen.
I could go on with this for several hours, but it’s Thursday, my day out. See you later.
♥
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
They Astonish Me
It’s amazing how my family gets around the globe. When I was young, I raveled a bit where the ordinary citizen just wasn’t going at the time. I rode trains for long trips, once from coast to coast, before the heyday of much passenger plane travel, and the trains often had numerous empty seats. Now that I’ve traveled both ways, I much prefer the train, unless time is of the essence. However, I haven’t wanted to go anywhere for years and years. I’m like Isaac Asimov, who wrote, “I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m already there.” That’s exactly the way I have felt for some time. But Asimov was a genius. If you check on his literary output, you’ll see it was prodigious. He must have felt that taking time out from his writing to rest a bit was a chance to do more writing. I feel that way too. But back to my family now.
Of my four children, all made it to Europe, along with my husband. Our only daughter spent many months, three or four trips, there, mainly in France, but also in several other countries. Then she spent quite a while in Japan, visited the Philippines, and Free China.
Our youngest son spent a month in Greece with his father, on a medical treatment trip, after a stopover in Rome. Our daughter, living in France at the time, visited them there.
Our two older sons have landed in several countries, sometimes on vacation and sometimes in connection with their work, and in other locations besides Europe. One works in a foreign country now and the other might as well, for Kentucky is a long trip from my location.
The next generation down is doing the same thing. Two grandchildren spent a year or so studying in England, followed up for one of them by a year working in South Korea. One granddaughter had a college semester studying and traveling in Europe, where her mother visited her. Currently one grandson is working in northern Africa, where his parents are located, from which point he and his wife and baby have visited Italy, including Vatican City and its art treasures. That wife, my granddaughter-in-law, with the baby, is today completing a visit to South Korea, en route to America. Another grandson, with his wife and three children, spent a year working in Canada. One grandson spent time for several summers visiting friends in Belgium, to sharpen his tennis stroke and refine his French. Today he is about to finish his second year at West Point, where he’s on the tennis team. Another grandson, or perhaps he’s a great grandson, has had a trip to Washington, D. C., while very young. Someone needs to remind me who this is.
Some of my grandchildren have not opted for such traveling, but they do get around in the States. There must also be indications in the third generation down that they may take to the skies and oceans too. There are so many in this dynasty that I head, that I surely must not be up to date on all the offspring.
But one interesting aspect to their traveling is that they talk about scenes and places, customs and history, that I’ve always been aware of, one way or another. As Asimov said, I’m already there.
♥
It’s amazing how my family gets around the globe. When I was young, I raveled a bit where the ordinary citizen just wasn’t going at the time. I rode trains for long trips, once from coast to coast, before the heyday of much passenger plane travel, and the trains often had numerous empty seats. Now that I’ve traveled both ways, I much prefer the train, unless time is of the essence. However, I haven’t wanted to go anywhere for years and years. I’m like Isaac Asimov, who wrote, “I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m already there.” That’s exactly the way I have felt for some time. But Asimov was a genius. If you check on his literary output, you’ll see it was prodigious. He must have felt that taking time out from his writing to rest a bit was a chance to do more writing. I feel that way too. But back to my family now.
Of my four children, all made it to Europe, along with my husband. Our only daughter spent many months, three or four trips, there, mainly in France, but also in several other countries. Then she spent quite a while in Japan, visited the Philippines, and Free China.
Our youngest son spent a month in Greece with his father, on a medical treatment trip, after a stopover in Rome. Our daughter, living in France at the time, visited them there.
Our two older sons have landed in several countries, sometimes on vacation and sometimes in connection with their work, and in other locations besides Europe. One works in a foreign country now and the other might as well, for Kentucky is a long trip from my location.
The next generation down is doing the same thing. Two grandchildren spent a year or so studying in England, followed up for one of them by a year working in South Korea. One granddaughter had a college semester studying and traveling in Europe, where her mother visited her. Currently one grandson is working in northern Africa, where his parents are located, from which point he and his wife and baby have visited Italy, including Vatican City and its art treasures. That wife, my granddaughter-in-law, with the baby, is today completing a visit to South Korea, en route to America. Another grandson, with his wife and three children, spent a year working in Canada. One grandson spent time for several summers visiting friends in Belgium, to sharpen his tennis stroke and refine his French. Today he is about to finish his second year at West Point, where he’s on the tennis team. Another grandson, or perhaps he’s a great grandson, has had a trip to Washington, D. C., while very young. Someone needs to remind me who this is.
Some of my grandchildren have not opted for such traveling, but they do get around in the States. There must also be indications in the third generation down that they may take to the skies and oceans too. There are so many in this dynasty that I head, that I surely must not be up to date on all the offspring.
But one interesting aspect to their traveling is that they talk about scenes and places, customs and history, that I’ve always been aware of, one way or another. As Asimov said, I’m already there.
♥
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
So Much All at Once
When I write in journals and diaries—and even now in blogs—it is easy not to refer to what’s going on in the country and in the world, I suppose because my imagination is so active for other details. But I want to write here, for posterity—if it survives—that currently the world is suffering from a different kind of disaster. Ash in the air from a volcano in Iceland has grounded thousands of flights a day all over the globe, and airports are full of people waiting. The last time I heard, a son of mine and his wife, who are grandparents of little Johnny, were trying to get home, but were stranded at Malta. Johnny’s parents need family with them at this time. I recall Mellow, in southern California, wanted some family with her when she went to her own baby shower, but had none. If she felt that need then, she must feel it now much more deeply. And we must never forget fathers feel too and are broken-hearted. I hope the grandparents are there soon.
What a loving family this one is. The nurses at the hospital must be amazed. Just think of all the terminally ill babies in hospitals, who have only one parent, and if they have siblings, they may not even go to the hospital; of those babies who have parents who don’t care and may only seldom visit the hospital; and those babies who are in the hospital because of parental abuse while their parent(s) are locked up in jail. Little Johnny’s siblings visited him and the whole family had the privilege of holding the baby in their arms. They will never forget this poignant experience. Their broken hearts will mend best when they show compassion for other people’s sufferings the rest of their lives, and I believe they will. God bless them all.
♥
When I write in journals and diaries—and even now in blogs—it is easy not to refer to what’s going on in the country and in the world, I suppose because my imagination is so active for other details. But I want to write here, for posterity—if it survives—that currently the world is suffering from a different kind of disaster. Ash in the air from a volcano in Iceland has grounded thousands of flights a day all over the globe, and airports are full of people waiting. The last time I heard, a son of mine and his wife, who are grandparents of little Johnny, were trying to get home, but were stranded at Malta. Johnny’s parents need family with them at this time. I recall Mellow, in southern California, wanted some family with her when she went to her own baby shower, but had none. If she felt that need then, she must feel it now much more deeply. And we must never forget fathers feel too and are broken-hearted. I hope the grandparents are there soon.
What a loving family this one is. The nurses at the hospital must be amazed. Just think of all the terminally ill babies in hospitals, who have only one parent, and if they have siblings, they may not even go to the hospital; of those babies who have parents who don’t care and may only seldom visit the hospital; and those babies who are in the hospital because of parental abuse while their parent(s) are locked up in jail. Little Johnny’s siblings visited him and the whole family had the privilege of holding the baby in their arms. They will never forget this poignant experience. Their broken hearts will mend best when they show compassion for other people’s sufferings the rest of their lives, and I believe they will. God bless them all.
