Short People

In the early 70s while living in Olympia I happened to hear a radio advertisement soliciting recruits for the Washington State Patrol. The ad said applicants needed two years of college and must be 6 feet tall. However, if you had four years of college and were 5’ 11” tall you could still qualify. Say what? This seemed to suggest that 1” of height equated to two years of college and therefore, someone of my stature (5’ 7”… ignoring the fraction over) would need 12 years of college to qualify! It seemed unlikely to me that anyone with twelve years of college would be interested in becoming a state cop. This arbitrary height requirement also effectively eliminated nearly all women, Asians, Hispanics, American Indians and yes, Blacks. All averaged less than 5’ 8” at that time.

I wrote then governor Dan Evans a tongue in cheek letter complaining. I reasoned that since the State police were using automobiles, guns and pens to write tickets, I could not see where size was a job requirement…. Unless it was for show or, perhaps they had a large inventory of long legged trousers. I told him that only the over crowded field of protesters kept me from starting a “Short Power Movement”. Our theme song would be Randy Newman’s “I Was a Big Man Yesterday but Boy You Oughta See Me Now” and I envisioned “squat-ins” at the Big and Tall shops. The response I received ignored my attempt at humor. Short guys, said Gov. Dan, were quicker to anger and use violence. (Really? Says who?) And, he continued, big guys were less likely to be challenged. Maybe. But, who challenges a guy packing a .357 on his hip?

A few years prior to this amusing exchange I had served with the US Navy SEALS, widely regarded as the most difficult and selective program in anybody’s military. About 200 guys showed up for my training class (#33) and you would have been hard pressed to pick out the 36 that finally graduated. The least effective method would have been to line us up by height and pick the tallest 36! We all learned in those grueling eight months that you could make no judgments about a man by his color, appearance or size. After all, none of the important qualities of an individual; character, intelligence, strength, determination, honesty, resourcefulness, courage, etc, are measured in feet and inches. Trees are measured in board/feet, not people. As a Teammate of mine who served 30 years in the SEALS once said, “Anything over 5’ 8” is unnecessary and just showing off”.

Note: I wrote this one a long time ago.


The Measure of a Man


The length of a man’s inseam will tell you nothing about his courage.
Nor, will it give you any indications about his strength, determination or stamina.
The inseam measurement will give few clues to a man’s intelligence, wit or reasoning power.
It won’t tell you much about his capacity for love and understanding.
Or, whether you can count on his friendship when you need it.
The length of a man’s inseam will not tell you whether he will give you his last dollar if you are desperate.
Or, steal yours when you least expect it.
The length of a man’s inseam won’t tell you much about a man---
Except that he is tall……. or not.

Christmas Alone

Last night Loi and I sat around the fireplace trying to figure out what we were going to do to celebrate Christmas. The kids with our encouragement are spending the holidays with their own families and building their own traditions. So, we’re back to celebrating alone, just like we did 42 Christmases ago. (Both our parents passed long ago so they won’t be joining us).

Since we’ve moved some 14 times in our marriage, remembering where we were and what we did for those 41 holidays is no easy task…. especially for me! You have to kick yourself for not writing this stuff down. Eventually we sorted it out and were reminded that on many of those Christmas mornings the pickings under the tree were pretty slim. If Santa stopped by our house, he didn’t leave much behind. On the other hand, I don’t recall any of those lean Christmases being unhappy times. We had each other and later three great kids. We laughed a lot and Loi always managed to pull it together no matter the circumstances. On one particularly difficult holiday season Loi managed to cook a full on turkey dinner with stuffing, potatoes, peas, cranberries… the works…. All on a two burner hot plate! We didn’t have a refrigerator at the time either, but a garage is cold in Minnesota in winter. Medals should be awarded for this kind of effort.

Loi and I met during the Christmas holidays on December 27th, 1958 (49 years ago for those slow in math) in the basement of St. Peter and Paul’s Church in Hamburg, NY. The village of Hamburg was the home the Hamburg High School Bulldogs, the archrival of my own Frontier High Falcons. Generally speaking, it was unwise to attend dances in rival territory. However, the Township, which encompassed both schools, had a public beach on Lake Erie and the lifeguards for the beach were selected equally from the swim teams of both schools. Inevitably interschool friendships developed. Generally I attended Hamburg dances in the company of my HHS friend and fellow lifeguard, Bob, who at 6’4” pretty much eliminated any problems for me.

On the fateful night Bob and I walked into the freezing basement of the church and surveyed the talent. I immediately noticed a pretty, dark haired lass standing in a group of girls at the far end of the hall. She was the only person in the place with the good sense to be wearing a pair of woolen mittens. I said to Bob, “I’ve got to dance with that girl!” I did and the rest, as they say, is history.

