To those who’ve asked:

• The cubital tunnel surgery on my left hand has only been partly successful. I still can’t control the pinky and my ring finger goes in and out depending on the time of day. If it doesn’t improve more in the next 3-4 months, we’ll need to discuss a muscle transplant. It might not be as successful as the current issue.

• I have surgery this Thursday on the right hand. That hand is still working properly, so I hope I’ll be able to keep the condition as is.
• The tissue transplant in my mouth went better than expected, so I’m done with that.
• We’ve exhausted the reasons I sometimes lose control of my legs. The family doctor, a cardiologist, two trips to a general neurologist, a vascular surgeon, a spine specialist, and a brain surgeon at Stanford can’t find any cause. They did tell me my brain is in exceptionally good shape for a man my age. The cosmetics are nice, but I’d really rather have hands that work.
• My memory issues and my sometimes inability to do simple math (like adding a tip to a bill), transposing letters when I type, and sometimes inability to recognize words is still an open question. I’m going to a neuro-psychologist in Jan. for a battery of tests by the doctor who helped invent the specialty.

Other than that, thumbs up and thanks to everyone who asked.

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USS Holland (AS-3) Off San Diego With Submarines Alongside (circa 1935)

As I write this two American flags hang on my wall. Both are folded into militarily tight triangles and protected by flag boxes. One contains a Purple Heart, the other the WWII Service Medal and Pacific Service Medal. One day my own flag with a Cold War Service Medal will join them.

WWI Poison Gas Victims

My grandfather received the Purple Heart after being shot and mustard-gassed in contested Alsace-Lorraine. He knew his location only by the strange melange of French and German the locals spoke.

His injuries were severe. Gruesome battlefield triage located him near the bottom of the list based on the likelihood his wounds were fatal. They laid him on a blanket spread across war-churned mud to die. He received only a daily ration of bread and some water. After a week, he beat the odds and finally received some medical attention, eventually going home.

The Mail Had to Go Through
He tried to reenlist at the beginning of WWII, but was barred because he held a critical wartime job – clerk on a railway post office shuttling through a dozen or more Montana and North Dakota ‘burgs. His car is on display at the California Railroad Museum in Sacramento, proof the world is very small.

His daughter went to work at Boeing as a draftsman working on the B-29. My mother worked as a crane operator at a former toy factory in Toledo converted to manufacturing tank barrels. They were Rosie the Riveters and every bit as important and deserving of praise as the men they supported.

YP-73 in for Repairs, Kodiak, AK (4/10/41)

My father joined the Naval Reserve midway through his senior year in high school, only months before Dec. 7. He became a radioman and immediately shipped out to Alaska. There, he served aboard the YP-73, a converted salmon fishing boat tasked with patrolling the Aleutians.

Like many men of the era he was taciturn about his service. A few years before he died he told me a new story he’d never mentioned before. I’m still not sure why he did.

On Dec. 8, 1941 – less than 24 hours after the war began – his small boat forced a Dutch ship carrying a cargo of Japanese silk to stop off Dutch Harbor. His boarding party found a Japanese officer escorting the cargo and took him prisoner. Surely one of the first prisoners of the war.

Aboard the Gar One Last Time

USS Gar (SS-206) at Mare Island, CA (circa 1941)

Later he became a submariner, serving two war patrols aboard the USS Gar. After the patrols, he transferred to the personal staff of the Commander of Submarine Forces (Pacific), Adm. Charles Lockwood, aboard the submarine tender USS Holland.

Growing up, I heard many tales about the Pacific islands and countries he visited. They were unstintingly light-hearted, “There was one time we went to a beer garden and…,” they usually began. I assumed his war patrols had been relatively combat-free and that service on the Admiral’s staff wasn’t exactly tough duty.

It turned out my assumption was wrong.

My Dad died at 86. He suffered a stroke a few months before pneumonia finally got him. The stroke left him semi-conscious for the better part of a week and every few hours he’d verbalize his delusions.

He talked to my long-dead mother. He took up his old vocation by controlling aircraft in his sleep. He described a sinister organization called, The Group that imprisoned him in a school. Oddly, The Group’s commandant was one of his least favorite people, Pat Robertson.