♥
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Poetry Every Sunday
Last Sunday I decided to publish here one of my poems every Sunday and, if possible, give the date of its writing, and something of its reason for existing, if of interest. Today's poem was finished on October 7, 1998, on the occasion of my research on the Lindbergh baby kidnapping in 1936. The baby was two years old. If you are not into poetry, try reading the poem aloud twice for better understanding. All my poems are copyrighted.
BITTERSWEET ©
Lindsley Rinard
Many months afterwards,
As if she wouldn’t be
Always remembering,
A tiny white sock, still warm,
Tumbled out of the dryer
With the rest of the laundry,
Compounding his 'forever two'
Presence with his stark absence.
A mother never needs
Reminding, but if it comes,
May it be as warm and soft
As this.
♥
Last Sunday I decided to publish here one of my poems every Sunday and, if possible, give the date of its writing, and something of its reason for existing, if of interest. Today's poem was finished on October 7, 1998, on the occasion of my research on the Lindbergh baby kidnapping in 1936. The baby was two years old. If you are not into poetry, try reading the poem aloud twice for better understanding. All my poems are copyrighted.
BITTERSWEET ©
Lindsley Rinard
Many months afterwards,
As if she wouldn’t be
Always remembering,
A tiny white sock, still warm,
Tumbled out of the dryer
With the rest of the laundry,
Compounding his 'forever two'
Presence with his stark absence.
A mother never needs
Reminding, but if it comes,
May it be as warm and soft
As this.
♥
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Good and Bad News
About the only thing currently on my mind is our little Johnny’s condition. But there has been some improvement, I am happy to report. The white count is climbing. In the pictures on his mother’s blog, he looks so sweet in his little bed, with tubes and tape doing their jobs as he sleeps under sedation. But the long-term possible effects don’t sound good. The only answer seems to be God. Thank you, to all of you praying for Johnny. Please continue to do so.
♥
About the only thing currently on my mind is our little Johnny’s condition. But there has been some improvement, I am happy to report. The white count is climbing. In the pictures on his mother’s blog, he looks so sweet in his little bed, with tubes and tape doing their jobs as he sleeps under sedation. But the long-term possible effects don’t sound good. The only answer seems to be God. Thank you, to all of you praying for Johnny. Please continue to do so.
♥
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Just Blogging Along
Writing a blog has several attributes that make it easy. I can write about anything I wish to write about, real or fancied. The postings don’t have to be related to each other, but my series of being in New York the summer of 1945 got quite a few comments (mainly through email) and a few have asked for the rest of the story. I’ll get around to that soon. Then, the blog can be of varying lengths. Mine looks longer than some other blogs in the family, but I use a larger font (Ariel is bigger than most, you know) and I’m allowed such a narrow width for mine. I don’t control that. But one of the best things about mine is that the deep blue background is easy on the eyes. I hope my readers appreciate that.
One day, somehow I got onto a blog by someone named Heather and I can’t find it again. If that Heather is reading this, I wish she would send me her blog address, for I want to follow it. Or any of you who know this Heather’s address. And guess what. The background of it was deep blue! Lovely.
So grandson Robert has time on his hands in Tripoli while his wife and baby are in South Korea for a few days, visiting her sister. Hey, Robby, it’s a good time to make some notes for writing that novel when you’re back in the States. What genre of novel do you want to write? Adventure, western, sci fi, horror, ghost, romance, mystery, suspense? I’m 20,000 words into my second suspense novel, about one-fourth finished. I revise as I go along, so that when I finish the so-called first draft, it’s done. That’s not the method many writers use, but many others do. One has to find his own method.
Another easy thing about blogging is that, if one has kept diaries all his life, or even for just a short period, he might dig into those and come up with a ready-made composition he can insert into the blog. Remember, Sarah Palin used her diaries when she wrote her Going Rogue. (Good book, too.) These days you can keep a diary online and just copy and paste. But when you blog, write a novel, and do email, there’s not much time for diary entries. But the blog can serve as a diary, if you make it interesting. You also need to remember, if you depend on the computer for all your writing, your penmanship will eventually go to the dogs. I wonder if any nitwits out there have tried to turn that word into “penwomanship.” Hilarious!
Another good use of blogging is that it keeps one in practice, if one is interested in serious writing “someday.” If the interest is there, however, one should NEVER let that practice substitute for the main writing one dreams of doing.
But perhaps the very best use of blogs is seeing the new babies born into the family (at a geographic distance) shortly after birth, and afterwards whenever the busy mother has time to write and show more pictures. I look forward to these.
After I wrote this blog, I learned the newest baby in our family, born last Sunday, is back in the hospital, fighting for his life in California. He has meningitis, but I haven’t heard what kind. Even if you do not know us, please pray for our little ♥Johnny♥.
♥
Writing a blog has several attributes that make it easy. I can write about anything I wish to write about, real or fancied. The postings don’t have to be related to each other, but my series of being in New York the summer of 1945 got quite a few comments (mainly through email) and a few have asked for the rest of the story. I’ll get around to that soon. Then, the blog can be of varying lengths. Mine looks longer than some other blogs in the family, but I use a larger font (Ariel is bigger than most, you know) and I’m allowed such a narrow width for mine. I don’t control that. But one of the best things about mine is that the deep blue background is easy on the eyes. I hope my readers appreciate that.
One day, somehow I got onto a blog by someone named Heather and I can’t find it again. If that Heather is reading this, I wish she would send me her blog address, for I want to follow it. Or any of you who know this Heather’s address. And guess what. The background of it was deep blue! Lovely.
So grandson Robert has time on his hands in Tripoli while his wife and baby are in South Korea for a few days, visiting her sister. Hey, Robby, it’s a good time to make some notes for writing that novel when you’re back in the States. What genre of novel do you want to write? Adventure, western, sci fi, horror, ghost, romance, mystery, suspense? I’m 20,000 words into my second suspense novel, about one-fourth finished. I revise as I go along, so that when I finish the so-called first draft, it’s done. That’s not the method many writers use, but many others do. One has to find his own method.
Another easy thing about blogging is that, if one has kept diaries all his life, or even for just a short period, he might dig into those and come up with a ready-made composition he can insert into the blog. Remember, Sarah Palin used her diaries when she wrote her Going Rogue. (Good book, too.) These days you can keep a diary online and just copy and paste. But when you blog, write a novel, and do email, there’s not much time for diary entries. But the blog can serve as a diary, if you make it interesting. You also need to remember, if you depend on the computer for all your writing, your penmanship will eventually go to the dogs. I wonder if any nitwits out there have tried to turn that word into “penwomanship.” Hilarious!
Another good use of blogging is that it keeps one in practice, if one is interested in serious writing “someday.” If the interest is there, however, one should NEVER let that practice substitute for the main writing one dreams of doing.
But perhaps the very best use of blogs is seeing the new babies born into the family (at a geographic distance) shortly after birth, and afterwards whenever the busy mother has time to write and show more pictures. I look forward to these.
After I wrote this blog, I learned the newest baby in our family, born last Sunday, is back in the hospital, fighting for his life in California. He has meningitis, but I haven’t heard what kind. Even if you do not know us, please pray for our little ♥Johnny♥.
♥
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
It Wasn’t Even April Fool’s Day
Recently two men arrived at my house separately but at the same time. I was expecting two persons, but one was an hour late. The doorbell rang. I answered. The guy at the door said he was the furnace man. The second man stood back a ways and I thought they were together, though usually only one man cleans the furnace.
I said, “Well, I’ll open the garage door for you.”
They both said, “It’s already open.”