That dark haired lass has gotten prettier over the years while I…. well, never mind. We’ll be spending a quiet Christmas together as we had 41 years previous. Not entirely alone though. We will have in our hearts our family and friends. We have been truly blessed and we wish the blessings of the Season on one and all.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

A High Price for Somme

I just finished reading a book called "The Battle of the Somme" by Gilbert. I confess I have not been a great student of WWI, although I have read several novels about the war in the last year or two.

It is very difficult to get your mind to comprehend the magnitude of the destruction and loss of life that occurred in that war.

In the battle of Verdun which took place just down the road from the Somme, some 650,000 French and German troops were killed in five months. When this total is added to the battle of the Somme, 960,459 Allied and German soldiers were killed. Or,6,600 men each day for the five month period. When you think that in Iraq less than 4,000 American and British soldiers have been killed in five years, you get some perspective.

It is also interesting to note that 22 years after the end of WWI German troops once again swept across the same battle fields and cemeteries in yet another war. World War I was the "war to end all wars." Yeah, right. Don't forget to count the 30 million or so Chinese that died.

On one hand you can sympathize with the anti-war people. It does not seem to accomplish much and it surely causes uncountable misery and suffering. On the other hand, there have always been despots determined to conquer the World and turn everyone into their slaves. Or, war like tribes that want to destroy civilization. (Like the Germanic tribes that destroyed the Roman Empire and gave us several hundred years of the Dark Ages). It seems to me that the radical Muslims are reminiscent of those warlike tribes. They would like to set us back to the 12th century but see no irony in utilizing modern technology to accomplish their task.

My concern is that students in modern societies are not being taught history. As Santayana said, "Those who do not learn from the past are compelled to repeat it." Politicians blow with the wind. If the public does not recognize the threat and insist that the politicians act, we may well find ourselves in the midst of another great war. Exhibit A in this argument is Iran. While the the World's politicians play with their balls, the fanatics that control Iran are busily building nuclear weapons. Does any serious person doubt that these nut bags will hesitate to use them? Then what?

Sorry. A book like the Somme makes you think dark thoughts. Was it Einstein who said the definition of madness "...is trying the same thing over and over and expecting a different result"?

“Perfect Storm” Experiences

I cannot imagine anyone who has gone to sea not having some storm experiences to talk about. These generally fall into the category of “Sea stories” which as a group may or may not be true. They also may or may not have anything to do with sea water.

In my time in the Navy I spent about 12 months at sea in an LSD (Landing Ship Dock). These 450’ ships act like mother ships to landing craft carried inside in their well decks. The stern can be flooded and with the tail gate down, allow landing craft to ferry men and equipment ashore during amphibious landings. During my days in the Navy these were the HQ ships for the SEALS attached to squadrons of five ships of an Amphibious Group on constant deployment throughout the world.

I made three North Atlantic crossings in one of these ships…. all in winter. Consequently, I saw some nasty storms during these crossings. One that is especially memorable kept us from having a sit down meal for three days. The waves were over 60’ high …. So high that the other ships in the squadron disappeared in the troughs of the adjacent waves. Needless-to-say, waves that big can be a bit unnerving although, I can honestly say, that I was never really concerned. Mostly, you just get tired. You’re hanging on constantly, even when you’re trying to sleep and you get beat up banging into things all the time.

The scariest experience I ever had was when I was working on the Brigantine Yankee in the Bahamas during my year leave of absence. ( I just consulted the journal I kept that year (1960-61) for verifying my memories.) We had ducked into Freeport harbor to escape a hurricane and waited it out for two days. Freeport was nothing at that time, except one of the only safe anchorages in the Bahamas with a very tiny entrance, and one bar, pool hall, dance hall, and general store… all in one. Despite the weather, we had to get the passengers back to Miami so we set out in the afternoon, pretty much running with the wind with only the staysails set.

We got to the Gulf Stream in the dark and it was impossible to see what we were facing when the following sea ran into the flow of the Gulf Stream, but we could tell by the violent reaction of the Yankee that it was awesome. There was a lot of green water coming over the bow and lee rail and spray everywhere as we crashed along. I always had the watch with the skipper, but this night we were together on deck all night. I was at the wheel two hours on and two off. When the big gusts came, because the sails were unbalanced fore and aft, the Yankee wanted to run up into the wind on the gusts. It took everything two guys could do to prevent us from broaching (running up into the winds and therefore getting crossways to the waves in the process) which would likely have rolled us over. During this struggle with the wheel, we were often standing in solid green water up to our knees as it surged across the deck. We were really too busy to be scared and besides it was dark so we couldn’t see the waves. As it got light… the sun never did quite come up that day… we could see the enormous waves marching up behind us. I was surprised that the Yankee would rise up each time and let them slide beneath her stern and then we would race down the slope with the wind stretching the sails and rigging to their limit. The canvas of the sails was all blown out of the bolt ropes so great was the stress.