One afternoon he started mumbling and his voice grew steadily louder. He shouted the names of his Gar shipmates. He cried out for help and wept as if holding a shipmate during his last moments. It was clear from his fevered talk that he was back 65 years aboard a submarine under attack.

I suppose he could’ve been dreaming about a fantasy like The Group, but his voice betrayed an emotion and reality his Group rants never had. I listened to his cries for help, stung that I could to nothing to ease his pain. On that sunny afternoon I became his crewmate holding him as he held his shipmate. That pain taught me something about the man I’d known my entire life.

I saw him in a different light and was boundlessly proud of him.

Related articles

• The Omnipotent Poobah Speaks about memoirs (omnipotentpoobah.com)
• A time for remembering (swwashingtonredcross.wordpress.com)
• New York Woman Buys Fallen WWII Soldier’s Medal At Antique Shop, Returns It To Family (huffingtonpost.com)
• L.I. Man Says Thieves Stole His Grandfather’s Purple Heart, Dog Tags (newyork.cbslocal.com)
• A Hero to Remember (fellowshipofminds.wordpress.com)
• Submariners unsung heroes of Cold War (cnn.com)
• Veteran’s Day: Why the Odds Were Against My Existence (danceswithchaos.wordpress.com)
• It’s Veterans Day, so… you’re welcome (hotair.com)
• The WWII ShoeBox Project (thedenveregotist.com)
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I was a band geek in high school. I played bass drum in the marching band. I chose that instrument because it was the one that got all the chicks – at least that’s what I told myself. Clearly, it was a love/hate relationship.

We played many, many, very, very lame songs. A marching version of The Carpenters’ Rainy Days and Mondays? Really? What the hell was Jerry Cole thinking?

The Horse (Sounding Much Better Than Our Version)

The Horse? That’s the one everyone wanted. It was fun to play. People liked it. It sounded better because, well, it wasn’t Rainy Days and Mondays. EVERY day is rainy and Monday when you’re a hormonal teenager. You don’t need a musical homage to point it out.

Grazing in the Grass

The drummers liked Grazing in the Grass because of the cowbell opening. We were the Nostradumbasses of the, “It needs more cowbell” movement. We were far ahead of our time. Hipsters before hipsters were cool. They’re cool now aren’t they? Please. Tell me they are.

It’s a Humiliatingly Small World

But the final indignity? The one I could no longer abide? The Disney Halftime Extravaganza. Rainy Days and Mondays on steroids…with Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head thrown in for good measure. White fur hats with bent coat hangers covered in the black socks for mouse ears. Dancing Disney characters gamboling on the gridiron.

I kept hoping the copyright police would come and shut us down for using Mickey’s image without Walt’s approval. The only thing worse would’ve been a marching version of Muskrat Love. Thank God it didn’t become a hit until 1976.

I played my last It’s a Small World in my junior year. I threw in the ersatz mouse ears and quit before my senior year. I couldn’t bring myself to return. I still have flashbacks when I’m at Disneyland. I’ve been banned from the Matterhorn Bobsled because of that last unfortunate episode. I really did think the ride operators wearing lederhosen were from Micro-Switzerland and coming for me.

The bells. THE BELLS! The horror!

As for those poor kids up there at New Buffalo High? I predict very long, very expensive therapy in their future.

Kids, RUN! RUN LIKE THE WIND!

Related articles

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Bill Graham Rock Impresario

As a young college lad, I worked several jobs – newspaper production manager, stringer for ABC sports, and writer for my college paper.  As the paper’s Assistant Arts Editor (in a department of 2) I wrote a weekly music column named His Master’s Voice. Think RCA logo with a cute little dog named Nipper. It was a clever name lost on 18 year olds; 30 years after the dogs died and just as RCA began its long march into oblivion. I take solace in not having coined the name myself (my apologies Greg, it just wasn’t how I rolled back in the day).

Most weeks the column consisted of really awful album reviews (I was proud of having written a review containing the line,  “…he doodlie, doos his way to excellence” – and opinion pieces along with music industry news bits.