“What? I’d better see if my car is still there.” I closed the front door and locked it, as always, then went through the laundry room to the garage. When I looked and saw no car parked there, I said something like, “Oh, my! But go ahead with your work.”
The furnace man went over to the furnace and began his job. The other man stood there beside me. Finally he said, “I’m the nurse here to check your Pro Time,” or something like that.
“Oh, a male nurse! Well, you’ll have to come through the laundry room, for the front door is locked.” I led the way.
He said, “But your car.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. But I just can’t get over that garage door’s being open. All night, I suppose.” I knew the cleaning lady had not left it open when she drove away the late afternoon before. And I knew I had not been in the garage that morning.
The nurse finally decided to come inside, telling me that sometimes other garage openers can open another’s garage as a car drives by. I told him yes, I’d heard of that. This little house has such good insulation that from inside it, I cannot hear the garage door’s being opened or closed. When the nurse took my blood pressure, he was amazed at its perfection. I wasn’t even rattled enough over a stolen car to make it soar!
Finally, I had to tell him, “I don’t have a car. I quit driving nearly three years ago. And there was nothing in that garage anyone would want. Now how is your blood pressure?”
♥
Recently two men arrived at my house separately but at the same time. I was expecting two persons, but one was an hour late. The doorbell rang. I answered. The guy at the door said he was the furnace man. The second man stood back a ways and I thought they were together, though usually only one man cleans the furnace.
I said, “Well, I’ll open the garage door for you.”
They both said, “It’s already open.”
“What? I’d better see if my car is still there.” I closed the front door and locked it, as always, then went through the laundry room to the garage. When I looked and saw no car parked there, I said something like, “Oh, my! But go ahead with your work.”
The furnace man went over to the furnace and began his job. The other man stood there beside me. Finally he said, “I’m the nurse here to check your Pro Time,” or something like that.
“Oh, a male nurse! Well, you’ll have to come through the laundry room, for the front door is locked.” I led the way.
He said, “But your car.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. But I just can’t get over that garage door’s being open. All night, I suppose.” I knew the cleaning lady had not left it open when she drove away the late afternoon before. And I knew I had not been in the garage that morning.
The nurse finally decided to come inside, telling me that sometimes other garage openers can open another’s garage as a car drives by. I told him yes, I’d heard of that. This little house has such good insulation that from inside it, I cannot hear the garage door’s being opened or closed. When the nurse took my blood pressure, he was amazed at its perfection. I wasn’t even rattled enough over a stolen car to make it soar!
Finally, I had to tell him, “I don’t have a car. I quit driving nearly three years ago. And there was nothing in that garage anyone would want. Now how is your blood pressure?”
♥
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Inside the Supreme Court
Brian Lamb’s interview with retiring U. S. Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens offered a mini education. It showed his three big offices, one for himself, one for his secretary and assistant secretary, and one for law clerks. Of course, each suite of offices must have a restroom just for the Justice, and somewhere in the building must be a kitchen and a dining room. His office also had a sofa on which he could stretch out if he needed to. However, this 90-year-old Justice looked to be in the pink of health, possibly passing for only 70 years of age. He plays tennis two or three times a week, and when in Florida, two weeks out of every month, he swims every day. He also does his work while in Florida, via his computer.
We saw the conference room where the justices gather to discuss the cases they hear. They speak in order of seniority after the Chief Justice speaks first. Currently Justice Stevens is second. I suppose the discussions open with each one reading their legal opinions of the case pending. It would be interesting to know if any of them change their minds while listening to the others.
Justice Stevens’s desk had plenty of items on it, rather like pamphlets or books, with his computer to the side, but it looked neat, with no loose white paper showing. Mine is more like Einstein’s, in the paper department, but he had no computer.
I’ve always thought an empty desktop meant an empty brain. Justice Stevens's brain isn't empty, even if many disagree with its output.
♥
Brian Lamb’s interview with retiring U. S. Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens offered a mini education. It showed his three big offices, one for himself, one for his secretary and assistant secretary, and one for law clerks. Of course, each suite of offices must have a restroom just for the Justice, and somewhere in the building must be a kitchen and a dining room. His office also had a sofa on which he could stretch out if he needed to. However, this 90-year-old Justice looked to be in the pink of health, possibly passing for only 70 years of age. He plays tennis two or three times a week, and when in Florida, two weeks out of every month, he swims every day. He also does his work while in Florida, via his computer.
We saw the conference room where the justices gather to discuss the cases they hear. They speak in order of seniority after the Chief Justice speaks first. Currently Justice Stevens is second. I suppose the discussions open with each one reading their legal opinions of the case pending. It would be interesting to know if any of them change their minds while listening to the others.
Justice Stevens’s desk had plenty of items on it, rather like pamphlets or books, with his computer to the side, but it looked neat, with no loose white paper showing. Mine is more like Einstein’s, in the paper department, but he had no computer.
I’ve always thought an empty desktop meant an empty brain. Justice Stevens's brain isn't empty, even if many disagree with its output.
♥
Monday, April 12, 2010
Press Sense or Lack of It
Last Saturday I spent the latter part of the evening with C-SPAN, with my favorite interviewer, Brian Lamb I think his name is, whose subjects were Bill Press and then retiring United States Supreme Court Justice Stevens. At first, I didn’t realize who Bill Press was, for I never watch CNN. It was an old program, first aired several years ago. He was entertaining in telling about his life and the source of the word “spin” [had a book out with “Spin” in the title] and about becoming a panelist on Firing Line on CNN, which we watched many years ago but not with him as a participant.
He said he was the first member of his family who went to college. Then he was in seminary where he studied for the Catholic priesthood. When he learned he would end up as a high school teacher, he left the seminary. He wanted something better than school teaching, that is, he wanted his own outreach to spread farther afield than to youths in a classroom. When he expressed his summation that a benevolent God would not send an airplane crashing into the twin towers in New York, I tuned him out, checking the minutes till the next interview. It’s amazing that he would attend seminary and not learn about the free-moral agency that is within all of us. And that while God has ultimate power, the devil is on the earth doing much damage. God created us with brains, conscience and will so that we could conduct our lives, in all parts of the world, to avoid such things as the tragedy of 9/11/01. God didn’t fail us. We failed Him.
♥
Last Saturday I spent the latter part of the evening with C-SPAN, with my favorite interviewer, Brian Lamb I think his name is, whose subjects were Bill Press and then retiring United States Supreme Court Justice Stevens. At first, I didn’t realize who Bill Press was, for I never watch CNN. It was an old program, first aired several years ago. He was entertaining in telling about his life and the source of the word “spin” [had a book out with “Spin” in the title] and about becoming a panelist on Firing Line on CNN, which we watched many years ago but not with him as a participant.
He said he was the first member of his family who went to college. Then he was in seminary where he studied for the Catholic priesthood. When he learned he would end up as a high school teacher, he left the seminary. He wanted something better than school teaching, that is, he wanted his own outreach to spread farther afield than to youths in a classroom. When he expressed his summation that a benevolent God would not send an airplane crashing into the twin towers in New York, I tuned him out, checking the minutes till the next interview. It’s amazing that he would attend seminary and not learn about the free-moral agency that is within all of us. And that while God has ultimate power, the devil is on the earth doing much damage. God created us with brains, conscience and will so that we could conduct our lives, in all parts of the world, to avoid such things as the tragedy of 9/11/01. God didn’t fail us. We failed Him.
