I love Spam! I have three tee shirts to prove it. Y’know I have never received as many comments as I have received when wearing one of my “I Love Spam” tee shirts.I love processed cheese too. Nobody can make a grill cheese sandwich better than those made with Kraft processed cheese slices. Be honest with me now. You feel the same way too.I love hot dogs. When I was younger I always felt that my dream job was to work in a meat processing plant, processing my favorite food groups.Who says I am not an enviro-mentalist. I love plant food. I am well preserved going into my 74th year.Quote of the week:What happens when banks lose your money?They charge you a finder’s fee of course.My continued book pick of the month:
I Thought I’d Died and Gone To Heaven
An irreverent look at growing up in a parochial, conservative environment in pre-woke era Toronto of the 1950s and 60s.
Just click on “Buy on Amazon” to purchase on line. You can also get this book in audio format. Go to Amazon.ca (Canada) or Amazon.com (US Residents) and type in audible and the book title.
Another excerpt:
“The second shift comes out, more of the same. A little better coordination perhaps as both coaches are screaming at the players from the bench. Suddenly, a shot from us. Wide, puck ricochets into their corner. A Royals defenseman picks it up and slides it over to the opposite side. Another player fires the puck off the boards and down the ice. Icing is called. Line changes, puck is back in the Royals’ end. Just then their wooly mammoth comes off the bench and takes his place on the right side of the circle. Puck drops; the Royals’ center wins the face-off and hacks the puck back behind their net. Suddenly their man gets the puck and skates with it behind their own net and just stands there, weighing in on all that surrounds him. The rest of our team begin to skate backwards in rapid succession, some of us lining up on their blue line, the rest of us at centre ice. None of us would even dare to challenge this guy. He was not a normal twelve-year-old kid at six feet tall—with his skates on. Skinny, lithe, slippery as a snake, one would think that being that tall and that skinny that one could just puff in his direction and down he’d go. Unfortunately for us, he was not the gangly uncoordinated klutz. Far from it.
At this moment in time, I had no idea what must have been going through McDink’s mind. For he surely had to know what was coming his way. He did seem to back up way into his net as if he thought doing so would offer him some form of protection. Nope. Then out he slides, centred in the goalie crease and crouched with blocker and stick out to this left side with his glove hand to his right and arced slightly upward. McDink did look the part.
Art, the wooly mammoth of a player began to move, slowly at first, then accelerating. He deeked around a couple of his own teammates, then turned on an oblique angle across his own goal toward his own blue line. Faster and faster he went, with every cut of his blades. He leaned his tall frame expertly to his right, pulling the puck with him as he went. It was a sight to behold. Then he leaned to his left until he was on a straight trajectory to our goal and our goalie, McDink. The only thing standing in his way was about four of us, but we were in such a state watching this unfold that we couldn’t move a muscle, not that we would even try of course. From the centre line where I was standing, looking back at his end with him coming at us full tilt, you could see, sense, then feel the thrusts of his skates as he came straight for us. Like a rocket—whoosh! His eyes ablaze, his face contorted as if his every move generated g-forces. Woosh, woosh, woosh, as he flew past his own teammates, then past us one by one as if they, we, were standing still. Crunch, crunch, crunch, the sound of his blades cutting into the ice, leveraging and transferring that energy up into his entire being.
We let him be. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, we opened up a lane for him by moving backwards toward the boards on both sides of the ice surface. He had a clear and straight path to our goal. The only thing standing between him and hockey glory was McDink. What must he have been thinking, McDink, especially seeing us, his teammates, opening up the lane for the enemy such that there was no impedance between the mammoth and himself. In what must have been a nanosecond, McDink came out of his net ever so slightly; he looked to his right, then to his left, then straight ahead, his legs, his pads, forming an A-shaped hole that a Mack Truck could have driven through.
The fans were going nuts. The rafters seemed to be shaking. The ice was melting due to the friction and fire coming from the blades of the Royals’ star player, as he was crossing centre ice in a flash. McDink made his decision after a split second of determination, analysis, and assessment of the situation. McDink again turned to his left and then to his right and in another split second turned and ran on his blades to seek the protection of the net. Not inside mind you but the back, outside portion of the net itself—BEHIND THE NET. And there he crouched; no, he kneeled, as if praying to his Lord to protect him, to save him from this terror on ice.
There was stunned silence throughout the arena. The Royals star couldn’t believe what he was seeing. From his perspective, all he saw was an open net with a large blob-like mass crouched, kneeling and blubbering, behind the net. He stopped, looking around as if he was not quite sure on what to do. He shook his head a few times as if in comical disgust, then sauntered ever so slowly down to the goalie crease and tapped the puck, gingerly, into the net. All of a sudden, laughter broke out from the fans. The players on both benches banged their sticks against the boards, screaming and hollering in their amazement. The referee and linemen raced toward the net, expecting some sort of scuffle between the Royals player and McDink. McDink seemed to be in total shock and scared shitless. I am told they had to pry him away from the backside of the goal. But they couldn’t get him up. He was a blabbering, blubbering nincompoop. I do believe, though I can’t be entirely sure of this, that he pissed himself and soiled his shorts. In due course they had to carry him off the ice. The game was over.
