Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

I recall several incidents where Marines and Navy Corpsmen met; not all of them were mutually supportive of each other. Although many Naval Corpsmen were cross trained to accompany Marines in the field, they didn’t always see eye to eye. One of my friends was a prime example. His name isn’t necessary at the moment, but at one time he had a definite Hippie type personality, caught in Uncle Sam’s military machine. He preferred the feel of sandals on his feet, puka shell bead necklace around his neck, and when he talked about a joint in his hand, he wasn’t talking about a knuckle bone.

Who says that the U.S. government doesn’t have a sense of humor? The fickle finger pointed at him, sending him to Field Medical School and then assigned him to a Marine company. This occurred during the Vietnam War when the feeling between Hippies and the Marines weren’t at their best. I wrote my friend a letter and accidentally included his middle name Felix. He wrote back saying it wasn’t hard enough being with these gung-ho meatheads and now they had his middle name to harass him. Sorry man.

Another tale of crosscurrents between Marines and Corpsmen happened while I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland. The Marines guarded the base while the corpsmen handled the hospital and ambulance needs. There were times when they would mix at the enlisted men’s clubs to eat, drink, and gamble. One challenge that often occurred was a drinking game. A tab would be opened at the bar with the loser responsible for the bill. Beers would appear and disappear until one or the other of the contestants would allow his beers to reappear. They would take turns fetching the drinks from the bar. When the corpsman had his fill, he would pour ipecac syrup into the Marine’s beer. Ipecac is an emetic agent that induces vomiting. By then, the Marine’s taste buds were dulled and he didn’t notice the flavor change. Corpsmen rarely had to pay the tab. As a teetotaler, I was only a casual observer.

One good story shared with me happened while I was in Orlando, Florida. I was caring for a corpsman who’d been injured in Vietnam. He stepped on a land mine and had chunks from his buttocks and one calf missing. He said the Marines asked a Seabee bulldozer operator to clear a path across a field. The Seabee refused and the corpsman was the one who’d found the buried mine. Only by throwing himself forward was he able to escape death. He said that the Seabee later had fallen to friendly fire. Nobody messes with the Marines’ corpsmen.

Rolling Your Own

                Rolling Your Own

My uncle Dale Miner worked at the same place with my dad for a short while. They worked at a factory in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania. Walworth made valves of various sizes from two and a half inches to three feet in diameter of brass, iron, or stainless steel. The company did everything from casting them in the foundry to shaping, welding, cutting, and assembling them. Once they were assembled, they were inspected and the high pressure valves were tested.

            They made two types of valves, a ball valve and a wedge valve. The ball valve had a round ball-type device for closure. It fitted into an angled ring that regulated or stopped the flow of the contents. The wedge valve worked much in the same way. The closure device was wedge shaped and would slide up and down between two planed surfaces. Both type of valves were opened and closed by spinning a wheel that caused a screw to raise and lower the ball or wedge. The surfaces of the ball, wedge, and each surface had to be cut and polished so that the surfaces fit snugly.

Dale rode to work with my dad and two other men. When they drove by one house, a shaggy collie-looking dog would chase the car, barking. Every day the dog would run beside their car and bark. It was annoying to all, but especially to Uncle Dale. For some reason, it really irritated him.

            One day, Dale asked my dad to stop the car at a saw mill before they got to the dog’s house. Dale got out of the car and walked to the discarded wood slab pile. Moving a few, he selected one and carried it back to the car.

            Dale walked to the rear of Dad’s car and asked him to open the trunk. Once Dad opened the trunk, Dale climbed inside, holding the slab in his hands. Dad slipped behind the wheel and drove away. The dog ran out at the approach of Dad’s vehicle and started yapping. Dad was driving a little slower than normal because of his passenger in the trunk. Dale extended the slab out past the side of the car. When the car drove by the mongrel, the slab caught the cur and knocked it off its feet. The dog gave a loud yelp and tumbled off the side of the road in a cloud of dust. It rolled across the berm and disappeared done a small hill. Dad stopped the car a short way down the road. Dale climbed out, closed the trunk, and got back into the car after tossing the slab away.

            The outcome, when Dad would drive by the dog’s house, they would see the dog in the yard, but it never chased my dad’s car again.

Reality and Cartoons Collide

 Reality and Cartoons Collide

When I tried to think of a topic for me to write about, two thoughts meshed. I decided to integrate them and make them my insight on life today. I was reminded of the cartoons of my youth and the reality of my aging body. The pain in my lower back from the shoveling of heavy snow made me feel as though I had gone several rounds with Joe Palooka, the comic pages boxer. Putting aside my aches and pains, I began to recall the cartoons in the Sunday paper and on television.