♥
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
In the Know
Over the years I have heard a few women say they and their husbands tell each other everything, but I have never heard any husbands make such a claim. If husbands disagree with this, I say the men are more nearly correct. Many wives probably do tell their husbands everything (at the risk of annoying their spouses) more than husbands tell their wives, and think their husbands are going 50/50 with them. To use a cliché, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out this isn’t true, but takes someone who knows a little about people. Just take a minute and think it through. Men don’t tell their wives everything even if they say they do.
♥
Over the years I have heard a few women say they and their husbands tell each other everything, but I have never heard any husbands make such a claim. If husbands disagree with this, I say the men are more nearly correct. Many wives probably do tell their husbands everything (at the risk of annoying their spouses) more than husbands tell their wives, and think their husbands are going 50/50 with them. To use a cliché, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out this isn’t true, but takes someone who knows a little about people. Just take a minute and think it through. Men don’t tell their wives everything even if they say they do.
♥
Friday, April 9, 2010
Hanging Out
One day, when I called for a plumber to come to the house, I asked for my favorite, Bill Roberts, only to learn he had retired. The man who did come to the house, was a totally different sort of person, one I didn’t like much. I asked him what Bill was doing these days, now that he had retired. This guy said, “Just hanging out, I reckon.”
What a shock. Bill had more on the ball than to spend his time “hanging out.” Isn’t that what teenagers do at malls, game places, and street corners in big cities?
The shock was really that this man’s idea of retirement was probably one of just hanging out. I wonder how many tens or hundreds of thousands in this country think that’s all they are fit for when they retire.
♥
One day, when I called for a plumber to come to the house, I asked for my favorite, Bill Roberts, only to learn he had retired. The man who did come to the house, was a totally different sort of person, one I didn’t like much. I asked him what Bill was doing these days, now that he had retired. This guy said, “Just hanging out, I reckon.”
What a shock. Bill had more on the ball than to spend his time “hanging out.” Isn’t that what teenagers do at malls, game places, and street corners in big cities?
The shock was really that this man’s idea of retirement was probably one of just hanging out. I wonder how many tens or hundreds of thousands in this country think that’s all they are fit for when they retire.
♥
Thursday, April 8, 2010
What’s in a Word
Back to ground zero now, whatever that means exactly. I just looked it up. It basically refers to the spot of a nuclear destruction. We’ve heard the term used to refer to the place where the twin towers once stood in New York City. Not a nuclear blast there, but with perhaps equal devastation only in a smaller area. But another meaning is, as one can guess, square one. That’s how it’s used here.
Interesting about phrases. In the film of P. D. James’s The Murder Room, Dalgliesh’s boss calls the detective a dark horse. Dalgliesh asks, “What do people really mean by that?” While my abridged Webster doesn’t explain it, my thesaurus of phrases lists 23 synonyms for it, among them also ran, poor prospect, underdog. How wrong that boss is! Then a little flattery gets him nowhere. Dalgliesh doesn’t want the promotion; he just wants to continue as he is, solving individual cases. We readers and viewers are the winners in that debate.
Such ways in which we change or add to the language keeps English in the category of a living language. Because we do not alter the Latin language in any way today, though we do use it, Latin is called a dead language. We just couldn’t do without this corpse.
♥
Back to ground zero now, whatever that means exactly. I just looked it up. It basically refers to the spot of a nuclear destruction. We’ve heard the term used to refer to the place where the twin towers once stood in New York City. Not a nuclear blast there, but with perhaps equal devastation only in a smaller area. But another meaning is, as one can guess, square one. That’s how it’s used here.
Interesting about phrases. In the film of P. D. James’s The Murder Room, Dalgliesh’s boss calls the detective a dark horse. Dalgliesh asks, “What do people really mean by that?” While my abridged Webster doesn’t explain it, my thesaurus of phrases lists 23 synonyms for it, among them also ran, poor prospect, underdog. How wrong that boss is! Then a little flattery gets him nowhere. Dalgliesh doesn’t want the promotion; he just wants to continue as he is, solving individual cases. We readers and viewers are the winners in that debate.
Such ways in which we change or add to the language keeps English in the category of a living language. Because we do not alter the Latin language in any way today, though we do use it, Latin is called a dead language. We just couldn’t do without this corpse.
♥
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Goodbye, New York
Time was up for our being in New York. We had seen much of the interesting city, some of it truly important, such as the event of an Army plane crashing into the Empire State Building—an accident, not an intention—and the end of World War II. We had even marched in Regimental Review before a confab starting the United Nations, with Eleanor Roosevelt among them. But we five, the last little group I was a part of, never got to locate any of our own churches there. Now we were on our way to start working the jobs we’d been trained for. But I promised I’d tell you about only that summer in New York. So you’ll not get the rest of the story, still most interesting but not so long a tale, unless there is popular demand. I have no idea how many out there are reading this [it is listed under my name on the Net, how or by whom I have no idea], but if any of you want the rest of the story, just drop me the word. I’ll give you a few days.
Our train pulled out of Grand Central Station and we headed west. We had two Pullman cars, with a few of us recent graduates of (S) School in charge of them, and one Chief Petty Officer over us. The Waves we were supervising were just out of Boot, and perhaps had no particular choice of what they wanted to work at. Usually those who could not make up their minds were assigned Hospital Corps. See you later.
♥
Time was up for our being in New York. We had seen much of the interesting city, some of it truly important, such as the event of an Army plane crashing into the Empire State Building—an accident, not an intention—and the end of World War II. We had even marched in Regimental Review before a confab starting the United Nations, with Eleanor Roosevelt among them. But we five, the last little group I was a part of, never got to locate any of our own churches there. Now we were on our way to start working the jobs we’d been trained for. But I promised I’d tell you about only that summer in New York. So you’ll not get the rest of the story, still most interesting but not so long a tale, unless there is popular demand. I have no idea how many out there are reading this [it is listed under my name on the Net, how or by whom I have no idea], but if any of you want the rest of the story, just drop me the word. I’ll give you a few days.
Our train pulled out of Grand Central Station and we headed west. We had two Pullman cars, with a few of us recent graduates of (S) School in charge of them, and one Chief Petty Officer over us. The Waves we were supervising were just out of Boot, and perhaps had no particular choice of what they wanted to work at. Usually those who could not make up their minds were assigned Hospital Corps. See you later.
♥
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
More Liberties in New York
Today I cannot remember on which New York liberty we covered certain events and sights, but I do recall the events themselves. One of the earliest was the boat trip around Manhattan Island, taking an hour, I think, while we heard about the sights we could see from the boat. When we’d bought our tickets, we met the first crude, rude, cranky New Yorker, perhaps the only one in the city. We met no others like that.
One event was an interesting evening at Toffinetti’s on Times Square. I don’t know if the restaurant still exists, but at that time it flourished. We stepped into the place, got into the fast-moving line, and saw two levels. A set of stairs—an escalator, I think—led to the lower dining room into which we had a wide view. Just a few steps led to the upper level. There were three of us, and if my memory serves me right, a man stood at the top of the escalator steps and held up three fingers as a signal to someone at the bottom of the escalator, who then went to locate a place for three. When he returned and we descended, he asked if we would mind being seated in a booth with another diner. We did not mind. This was New York. We’d got used to sharing a taxi with strangers, so why not a booth? The other person was a good-looking, family-type man, forty-to-fifty, but without his family. We all said hello but waited for him to speak to us, before we said anything to him. He did speak, right away. He asked such questions as where we were from and where we were stationed. Someone out there is going to think this darling man paid for our dinners. No, he did not. He finished before we did and excused himself. We were glad we didn’t have to turn him down on paying for our meals. Why should anyone expect him to? We had our fifteen cents and more. And he might have been short of money. It can happen to the best of us.