But before all of that happened, Art skated up to McDink and in a loud, sarcastic, but assertive voice told McDink in no uncertain terms: “Remember the Royals.”
And he did, and we did, for years to come.
In a few years’ time, McDink discovered religion and became a born-again Christian. Like so many of his comrades. Perhaps it was atonement for the summer of love. Nevertheless, in his newfound passion and state of grace, he really became obnoxious!
I lost track of him after I joined the Navy.”
No helmets. In the US they have “Friday Night Lights.” In Canada, we have “Friday Night Fights.
I believe this was around the last time the Toronto Maple Leafs won the Stanley Cup. I was in diapers then and I truly believe I will be in diapers when they win the cup again!
…I came back for the medical in about a week’s time. This was serious stuff. A full blown medical. Every orifice looked at and probed. This was not the two minute makeover that one sees in the movies.
“Is he breathing? Yes? Approved! Next!
I was a little bit worried about my eye test as I had had a lazy eye when I was a child. It cured itself but left some visual acuity issues in my right eye. I remember my dad telling me how he got through his eye exam in the Army during the war. He held his hand over his bad eye, read the scale then returned his arm to his side. When the doctor asked him to cover his other eye he placed his hand over his bad eye a second time, read the chart and got through the exam with a 20/20 result. I tried the same thing and it worked, primarily because the doctor was focused on the chart and not the patient.
I do remember a story from a naval friend of mine about his experience with his medical on joining. It kind of reflects some of the old military schooled attitudes of the times. My friend had had a severe case of acne when he was young. It left his face hideously pockmarked – had been for all of his life. He did his joining medical only to find out that he failed. He wasn’t told why although he suspected the reason. He left, forgot about the military, and went on his way. About 6 months later he was asked to return to the recruiting centre only to be told that they made a mistake in his medical assessment and would dearly love to have him return. He did. Apparently, the doctor, on examination of my friend, felt that his pockmarked face would not look good on parade and would reflect poorly on the military ethos. He wanted to protect the “Colonel.” So he failed him. Imagine the outcry if that happened today?
Finally finished, then in for another interview. This one was all encompassing but in generalities: the process, basic training expectations, career progression, military life, its rewards and sacrifices, security, threats and on and on he went. This would be the last interview and on receipt of a successful medical examination an offer to join would be given. The candidate, me, would have a few days to think about the decision to join prior to an invite for the swearing in ceremony and “Oath of Allegiance” to Queen and Country. Where was God in all of this? Swear on the bible of course!
In a weeks time I was sworn in. I told my mother, she was thrilled. I told my friends, they thought I was nuts. I also had a few months time before I had to report for Basic Training in August. Not too sure if I liked that break as it provided too much free time to think about my decision. But it also gave me the opportunity to get into physical shape, which I did….
…I thought of my options. Why not join the Navy? Why not indeed. But the military life seemed to be an anathema to my easy going ways. Yes, I was intrigued by the stories my father told me of his military life. The fun he had although he never ever parlayed his combat experiences to me or anyone else in the family. His friends, the sports, the overt camaraderie he seemed to enjoy were interesting but I always sensed that he despised the discipline, arrogance and bullshit of the Army. It was no wonder, or joke, that we never ever went camping as a family. Holed up in a tent for weeks at a time: cold, dirty miserable English weather or the heat and humidity of a European summer all the while scared out of your ever loving mind. No, I think for me I was scared of the discipline and uncertainty of the military life. Especially the Army. All that salutin; yes sir, no sir, your shit lockers full sir etc. On top of that, the only insight I had of the Navy arose from the serious and dark images of Jack Hawkins in “The Cruel Sea;” or the fanaticism, madness of Burt Lancaster and Clark Gable in “Run Silent Run Deep;” or conversely “McHale’s Navy.” What should I do? Yes or no?
I decided to check it out as I didn’t have to commit right away. I didn’t tell a soul what I was doing. Down I went to the recruiting centre, taking the metro then bus to an imposing but stark and sombre looking building downtown. I hesitated. Should I or shouldn’t I? Yet the unknown always appears worse than it really is. Just go for it and see what happens. It may turn out that they “DON’T WANT YOU.”
In I went, to reception. Everyone here, except us snot nosed delinquents, was in uniform of some sorts. But I didn’t really know one from the other.
“Can I help you” a uniformed man asked.
“Um ah, yes Sir. I think I, well what I mean is, I would like to or perhaps – do you have any openings for a Boatswain’s Mate?” Not cool!
The guy looked at me like the dork that I was. He chuckled somewhat, gave me a book of forms and asked me, politely but assertively, to fill them out in the “fill out the book of forms” room.