Dagwood and Blondie, Sad Sack, Beetle Bailey were old standbys. Dick Tracy, Prince Valiant, Felix the Cat, Lil Abner, Katzenjammer Kids captured the excitement and humor over a wide range of topics for us kids. Mutt and Jeff, Nancy and Sluggo, Heckle and Jeckle were couples that amused me. The television introduced me to Tom Terrific, Mickey Mouse, Popeye the Sailor Man. All of the cartoons started in black and white. Adventure time made the names Rodney and Knish, the Little Rascals, the Three Stooges famous to me. Kookla, Fran, and Ollie as well as Sherrie Lewis and Lamb Chop were puppets as well as Howdy Doody.

Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, Daffy Duck, Pepe Le Pew, Porky Pig and Petunia, Foghorn Leghorn, Road Runner, Wylie Coyote, Sylvester and Tweety were all late comers. Caspar the Ghost and Spooky, Wendy the Witch introduced me to a gentle enchanted and supernatural world. These were the cartoons that captured my interest every Saturday morning and caused me to fight for the Sunday Pittsburgh Post Gazette funnies.

Today my writer’s creativity allowed my aging and abused body to be free and wander through the youthful hallways of my brain. I hope that by sharing my memories, that I have stirred a few of yours.

One Day Too I Will Join the Ranks

 

One Day Too I Will Join the Ranks

A fellow nurse with whom I worked at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania shared that a fellow nursing supervisor had died. Most of the nursing supervisors with whom I worked are now walking the streets of gold. Because hey were in management positions, my fellow supervisors were a bit older than most of the nursing staff.

One died suffering the effects from cancer of the spleen. She was admitted to our hospital. Watching her waste away was difficult. Her family tried everything they knew of to try to save her, using all sorts of remedies, but to no avail. She continued her downhill slide, finally becoming a skin stretched skeleton. I will continue to remember her as the vibrant banty-rooster person wearing her nursing cap.

Another supervisor had the annoying habit of writing notes to herself on the back of her hand, even though she carried a sheaf of papers listing each patient in the hospital with diagnoses and room numbers. It may have been a left-over habit from her days as a floor nurse. Although she seemed like a flighty person, she knew more than appeared to me on our first meeting.

One supervisor was a strict disciplinarian with a gruff, often harsh and abrasive manner, but she had a soft soul. Unless you worked closely with her, you could very easily miss that side of her. She would gather baby clothing for nurses who were pregnant on a very tight budget and were struggling to make ends meet. She did the scheduling for her night shift nurses and made every attempt to juggle days so nurses could have the days needed for their needs. I had just started working as a floor nurse when I got married. I had earned no vacation days yet, but she managed to arrange for me to have four days in a row for my honeymoon.

This last supervisor was the most recent to pass. She worked mostly the 3-11 shift and liked it. I didn’t really care for that shift. I was shiftless at that time, working all three shifts. She smiled a lot, only surpassed by her knowledge and by her smoking cigarettes. She had a harsh cough and had to often clear her throat.

Many of my fellow employees have gone to the great beyond. There would be too many for me to list here now, but one day I shall join their ranks and I hope someone will write about me too.

Gone

 Gone

I saw a post showing an aisle in a variety store lined with boxes stacked upon boxes of plastic model boats, planes, and cars. In most stores today, I am lucky to see one small shelf in the huge toy section that has a smattering of these onetime glorious representations of the real things. Gone are the enamel paints and the plastic glue that gave a person a buzz if inhaled for a long periods of time. The selection that remains today is so limited, it barely stirs the imagination of a boy or girl to spend their money for the model.

At one time there was a penny candy counter at the front of almost every country Mom and Pop store. Its wide glass-faced case was often smeared by the noses of children peering inside, trying to decide what to buy with their penny or nickel. The storekeeper would reach into the cavern below and withdraw a small, brown paper sack. A practiced flick of the wrist and it opened, waiting to be filled with the child’s choices. Peppermint sticks, licorice whips, wax lips, candy cigarettes, gum balls, fire balls, chewy caramels, Black Jack, and various suckers with colors that enticed through clear cellophane wrappings or were alluring in their brightly hued paper wrappers. A child’s decision became tantalizingly and deliciously sweet. The grocer’s hand moved to hover over the display, waiting for the child’s final choices. If the child had enough money, there were three cent chocolate Lunch Bars that are now history, too. Once selections were made, the little bag was twisted shut and handed to an eagerly awaiting child.