No one knew the news usually came from 2 week old copies of the then fledgling Rolling Stone or even older copies of Billboard magazine. I rejiggered the news bits to my own tastes and met every deadline. Or, I just waited for the next day because deadlines meant little when half the staff was stoned.  But even that small amount of work garnered widespread acclaim – well, widespread on a college campus with 18,000 people.

Complete strangers sometimes stopped me to offer the latest music news by way of a guy who knew a cousin who lived in Stockton, CA. To tell the truth, it was unnerving to talk to these strangers. I never figured out how they knew me by sight. But, the biggest perk came from  a political science professor who gave me an “A” on a clearly “C”-level exam on the strength of an article about his musical hero Jimmy Buffet. This was the fledgling pre-Parrothead, sold out show, Margaritaville restaurant owning Coral Reefer Jimmy. The questionable ethics of the transaction never occurred to me at the time and when it did, I didn’t volunteer to go back and have the grade changed to what I really deserved.

Billy Graham, Rock Star for God

On the Cover of the Rolling Stone…
One day I came upon a Rolling Stone article about San Francisco rock impresario, Bill Graham. At the time, Graham owned the legendary Fillmore and Winterland and was at the cutting edge, of the cutting edge, of the hot San Francisco music scene.

My article charged the legendary Graham with wielding too much power over the rock scene. I said he rejected some fine acts to promote his protégée bands at the expense of lesser known San Francisco acts. I have no idea how true it was, but the now-dead Graham is still celebrated in the Bay Area as the Godfather of bands and ballrooms. You can’t swing a Hammond B3 without hitting his picture posing next to some famous musician. Who knows? The story might well have had a kernel of truth in it somewhere.

I don’t remember the article as being particularly popular. I didn’t save a copy. There were no conversations with strangers, no academic largess to reward the bad grades and poor class attendance I got while writing that column. All in all, it was a snooze that I promptly forgot.

Several weeks after the column appeared, a letter from a legal firm appeared on my desk. They had a long name, something like Nasty, Rude, Brutish, and Short or Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe.

‘Dear Master Voice…’
Inside, I found an original copy of the column with the name Bill Graham underlined at every appearance. I also found a letter from the law firm signed by the senior partner or more likely his secretary. It came on fancy embossed stationery with watermarks and everything. It began:

“Dear Master Voice, [sic]

After a complete review of the enclosed newspaper article, we wish to inform you that unless you publish a retraction within 10 business days we will be forced to sue you for slander. The article is a completely false, malicious instrument. I’m sure you can see how Rev. Graham’s reputation is paramount in his work with the world’s disadvantaged peop…”

What the Hell?!

It took me a moment to understand the lawyers had mistaken an article about Bill Graham, Godfather of San Francisco rock, for one about the Rev. Billy Graham, failed faith healer and spiritual advisor to Richard Nixon, Elvis, and a billion rubes who bought tickets to his Super Bowl-like revivals.

I was in awe. I envisioned a nationwide legal battle and perhaps a short stint in jail that would cinch my reputation as a combative, independent journalist unwilling to buckle under pressure while starting into the giant freedom-crushing maw of “The Man”. If Woodward and Bernstein had broken Watergate just a few months sooner, I’m sure I would have waited to get the call that the boys needed my help to find bag man G. Gordon Liddy. I fantasized that once I’d been sprung from prison – going to prison was quite a popular daydream for many young journalists – we’d all gather at the reporter’s bar for some hard drinking and cigar smoking, even though I was too young to buy a shot of bourbon. My hate for bourbon and lack of fedora with a press card in the brim didn’t affect the daydream at all.

Then, I was mystified. How the Hell did a presumably competent, expensive firm mistake “Bill” for “Billy”? The names were different! They actually UNDERLINED them! Had they just parsed for the names and ignored the article’s content? I found myself a little more than offended by that thought.

Billy Graham was an old-school preacher while the other Graham hung out in seedy bars where musicians smoked “The Acid” and shot up “The Mary Jane”. The column’s picture of Bill showed him in a paisley shirt and sunglasses. They were probably there to hide his drug-addled eyes. The well-coiffed Rev. Graham wouldn’t have been caught dead in a paisley shirt, although he was known to wear a broad white belt.