I complied. It took me about an hour to complete the application, as best I could. Of some concern was the part about a criminal record, trouble with the law etc and my mind came back to that time with Timmy and the Great Record Robbery. I felt I had better be honest here and not lie for I had seen the movie and knew what happens to guys who lie in the military – Firing Squad – just like that anti-war movie “Paths of Glory” with Kirk Douglas. “Nothing glorious in being dead” I shivered to think of it myself. Then again this was the Navy. What then? Oh damn, the gangplank, as in walk it, as in how long can you tread water? As in how far can you swim? As in keel hauling, just like Jack London’s “Sea Wolf” with Edward G Robinson and John Garfield! Cookie and the shark! Good gawd man I thought to myself, stop with the movie fantasy, this is real life.
I handed the application back to the nice man in the uniform. He shuffled them into a file folder. Oh yeah, the infamous file folder. If you want to look good in the military and not be a target for some stupid duty, like KP, you walk around looking important, and busy, with a file folder in you hands – just like Phil Silvers as the Master Sergeant con man in “Sgt Bilko.” But I digress.
“Thanks John” the recruiter said, then adding “Now I have here a battery of aptitude tests for you to take: basic math, algebra, general knowledge, things of that nature. If you would be so kind as to go over to the “take the battery of aptitude tests” room and I’ll be right with you.”
In I went into the “take the battery of aptitude tests” room and sat down. I was the only dork there. The recruiter came in and told me that these tests were time sensitive in that I had a certain amount of time to complete them. Fine I thought but somewhat nervous.
“Try not to be nervous,” he reassured me. He was a nice guy actually. But then again they are all nice guys and gals until they have you dead to right or lost to your rights, right? No left!
First math – 20 minutes, done. Then some geometry, algebra – 30 minutes, done. Then general knowledge – 30 minutes – done admiralty, er admirably. Finally history – 20 minutes, done. Whew, finished, tough go for sure.
“Okay John, thanks. You can go back to reception, or go out for a smoke, or whatever. We should have the results in about 30 minutes.”
Whew, that was tough I thought. Almost two hours of this. I was a tad drained of energy.
….It wasn’t long before I was out of that place. Appendicitis will do that to someone. Yet I almost died from that infection. I was laid up in the hospital for over a week. Lots of time to think about my future under the cloudy haziness of morphine. Weird but oh so wonderful dreams. Suddenly I could relate to my hippy brethren and their Last Chance Saloon.
Then out of the blue my sister from the wet coast called me. Seems that her husband had bought a 35 foot sailboat with the intent or dream of sailing it to Japan, his homeland. Indeed he had already made plans and departed with a Brit companion, who was a professional sailor. Together with George, his girlfriend, frigate birds and flying fish Sid made it to Hawaii in 19 days. Unfortunately this trip was a wake-up call to reality for Sid in that his dreams of maritime lore, Pacific blue and Japanese pride came crashing down on him drowning him like an emotional tsunami on his psyche, his self confidence and his personal well being.
Sid realized that he did not like open ocean sailing. He was seasick most of the time during the crossing from the west coast to Hawaii. He missed his wife as well as their first newborn child. Consequently he decided to pack it all in in Hawaii but still wanted George, the Brit, to sail the boat to Nagoya Japan, a Pacific port town that was close to Sid’s birthplace. George needed some help to achieve this as his girlfriend had split. Thus the phone call to me.
Sail to Japan? You bet. I quit my job, said goodbye to family and friends off I went to Honolulu. The Ala Wei Harbour and Ala Moana Yacht club near Waikiki would be my home for the next 6 months, then off into the wide Pacific expanse to Japan via Micronesia: the Marshall, Caroline, Gilbert and Marianas island archipelago was beckoning.
That excellent adventure is the subject of another story. Suffice to say we only made it as far as Saipan in the Marianas as the boat was taking on water as its seams were opening up under the strain of pounding seas and surf. There was no way on earth that we could sail her from Saipan to Japan as it was a “beat” all of the way up to Nagoya. Sadly I said goodbye to George, who would end up sailing the boat south from Saipan to Guam to sell her to some American sailor. I flew to Tokyo where I proceeded to my sister’s place in a section of Yokohama called Totsuka. That was the end of this journey. Ever try speaking or learning Japanese? No wonder “hara-kiri or seppuku” was so popular. I returned home to my shit city of a city by plane about a month later.
I really enjoyed that experience and found that I was drawn to the maritime life. By hook or by Captain Crook I had to find a way to continue on this path. Without a hesitant breath I began surveying the quays, the berths, and the jetties of the waterfront area of my home town within a nano second of arriving home. I read the local maritime shipping newspapers to see if I could some how worm my way into this profession. No luck. A longshoreman perhaps, or a deckhand, a boatswain, maybe a third mate, whatever, anything at all to belong to the maritime brotherhood. No luck. The maritime employment doors in this city at least were slammed shut on me like some battened down hatch on a ship in a storm. The union was as tight as a dolphin’s ass and was, in the vernacular, a closed shop. Unless someone died of nepotism, not likely, my chances for employment in this profession were about as slim and as ornery as a sailor’s fart upwind…