Cap pistols with strips of exploding caps have been all but banned from use today. Using a pointed finger pretending it’s a pistol can get a kid kicked out of school. The innocence of a buss on a cheek can land a boy or girl in trouble if a teacher so deems it. Hot chocolate and slices of buttered toast to start the school day are long gone. Even the wonderful flavorful school lunches have faded into nutritious nothings.

Wood shop, music, art, and home economics have been replaced by forages into climate change and social justice. The Pledge of Allegiance, Bible reading, and a time of prayer have lost their zeal and have fallen into disuse. If a man displays gentlemanly traits like opening a door for a female, often they are scourged.

Writing letters and post cards have lost their appeal, giving way to selfies, texts, and e-mails. At least greeting cards still hold some importance, although e-cards are making an inroad on that once popular more permanent method of showing that you care.

Keeping Promises

 

Keeping Promises

I mentioned several things on my Facebook posts that needed follow up to tell the full story. I looked back through my previous Blogs and wasn’t able to find them. I have so many stored from the past. They’re listed under titles and sometimes I can’t find what I want. My titles are often obscure and don’t share the facts that are buried in the text.

There are two stories I wanted to share. The first was in response to a cartoon about a person that was too hot under a blanket, too cold without being covered, but with the body covered and one leg protruding it was “just right.” My wife Cindy Morrison Beck had the same attitude. She called her leg “her thermostat.” Most of the time, I had no problem, but in the middle of the winter, it would get icy cold. When it became too cold for her, she would draw it back under the covers and place it against my bare back. The shock can be a real eye-opener in the middle of the night. The worst part was that she would immediately stick her other “thermostat” out from under the blankets to cool. Oh how I miss that shock therapy.

The other story was a post saying, “Don’t tell me about your childhood problems, I was forced to watch Lawrence Welk as a kid.” Lawrence Welk was a staple of our house Saturday evenings. Just as sure as I knew the sun was going to come up in the morning, I was positive that my dad Carl Beck would sit in his swivel reclining rocker directly in front of our black and white television to enjoy the music, then almost immediately fall asleep. I tried on many occasions to stealthily change the channel of that old television to anything that was more interesting than music of an accordion or “The Shrimp Boats are Coming.”

As soon as I would click the knob, my dad would sit upright and snort, “I’m watching that.” My hopes dashed, I’d return the channel back and we’d continue to watch Lawrence Welk. One time, I thought I’d prove Dad wrong and I slowly turned his swivel rocker to face away from the T. V. Great planning, then click…the chair bolted upright with Dad sputtering, “I was watch…” His voice faded to nothing when he was aware that he wasn’t facing the set. He returned the chair to face the television and we watched Lawrence Welk. Needless to say, Dad wasn’t pleased and tried to kick my butt as I walked past. He missed and nearly fell out of his chair. Although I still don’t like to hear the bubbly music, that program continues to have a special memory for me.

Imagine That There's No

 Imagine That There’s No

Imagine that people have no imagination. Their minds are devoid of thinking abstractly. Their thoughts were only able to deal with concrete ideas that they could hold in their hands, to see with their eyes, or to taste with their tongue. Our ancestors had no televisions, no computers, no movies, and no cameras, and no mimeographs or Xerox copiers. When mankind was first established on earth, the passing on information was done by story telling. Oral tradition was the only way to pass on knowledge and tales. A person’s imagination was needed to shape and bring to life the words that were shared by another person. Slowly words were transferred by marks of charcoal, divots pressed into clay tablets, or carvings into stone. Some used the charcoal to outline beasts and beings onto cave walls to tell stories. Others took it a step farther to make pigments to paint the story onto the walls. It took only the imagination of the viewer to retell what the scene portrayed and to bring the story to life.

When the written languages proliferated, so did the expansion of information. Each idea became a shared foundation upon which another generation of ideas could be used as stepping stones or as a ladder to reach the next level of ideas. Having the written word was an improvement, but it still took imagination to fully understand what the author intended. Then it took more imagination to see beyond the writer’s plateau and to create something more.

Inventions created electricity and the telephone farther extending man’s imaginative reach. The reach cut the cord and radios were invented. Families huddled around the radio in the home to listen to the news, music, comedy, drama, and sports. It was no longer necessary to wait for word of mouth or to attend an event to be in-the-know, but the listener still needed imagination to understand what was happening. They used their mind’s eye to “each the games unfold. It took imagination for the news of the battlefront and the fighting armies of the war to be understood. Many used maps, but it didn’t relay the carnage and the struggle of the soldiers.

Today we are being spoon-fed from televisions, computers, and even our cell phones. The once necessary imagination is being starved or being overfed by the inundation of information. Whether starved or choked, today’s youth are losing their ability to use their imagination.