One day we dropped in at the New York Stock Exchange to sit and watch the ticker tape awhile, just as if we had stock to watch. That’s what the other drop-ins did, so we followed their routine. They showed no emotion over losses or gains, so we were good little copycats about ours.
At Radio City Music Hall in Rockefeller Center we saw the whole program, which took a while. It offered a hit movie, acrobats, music, and the world famous Rockettes and repeated itself around the clock, yes, 24 hours of it. During the Christmas season, the tall Rockettes have performed five shows a day, seven days a week, for 77 years, with over two million viewers per year. Perhaps their best-known routine is an eye-high leg kick in perfect unison in a chorus line, which they include at the end of every performance. This was really something to see.
Today a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters brought a change in tempo, but I don’t recall it as an art museum then. I won’t go into detail here, but you can read about The Cloisters on the Internet. Then we visited the MMA itself. Besides the wonderful exhibits on display there, the guards following us from room to room intrigued us. Did we look like thieves or vandals in our smart navy blues and white gloves? Those silent, older men must have been just flirting with us.
Some of you might be wondering if we Waves ever had any dates while in New York. Not during boot training, for there was no time for dating and no way to meet guys. Our little trio didn’t think just meeting a cute guy on the street—or on the stairs of the Statue of Liberty—was a good enough basis for accepting a date in two minutes’ time. In Specialist School, we did have a few dates, but we had agreed earlier that at least three of us would always stay together. And we did meet three sailors in their own group. We had dinner with them (none of us drank), conversed, and did a bit of walking, looking at various places of interest, and the date was over. We had a good time and that was it. I don’t remember any of their names.
Of course, we took a walk in Central Park, even saw a bit of Harlem, and rode some vehicle under the Hudson River, a subway perhaps. But it was always good to get back to barracks, where we crashed. To be continued.
♥
Today I cannot remember on which New York liberty we covered certain events and sights, but I do recall the events themselves. One of the earliest was the boat trip around Manhattan Island, taking an hour, I think, while we heard about the sights we could see from the boat. When we’d bought our tickets, we met the first crude, rude, cranky New Yorker, perhaps the only one in the city. We met no others like that.
One event was an interesting evening at Toffinetti’s on Times Square. I don’t know if the restaurant still exists, but at that time it flourished. We stepped into the place, got into the fast-moving line, and saw two levels. A set of stairs—an escalator, I think—led to the lower dining room into which we had a wide view. Just a few steps led to the upper level. There were three of us, and if my memory serves me right, a man stood at the top of the escalator steps and held up three fingers as a signal to someone at the bottom of the escalator, who then went to locate a place for three. When he returned and we descended, he asked if we would mind being seated in a booth with another diner. We did not mind. This was New York. We’d got used to sharing a taxi with strangers, so why not a booth? The other person was a good-looking, family-type man, forty-to-fifty, but without his family. We all said hello but waited for him to speak to us, before we said anything to him. He did speak, right away. He asked such questions as where we were from and where we were stationed. Someone out there is going to think this darling man paid for our dinners. No, he did not. He finished before we did and excused himself. We were glad we didn’t have to turn him down on paying for our meals. Why should anyone expect him to? We had our fifteen cents and more. And he might have been short of money. It can happen to the best of us.
One day we dropped in at the New York Stock Exchange to sit and watch the ticker tape awhile, just as if we had stock to watch. That’s what the other drop-ins did, so we followed their routine. They showed no emotion over losses or gains, so we were good little copycats about ours.
At Radio City Music Hall in Rockefeller Center we saw the whole program, which took a while. It offered a hit movie, acrobats, music, and the world famous Rockettes and repeated itself around the clock, yes, 24 hours of it. During the Christmas season, the tall Rockettes have performed five shows a day, seven days a week, for 77 years, with over two million viewers per year. Perhaps their best-known routine is an eye-high leg kick in perfect unison in a chorus line, which they include at the end of every performance. This was really something to see.
Today a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters brought a change in tempo, but I don’t recall it as an art museum then. I won’t go into detail here, but you can read about The Cloisters on the Internet. Then we visited the MMA itself. Besides the wonderful exhibits on display there, the guards following us from room to room intrigued us. Did we look like thieves or vandals in our smart navy blues and white gloves? Those silent, older men must have been just flirting with us.
Some of you might be wondering if we Waves ever had any dates while in New York. Not during boot training, for there was no time for dating and no way to meet guys. Our little trio didn’t think just meeting a cute guy on the street—or on the stairs of the Statue of Liberty—was a good enough basis for accepting a date in two minutes’ time. In Specialist School, we did have a few dates, but we had agreed earlier that at least three of us would always stay together. And we did meet three sailors in their own group. We had dinner with them (none of us drank), conversed, and did a bit of walking, looking at various places of interest, and the date was over. We had a good time and that was it. I don’t remember any of their names.
Of course, we took a walk in Central Park, even saw a bit of Harlem, and rode some vehicle under the Hudson River, a subway perhaps. But it was always good to get back to barracks, where we crashed. To be continued.
♥
Monday, April 5, 2010
Testing
One of the classes during Specialist training was learning to thread a movie projector. About a dozen of us gathered around the machine to watch the Lieutenant demonstrate the procedure. Because I was a people person and not a machine person, I didn’t give my whole attention to the demonstration, but studied the girls and the officer as they acted out their machine role. Then suddenly the Lieutenant had finished and asked me to load the machine. I’d been standing exactly beside the beast with a direct view of its insides, while some others saw it only at an angle. Shock of all shocks, I threaded it perfectly and unhesitatingly on one try. That was not ability; that was luck. Never in my life afterwards did I need to feed a movie projector with a reel, for there was always someone around, usually a male, who was only too happy to do so for me, such as a student in the classroom.
Many times in the years following, and based on other events that happened, I have come to the conclusion that an X, or some similar notation, might have appeared beside my name on any list—because I had opted for OCS. Perhaps I was tested in every thing I did to prove or disprove I was officer material. One oral test seemed strikingly telling. The only question that I remember went like this: “Let’s pretend you are an officer, say, a Lieutenant, Junior Grade. The Waves you are responsible for are officers superior to you in rank. If it’s a few minutes after curfew time, yet a Captain is still out on the front steps with her date, would you have what it takes to tell her to come inside?” This needed a few seconds of thinking before I replied, even while I knew an answer should come pronto from a person of leadership. I knew I could tell the Captain to come inside, but was it the sensible thing to do, such as embarrass a superior officer and make enemies of my associates? I took another second to think. Then I had it. I could put on an act in several ways. I could even step outside as if I didn’t know the couple was there, and say, “Oh, you’re back, Captain! Just in time, if you hurry.” Or have another officer in the barracks come to my office, asking for her, at which point I would simply call her in. I must have answered the question suitably, for I was promoted fast.
[In retrospect, I realized many WAVE officers, if not most, would soon be demobilized. Word could have come down, even from President Truman, to integrate a new group of officers in short order. All of this could be carried out without the participants’ awareness of the soon-to-be-reckoned-with atomic bomb.]