We arrived in Miami wet, cold and with salt encrusted in our ears, hair and the corners of our eyes. The rigging, sails and crew were all a little beat up but happy when we sailed into the shelter of Government Cut and Miami harbor. So were the passengers, who had gotten a little more sea adventure than they bargained for, I bet.

Uncle Lee

Lee Patterson was a bachelor dairy farmer. He lived with his brother, a divorced father of one on a 140-acre place about 35 miles from the outskirts of Buffalo, NY. The farm was typical for the late 1940’s. It had no indoor plumbing or electricity. The place was heated by a huge iron stove in the kitchen and a wood-burning furnace. All the farm work required workhorses that were both large and evil tempered.

I started spending a lot of time there when I was about eight years old. My Mother had returned with a new husband after a five-year absence, retrieving me from my Grandma and Grandpa. We had moved around a lot in those five years as Grandpa had retired from the railroad with injuries that kept him from working. My new step-father was trying to get his watch repair and jewelry business going in Buffalo so, in the interim we were living in his brother’s hotel. It was a rough place frequented by employees of the nearby steel mill, alcoholics and itinerants. From my small room on the second floor I frequently heard fights and drunken arguments in the hall outside my room. It was clearly not a place for a small child. So, it was determined that I should be carted off to the farm on weekends, holidays and summers. At that time Grandma and Grandpa moved to the farm so it was an OK thing with me.

I had never really had a father figure in my life, my Father being absent and Grandpa seldom moving out of his easy chair. Uncle Lee took on that role. Whether he knew that or not, I can’t say, but he did it admirably.

Lee, a short barrel chested man, had little education, but knew a lot of things…. especially how to work hard. In those days a dairy farm required a lot of work. Not just the care and milking of the cows but also, cutting wood for cooking and heat, tending the garden and working in the fields. Uncle Lee taught me that hard work is a man’s first obligation and play only begins when the work is finished. Up before daylight, the cows had to be milked and fed before we would eat breakfast. Then it was back to the barn to shovel the manure before getting on to other tasks like; cutting hay, plowing or fixing fence.

A lot of our recreational time was spent hunting and fishing for the game we killed formed an essential part of our diet. We practically lived on the deer meat that my Grandma cooked and canned. I tagged along after Lee like a faithful puppy. He showed me how to recognize the difference between a squirrel and a rabbit track in the snow as well as identify a mink, fox or a skunk track.

We fished for chubs in the creek and then used the chubs to catch pickerel in the lake. From him I learned how to cast a bass plug and how to shoot a rifle and shotgun. He taught me how to set traps for muskrat and mink and how to sit quietly in the hardwoods and wait for squirrels to come out.

Finally it was time for me to go hunting for the first time. Although Lee had several beagles he normally used for rabbit hunting, he decided that for our first expedition he would leave the dogs behind and be the dog himself. I guess he was worried I might accidentally shoot one! I carried a 20-gauge pump on that day and with fresh snow on the ground, we set out to hunt rabbits. Soon we jumped a rabbit out of a brush pile and my Uncle took off following the track, howling like a beagle so I could follow his progress. I stood waiting for a rabbit when chased will run in a big circle. Sure enough, the rabbit soon came hopping into view. I shot at the rabbit until the gun was empty and never touched a hair. (Sorry). Undeterred my Uncle Lee continued without complaint and chased the rabbit around again. Same result. Lee took off again hooting as before and this time I managed to hit the rabbit. Unfortunately, the rabbit ran up inside a hollow tree.

I thought that was the end of it. But, Uncle Lee and I walked all the way to the barn and came back with the cross cut saw. Together we sawed the tree down to retrieve the rabbit.
It took 15 shots and some sweat to chop down the tree but, we had a rabbit for Grandma.
Years later I was hunting with my son who was about 10 at the time. We were walking along a riverbank when a mallard happened to fly by. I shot the duck and it fell on the opposite side of the deep, slow moving river. Although it was October and much to my son’s surprise, I stripped down, swam across the river and retrieved the duck. Twenty years later my son reminded me of that incident. “Make every effort to retrieve the game you shoot,” means exactly that. I guess that lesson taught to me by Uncle Lee and then passed on to my son showed by example what that actually means.

As the years passed and I moved on to high school with sports and friends, I visited the farm infrequently. Then it was college and the Navy, marriage and moving to the West Coast. I never saw him again. I think of him often and regret that I never got to thank him for his influence in my young life. It was a difficult time for me and he was a solid presence, patient and blessed with a great sense of humor. I never thanked him properly but, I did honor him by giving his name to our daughter. He was gone by then, but maybe he knows anyway.