There wasn’t a word about God, or church, or prayer, or the obscene amounts of money the story implied were in play. There were mentions of Graham protégée bands and not a word about raising a plant attendee out of his wheelchair.  Personally, I thought Ernest Angley was the much better show. You can’t beat a loud smack on the forehead to heal some crippled, ruined wretch. Graham (Billy, not Bill) was always much too dignified.

To this day I don’t know what got the lawyers involved. I have no idea how they could’ve mistaken the Pat Robertson of his day and a rock impresario. I ignored the letter, but they never threatened again.  Or, maybe I have an outstanding warrant in Kentucky for insult to a confused religious icon. It could happen.

All I know is that it was a thrill for a 19-year old who had no idea what he was getting himself into.

Related articles

• The Omnipotent Poobah Speaks about his life and music (omnipotentpoobah.com)
• Billy Graham’s Daughter Takes The Reins Of His Legacy (npr.org)
• Billy Graham Can Send You To Hell (5ptsalt.com)
• Billy Graham’s daughter sees signs of end times in world events (via Newsessentials Blog) (thechristiangazette.wordpress.com)
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Fiona the Sharbrador, 1997-2011

We brought Fiona’s ashes home today (10/7/2011). She’ll join our golden retriever, Chrissie, on the shelf. Her journey is done. Welcome home Fi, welcome home.

Also, thanks to the over 200 people who visited this page (including someone from Hanoi) and to those leaving condolences. Most of you didn’t know Fiona or me, but you were genuinely touched by her death. I don’t know whether that’s a tribute to the kindness of strangers or the uniqueness that made Fiona, Fiona.

The veterinarian, through teary eyes, mixed up a special treat for your last meal. A ‘doggie pate’ with several of your favorite kinds of meat. You ate it with a gusto I hadn’t seen in months. As you ate, the vet gave you a sedative while Mom and I petted you in all the places you loved the most – the ears, the bridge of your big shar pei nose (the one that set the vet’s record for sucking up foxtails, 4 at once and you never whimpered). You were happy and content and, for a moment, became young again. Your tail wagged and it was good to see you still alive deep within your old and failing body. Young Fiona, if only for a moment, was back.

As you ate, you began to relax and drift off. You closed your eyes and began to snore. The big thunderous snore that rattled the windows. No matter how many times you disturbed our own sleep, I always loved that sound. It was the snore of a young heart, a big heart, and healthy lungs. It gave me a comfort to know you were there.

The doctor returned with the last shot, a big needle filled with pink fluid. Mom said her goodbyes and left. It was too hard to watch you go.

I stayed with the doctor and we both sat beside you trying to get the courage to release you from your pain. Suddenly, you began to bark softly in your sleep, a soft happy yap as you’d dreamed a thousand times before. Chasing bunnies we’d always called it. Your tail wagged wildly and your legs pumped like a pup. You panted under the phantom exertion and ran like the wind. You seemed low and sleek and faster that I thought possible. You were dreaming the dreams of your youth for the last time.

The doctor began to release the pink fluid and your running slowed until it stopped. I watched your side to see when you would leave us and soon you relaxed and was gone.

Fiona, thanks for all the love you gave Claire and Mom and Me. Thanks for the 2 raccoons, 3 opossums, and even the two skunks you dragged to us. Thanks for allowing me to pet you for hours on end. Your hair always soothed me and made my hands tingle. Thanks for the slight musky-sweet odor of your coat and the thousands of times we stopped whatever we were doing and watched you be a dog who wanted nothing more than to please us and love us. You never let us down.

I’m pretty sure there is no heaven – at least for people – but I’m not so sure about the animals like you who come into our lives. It’s tempting to imagine you in a place where you can run and play and be a dog forever. A place where I can imagine you and you can remember us. I hope I’m right about that.

Good luck in that place little one. May you live a life full of only the best. You deserve it.

Here’s hoping there’ll be an unending supply of bunnies to chase in the sun, low and sleek and fast as you run across the Elysian Fields.