At the end of Specialist School, we all became Seaman, First Class, and got our choices of new location. Mine was California. But in no time at all, in just a few weeks, in fact, I became a Petty Officer, Third Class, and now had my first chevron on my sleeve. Altogether, I was in the WAVES only fourteen months and was discharged as a Petty Officer, Second Class. Unless ratings are different today, that’s the same as Staff Sergeant in the Army, which takes years for the men to attain. But it was different for the men in service—there had always been men in the service—but WAVES was something new. My brother served four years in the Army, reaching the level of Corporal. You see? My promotions came too fast. There had to be a reason. If I stayed in the service, I could have become an officer without OCS. But the WAVES was an emergency branch of the Navy and the emergency was over. I needed to get back to college.
When I was discharged in San Francisco, I signed up for the Reserves. But this group was not fully organized at that time and we did nothing. After a few more months, it was organized and we had a new option, either to sign up again or to drop out. I dropped out. When I resumed college, in Idaho, I discovered my naval training was worth 17 college credits, a full semester’s worth, in Physical Education, Health, and Applied Sociology.
But there is more to write about my summer of 1945 in New York. To be continued.
♥
One of the classes during Specialist training was learning to thread a movie projector. About a dozen of us gathered around the machine to watch the Lieutenant demonstrate the procedure. Because I was a people person and not a machine person, I didn’t give my whole attention to the demonstration, but studied the girls and the officer as they acted out their machine role. Then suddenly the Lieutenant had finished and asked me to load the machine. I’d been standing exactly beside the beast with a direct view of its insides, while some others saw it only at an angle. Shock of all shocks, I threaded it perfectly and unhesitatingly on one try. That was not ability; that was luck. Never in my life afterwards did I need to feed a movie projector with a reel, for there was always someone around, usually a male, who was only too happy to do so for me, such as a student in the classroom.
Many times in the years following, and based on other events that happened, I have come to the conclusion that an X, or some similar notation, might have appeared beside my name on any list—because I had opted for OCS. Perhaps I was tested in every thing I did to prove or disprove I was officer material. One oral test seemed strikingly telling. The only question that I remember went like this: “Let’s pretend you are an officer, say, a Lieutenant, Junior Grade. The Waves you are responsible for are officers superior to you in rank. If it’s a few minutes after curfew time, yet a Captain is still out on the front steps with her date, would you have what it takes to tell her to come inside?” This needed a few seconds of thinking before I replied, even while I knew an answer should come pronto from a person of leadership. I knew I could tell the Captain to come inside, but was it the sensible thing to do, such as embarrass a superior officer and make enemies of my associates? I took another second to think. Then I had it. I could put on an act in several ways. I could even step outside as if I didn’t know the couple was there, and say, “Oh, you’re back, Captain! Just in time, if you hurry.” Or have another officer in the barracks come to my office, asking for her, at which point I would simply call her in. I must have answered the question suitably, for I was promoted fast.
[In retrospect, I realized many WAVE officers, if not most, would soon be demobilized. Word could have come down, even from President Truman, to integrate a new group of officers in short order. All of this could be carried out without the participants’ awareness of the soon-to-be-reckoned-with atomic bomb.]
At the end of Specialist School, we all became Seaman, First Class, and got our choices of new location. Mine was California. But in no time at all, in just a few weeks, in fact, I became a Petty Officer, Third Class, and now had my first chevron on my sleeve. Altogether, I was in the WAVES only fourteen months and was discharged as a Petty Officer, Second Class. Unless ratings are different today, that’s the same as Staff Sergeant in the Army, which takes years for the men to attain. But it was different for the men in service—there had always been men in the service—but WAVES was something new. My brother served four years in the Army, reaching the level of Corporal. You see? My promotions came too fast. There had to be a reason. If I stayed in the service, I could have become an officer without OCS. But the WAVES was an emergency branch of the Navy and the emergency was over. I needed to get back to college.
When I was discharged in San Francisco, I signed up for the Reserves. But this group was not fully organized at that time and we did nothing. After a few more months, it was organized and we had a new option, either to sign up again or to drop out. I dropped out. When I resumed college, in Idaho, I discovered my naval training was worth 17 college credits, a full semester’s worth, in Physical Education, Health, and Applied Sociology.
But there is more to write about my summer of 1945 in New York. To be continued.
♥
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Italian Block Party
One block of the street was closed off. Decorations were everywhere, not just flags, but all sorts of items. With music in the background, conversation and joy filled the air. These people surely saw each other every day, according to movies about them, but tonight they talked as if they hadn’t seen each other for a long time. I don’t know if this was what was called Little Italy or not, but they were a bunch of truly patriotic Italian Americans and this was their own Times Square. Perhaps they had fled from Mussolini, as numerous people had fled from Hitler. But I felt they were not that new to America. They could have been in New York for decades, even born in America, some of them. We didn’t hear much of the Italian language tonight; we heard English. What was astounding about them was that they treated us as if we three had won the war, when we were merely in training to help win it. They offered us food from the bounteous table spread under a streetlight and there must have been wine, but no one seemed intoxicated. But we did not eat or drink. We’d had dinner with only a few minutes to get to barracks before midnight. However, we did need a restroom. One nice lady took us into her home for that purpose. She was a bit nervous, as if her house might not be presentable enough, but what we saw of it was charming and full of family memorabilia.
Soon after that, with hugs all around again, we headed on to barracks, arriving just before midnight, carrying our high-heeled pumps in our hands the minute we stepped inside the building. They really were glass slippers, as if they could make heroes of us, if not princesses. To be continued.
♥
One block of the street was closed off. Decorations were everywhere, not just flags, but all sorts of items. With music in the background, conversation and joy filled the air. These people surely saw each other every day, according to movies about them, but tonight they talked as if they hadn’t seen each other for a long time. I don’t know if this was what was called Little Italy or not, but they were a bunch of truly patriotic Italian Americans and this was their own Times Square. Perhaps they had fled from Mussolini, as numerous people had fled from Hitler. But I felt they were not that new to America. They could have been in New York for decades, even born in America, some of them. We didn’t hear much of the Italian language tonight; we heard English. What was astounding about them was that they treated us as if we three had won the war, when we were merely in training to help win it. They offered us food from the bounteous table spread under a streetlight and there must have been wine, but no one seemed intoxicated. But we did not eat or drink. We’d had dinner with only a few minutes to get to barracks before midnight. However, we did need a restroom. One nice lady took us into her home for that purpose. She was a bit nervous, as if her house might not be presentable enough, but what we saw of it was charming and full of family memorabilia.
Soon after that, with hugs all around again, we headed on to barracks, arriving just before midnight, carrying our high-heeled pumps in our hands the minute we stepped inside the building. They really were glass slippers, as if they could make heroes of us, if not princesses. To be continued.
♥
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Time’s Up
Time flew and boot training was over after eight weeks. We garnered promotions from Apprentice Seaman to Seaman, Second Class, and sewed a badge with two little white stripes on the upper sleeves of our blues, and dark blue stripes on our gray seersucker haute couture. We also received white crowns that snapped into our dark blue bonnets and we now could wear the garrison cap, the type that folds flat, the type we always called “overseas cap,” without a brim. We made haste in purchasing those.
Of course, everything we did, every assignment to a new post, etc., was COG—at the convenience of the government—but at this point in history, the situation was a little different from the usual. President Truman and a few scientists had a secret they didn’t tell anyone else about. Therefore, we were allowed to state our preferences as to what job in the Navy we wanted and the location where we’d like to perform it. Again, in alphabetical order, we lined up. The Lieutenant asked me about my choices.
“I’d like a try at Officers Candidate School, Lieutenant,” I said.
She said, “OCS closed down several months ago, before you arrived at Hunter.”
Really! I wondered why. The war could go on forever. But there went my dream.
“Well, what’s the next best thing?” I asked.
“Personnel work.”
“I’ll take it, Lieutenant.”
“You’ve got it, Lindsley. Go to room 14.” Or whatever the room number was.
Another nice apartment building, but much smaller, became my home for the next four weeks. I was in Specialist (S) School with that (S) standing for “Supervisor.” What I learned to supervise were enlisted personnel, whether on the parade ground, in barracks, in class, traveling on trains, or anywhere else. (Other situations did turn up.) I had new friends. This time, we were a group of five for celebrating liberty and we’d got a pay raise. My best friend in this group was Paula Engmark. She might have applied for OCS too, but I never thought to ask. She was officer material. The other three girls just held on to us. All were really nice people.
Now let me backtrack a bit and talk about the war. On May 8, 1945, during the month I waited in Nashville for my orders to travel to New York, the Big Apple celebrated V-E Day (Victory in Europe). Although I was not there to see it, I can easily imagine it, for I was there on V-J Day (Victory in Japan) on August 14, 1945. We had several days of liberty and gathered on Times Square with thousands of others, to yell, dance, sing, shout, cry, laugh, wave little flags, and get hugged by servicemen, even by a few civilians. I hate to be in crowds but this one was different. World War II was over! Confetti, serpentine and even rolls of toilet tissue went fluttering down from several high and low stories into the streets. Our hats, hair, and shoulders became polka-dotted and we didn’t brush them off. It was a wonderful and tiring day and we headed back to barracks. But after we got off the El, we ran into an Italian Block party. To be continued.
♥
Time flew and boot training was over after eight weeks. We garnered promotions from Apprentice Seaman to Seaman, Second Class, and sewed a badge with two little white stripes on the upper sleeves of our blues, and dark blue stripes on our gray seersucker haute couture. We also received white crowns that snapped into our dark blue bonnets and we now could wear the garrison cap, the type that folds flat, the type we always called “overseas cap,” without a brim. We made haste in purchasing those.
Of course, everything we did, every assignment to a new post, etc., was COG—at the convenience of the government—but at this point in history, the situation was a little different from the usual. President Truman and a few scientists had a secret they didn’t tell anyone else about. Therefore, we were allowed to state our preferences as to what job in the Navy we wanted and the location where we’d like to perform it. Again, in alphabetical order, we lined up. The Lieutenant asked me about my choices.
“I’d like a try at Officers Candidate School, Lieutenant,” I said.
She said, “OCS closed down several months ago, before you arrived at Hunter.”
Really! I wondered why. The war could go on forever. But there went my dream.
“Well, what’s the next best thing?” I asked.
“Personnel work.”
“I’ll take it, Lieutenant.”
“You’ve got it, Lindsley. Go to room 14.” Or whatever the room number was.
Another nice apartment building, but much smaller, became my home for the next four weeks. I was in Specialist (S) School with that (S) standing for “Supervisor.” What I learned to supervise were enlisted personnel, whether on the parade ground, in barracks, in class, traveling on trains, or anywhere else. (Other situations did turn up.) I had new friends. This time, we were a group of five for celebrating liberty and we’d got a pay raise. My best friend in this group was Paula Engmark. She might have applied for OCS too, but I never thought to ask. She was officer material. The other three girls just held on to us. All were really nice people.
Now let me backtrack a bit and talk about the war. On May 8, 1945, during the month I waited in Nashville for my orders to travel to New York, the Big Apple celebrated V-E Day (Victory in Europe). Although I was not there to see it, I can easily imagine it, for I was there on V-J Day (Victory in Japan) on August 14, 1945. We had several days of liberty and gathered on Times Square with thousands of others, to yell, dance, sing, shout, cry, laugh, wave little flags, and get hugged by servicemen, even by a few civilians. I hate to be in crowds but this one was different. World War II was over! Confetti, serpentine and even rolls of toilet tissue went fluttering down from several high and low stories into the streets. Our hats, hair, and shoulders became polka-dotted and we didn’t brush them off. It was a wonderful and tiring day and we headed back to barracks. But after we got off the El, we ran into an Italian Block party. To be continued.
♥
Friday, April 2, 2010
Rest of First Liberty
In view of the fact we’d have no evening meal away from barracks, we decided to find one more free thing to see and we’d get back to Hunter before suppertime. We looked for notices posted on kiosks and walls, indicating free admission for military personnel. We found only one, now that we were looking for such. It was a play at the famous Provincetown Playhouse. And where was that? In Greenwich Village. Warning or no warning, we decided to see the play.
Many a playwright got a start at Provincetown Playhouse, including Nobel laureate Eugene O’Neill. (There is even a blog about it today.) So we expected something special. I don’t recall the name of the play we saw, but I well remember that only about a dozen people made up the audience, most of those sitting alone, some on the very front row. We sat farther back, behind all of them. They seemed not to know we were there. I didn’t see any of them turn around to look behind them, a human trait. They must have been stoned. It was a possibility. How gloomy it all was, in a small semi-darkened, level-floored auditorium, remodeled from a stable, that looked as if it might need a good dusting. We left the second the play was over, caught our subway and returned to barracks. One of the girls had some candy bars. We ate candy and went to bed, each one of us likely wondering what we could do tomorrow without money. We knew the first item on our agenda, however.
After a substantial Sunday morning breakfast, we caught the El again and attended service at the famous St. Pat’s, so endeared to the people that that was what they called it, St. Pat’s. It was the first time I’d been inside a Catholic church. It was packed, often the case for churches in large cities in wartime. I recall no congregational singing and only a very short sermon. It was almost all ritual, but the collection of the offering was unique in my experience. First of all, the pews were short, about six or so seats, with the far end of the row enclosed. I felt boxed-in. The usher, or whatever the offering-taker was called, carried a long pole from which dangled a deep pouch into which parishioners placed their contributions. The man almost stopped the pole in front of each individual. I felt for a moment his arm might get awfully tired as the pouch paused in front of me, for I had no money to give. Instead I looked into the face of the man who had a stern countenance. I wanted to explain to him I’d give if I could, but I didn’t make any motion to that affect. I looked away first and the pouch moved on to the next WAVE. I didn’t watch.
We got back to Hunter in time for the noon meal, after which we caught the El again. I recall visiting a rose garden somewhere. Out of this world beautiful. But this first liberty is beginning to get mixed up with other liberties in my memory. A more important one is coming up; so this one is about to come to a stop. The weekend had taught us a good lesson in high finance. Next time we’d be prepared.
♥
In view of the fact we’d have no evening meal away from barracks, we decided to find one more free thing to see and we’d get back to Hunter before suppertime. We looked for notices posted on kiosks and walls, indicating free admission for military personnel. We found only one, now that we were looking for such. It was a play at the famous Provincetown Playhouse. And where was that? In Greenwich Village. Warning or no warning, we decided to see the play.
Many a playwright got a start at Provincetown Playhouse, including Nobel laureate Eugene O’Neill. (There is even a blog about it today.) So we expected something special. I don’t recall the name of the play we saw, but I well remember that only about a dozen people made up the audience, most of those sitting alone, some on the very front row. We sat farther back, behind all of them. They seemed not to know we were there. I didn’t see any of them turn around to look behind them, a human trait. They must have been stoned. It was a possibility. How gloomy it all was, in a small semi-darkened, level-floored auditorium, remodeled from a stable, that looked as if it might need a good dusting. We left the second the play was over, caught our subway and returned to barracks. One of the girls had some candy bars. We ate candy and went to bed, each one of us likely wondering what we could do tomorrow without money. We knew the first item on our agenda, however.
After a substantial Sunday morning breakfast, we caught the El again and attended service at the famous St. Pat’s, so endeared to the people that that was what they called it, St. Pat’s. It was the first time I’d been inside a Catholic church. It was packed, often the case for churches in large cities in wartime. I recall no congregational singing and only a very short sermon. It was almost all ritual, but the collection of the offering was unique in my experience. First of all, the pews were short, about six or so seats, with the far end of the row enclosed. I felt boxed-in. The usher, or whatever the offering-taker was called, carried a long pole from which dangled a deep pouch into which parishioners placed their contributions. The man almost stopped the pole in front of each individual. I felt for a moment his arm might get awfully tired as the pouch paused in front of me, for I had no money to give. Instead I looked into the face of the man who had a stern countenance. I wanted to explain to him I’d give if I could, but I didn’t make any motion to that affect. I looked away first and the pouch moved on to the next WAVE. I didn’t watch.
We got back to Hunter in time for the noon meal, after which we caught the El again. I recall visiting a rose garden somewhere. Out of this world beautiful. But this first liberty is beginning to get mixed up with other liberties in my memory. A more important one is coming up; so this one is about to come to a stop. The weekend had taught us a good lesson in high finance. Next time we’d be prepared.
♥
Thursday, April 1, 2010
First Liberty
Well into our second month of training and shortly before payday, we merited a surprise weekend liberty. That meant we’d ride the El and the subway in to Manhattan, where most of the business of New York City is carried out, where the famous stores are, where a world of entertainment doesn’t stand still, and where more sights waited for us. We received strict warning that we had to be back at barracks by midnight or we’d lose our glass slippers. Also, for our own safety, we should not go to Greenwich Village, a famous bohemian-type colony for the arts, long before the day of the hippies. Hamburger Heaven was highly recommended as a place to eat, and on our $54 a month, we couldn’t afford the 21 Club. After viewing the city from the 72nd floor of the Empire State Building, we decided on an early lunch because of our afternoon plans, and headed for Hamburger Heaven, across the street from, if I remember correctly, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
HH had no menus—perhaps because of a wartime paper shortage—and it certainly had no blackboard on the wall, sending chalk dust over the food. Perhaps it had a flyer in a front window but we never saw it. So we played it safe and ordered ordinary hamburgers. We got no check, but left a tip, and went on to the cashier to pay and told her what we’d had to eat. Alas! We lacked fifteen cents having enough to cover the cost and we could not retrieve the tip, if we'd tried. The place moved too fast for that; it was packed. When the huffy lady said, “Well, you’ll just have to wash dishes!” I began unbuttoning my jacket, and said, “Well, I know how to do that.” My two companions stood there doing nothing. I wonder if they would have deserted me, if I had gone to the kitchen. Of course, washing dishes in a restaurant was surely against Navy regulations, for even a mere apprentice seaman should manage personal finances better. The surprise liberty had caught us short just before payday.
Just as I got my jacket off, two well-dressed little old ladies realized what was happening. From their front-row booth in the huge place, one asked, “Darlings, don’t you have enough money to pay your bill?” I told them we lacked fifteen cents. They immediately produced the needed amount and I offered to repay them through the mail. No, it was all for the cause, they said. We thanked them, paid our bill, I put on my jacket, and we headed out to see what free goodies we could find. As we wended our way free to Staten Island to visit Miss Liberty, I thought about my companions and decided they were not officer material. I also realized why this special weekend had not come right after payday. We would have squandered all our pay and had none for two whole weeks. And so we climbed to the head of the Statue of Liberty. Free.
The Statue has two staircases in it, one curling up and one curling down right beside it. A steady stream of visitors filled both. On about my third step upwards a hand reached over from the other staircase and took my hat from my head. I had just enough time to verify the hand belonged to a sailor before he was out of sight, but I could not turn around to go after the necessary hat. I was out of uniform in a public place and felt just terrible enough not to enjoy the view from the head of the Statue. I didn’t know if I would ever see my hat again. But I did. The sailor waited for me, gave me my hat, knew my name from the hat’s nametag, and invited me to dinner. I thanked him, told him no, and that I was with two others. Inviting the three of us seemed not to be his idea of a good time. Nor mine. Now that I think of it, it was strange that he was alone. Service people on liberty in those days in New York were generally in groups of three or more persons.
This weekend is not over yet. To be continued.
♥
Well into our second month of training and shortly before payday, we merited a surprise weekend liberty. That meant we’d ride the El and the subway in to Manhattan, where most of the business of New York City is carried out, where the famous stores are, where a world of entertainment doesn’t stand still, and where more sights waited for us. We received strict warning that we had to be back at barracks by midnight or we’d lose our glass slippers. Also, for our own safety, we should not go to Greenwich Village, a famous bohemian-type colony for the arts, long before the day of the hippies. Hamburger Heaven was highly recommended as a place to eat, and on our $54 a month, we couldn’t afford the 21 Club. After viewing the city from the 72nd floor of the Empire State Building, we decided on an early lunch because of our afternoon plans, and headed for Hamburger Heaven, across the street from, if I remember correctly, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
HH had no menus—perhaps because of a wartime paper shortage—and it certainly had no blackboard on the wall, sending chalk dust over the food. Perhaps it had a flyer in a front window but we never saw it. So we played it safe and ordered ordinary hamburgers. We got no check, but left a tip, and went on to the cashier to pay and told her what we’d had to eat. Alas! We lacked fifteen cents having enough to cover the cost and we could not retrieve the tip, if we'd tried. The place moved too fast for that; it was packed. When the huffy lady said, “Well, you’ll just have to wash dishes!” I began unbuttoning my jacket, and said, “Well, I know how to do that.” My two companions stood there doing nothing. I wonder if they would have deserted me, if I had gone to the kitchen. Of course, washing dishes in a restaurant was surely against Navy regulations, for even a mere apprentice seaman should manage personal finances better. The surprise liberty had caught us short just before payday.
Just as I got my jacket off, two well-dressed little old ladies realized what was happening. From their front-row booth in the huge place, one asked, “Darlings, don’t you have enough money to pay your bill?” I told them we lacked fifteen cents. They immediately produced the needed amount and I offered to repay them through the mail. No, it was all for the cause, they said. We thanked them, paid our bill, I put on my jacket, and we headed out to see what free goodies we could find. As we wended our way free to Staten Island to visit Miss Liberty, I thought about my companions and decided they were not officer material. I also realized why this special weekend had not come right after payday. We would have squandered all our pay and had none for two whole weeks. And so we climbed to the head of the Statue of Liberty. Free.
The Statue has two staircases in it, one curling up and one curling down right beside it. A steady stream of visitors filled both. On about my third step upwards a hand reached over from the other staircase and took my hat from my head. I had just enough time to verify the hand belonged to a sailor before he was out of sight, but I could not turn around to go after the necessary hat. I was out of uniform in a public place and felt just terrible enough not to enjoy the view from the head of the Statue. I didn’t know if I would ever see my hat again. But I did. The sailor waited for me, gave me my hat, knew my name from the hat’s nametag, and invited me to dinner. I thanked him, told him no, and that I was with two others. Inviting the three of us seemed not to be his idea of a good time. Nor mine. Now that I think of it, it was strange that he was alone. Service people on liberty in those days in New York were generally in groups of three or more persons.
This weekend is not over yet. To be continued.
♥
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