I'm truly surprised at the posts from folks in their teens or twenties.
Why?
Let's put this in some perspective. When I was in my early teens, the VietNam war hadn't even begun. The US was just sending over "advisors." Many of those advisors were veterans of the Korean war.
There were dial telephones, although most frugal people shared by using "party lines," which meant that if your neighbor was on the phone, you waited until he/she was off before making your own phone call.
Touch-tone phones did not exist. Cell phones were something out of sci-fi movies.
There were no computers, other than the large mainframes that occupied an entire city block and had all of 64K in RAM.
There were no CD's, DVD's, PC's, VCR's, iPods, LED's, or practically anything else that exists today in the way of technology. The closest we probably came was color TV, although most families in our neighborhood couldn't afford them.
At the 1964 World's Fair in NYC, I was pretty impressed with one of the very first demonstrations of the microwave oven. Problem was, the hot dogs were lukewarm on the outside, and cold on the inside.
Better to buy from the guy with the pushcart in the muscle tee-shirt across the way who was yelling, "Hot dogs! Hot dogs! Get yer really hot hot dogs here!"
That was my childhood.
My father's?
His mother used the coal stove to both cook meals and wash clothes. She shovelled coal all day into that stove, and ground the black ashes into the floor. She died when my father was just 12.
There were no refrigerators. The term "icebox" simply meant that food was stored in some sort of box, and that guys who carried big blocks of ice would stop by every day. That was refrigeration.
My father was literally educated in a one-room school house. All ages mixed together, and just one teacher.
Even as a teenager, my father was brilliant. He had the audacity to step up to the blackboard and correct the teachers' mistakes on math and algebra.
He predicted the concept of laser technology back in the early 1930's. By the 1950's, he'd already had patents on technology that only came of age in the last one or two decades.
An incredible man of enormous intellect.
Why am I typing all of this? Because I know I'm going to lose my father soon, and I need to just get some stories out while I can tell them. Feel free to just take a pass on this thread. It's just my own (thanks, Oleg, for the server space).
Back in the early 1960's, a big thing was "take your son to work" day. So, some of my friends got to go to whatever factories or offices their fathers worked at.
By that time, my dad had undergone a thorough FBI background check, including interviews with every neighbor willing to talk. Don't ask me what his clearance was; I didn't know then, and I'm sure he doesn't remember now.
But, when he and I walked into the guardhouse at the AC/Delco plant he worked at, I couldn't help but notice a large number of guards. Nor could I ignore the rack of Thompson subguns.
I didn't know what my father did. But I didn't know any other kids whose fathers had to present identification to guys who had submachine guns. Dumb as I was, I surmised that my father's job was different than most other fathers on the block. Other kids got footballs autographed by Bart Starr. I got to see Tommy guns.
When the Atlas program turned to arming rockets with nukes, my dad wanted out. I honestly didn't know this until two or so years ago. I thought he'd gotten screwed out of a promotion. Turns out, he turned all of his programming work over to his supervisor, let the super take the credit and the promotion, and my father then asked for a transfer.
Right? Wrong? I don't know. But it takes a very principled person to risk his/her career over personal beliefs.
By the time most guys reach their 40's or 50's, they're not much for fighting anymore. My father was no different. And, like most boys, I thought he was a coward for not going out and mixing it up. Funny how time changes your perspective on violence.
Back in 1960, though, when all of the houses in our subdivision were being built, I met a kid my age. His name was Mark.
Mark and I would charge up the piles of construction dirt. As months passed, I noticed that Mark was getting weaker and weaker. He couldn't even climb the piles of dirt.
Turns out he had musclear dystrophy, and he wasn't getting any better.
His father couldn't accept the MS, and instead made his older son the "favored one." The older son could play football, baseball, and do all the things that Mark could not.
The older son started to antagonize Mark, which pissed me off no end. When I got the "favored one" on the ground, I kept beating him until my mother pulled me off of him. I wanted him to suffer, just like his brother--my friend--had suffered.
Then, one glorious morning, the father of Mark and the "favored one" confronted my dad at the end of the driveway, accusing him of somehow interfering in business that didn't concern my father.
Up until that point, I'd only heard my dad swear just a little. I'd seen him lose his temper, but just a little.
It was Hell on Earth, and my dad was in full form. He ripped this Major ahole Dad a new one, and had parts to spare. He told this POS just exactly where his place in the Hereafter would be, and let him know what an SOB he was for letting his youngest son die without love.
That instance still stays with me. Why? Because my father could have called somebody--FBI, NSC, or any other alphabet agency--and said this guy was a Commie. Instead, he stood out there--outweighed and out-muscled by probably 50 pounds--and let this guy have what was coming to him.
My friend Mark died months later.
For those who still might be reading: this is boring. This is essentially my notes for a eulogy. Read at your own risk of narcolepsy.
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When we still lived back in Flint, MI in the early 1950's, the Baker house was the party house on the weekends. Why? I don't know. My mother never drank, and my father drank very, very little.
But it was the place to be for all of the relatives to bring their guitars, harmonicas, steel guitars, accordians, voices, or other implements of musical destruction.
Amazingly, it all came together, and there were some pretty good jam sessions. Especially from a group of middle-aged women, including my mother, who can still blow some pretty good riffs on a harmonica at age 88. My dad still has some vinyl records made from those Saturday nights, and it was good stuff.
The problem was Uncle Johnny. He was a tall, strong man of Polish descent who could charm just about any lady he wanted. And so he did with my mom's eldest sister, Lilly. For his size, he was an amazing dancer. Maybe that's one reason Lilly married him.
The other problem, for my dad, was Uncle Johnny. Johnny bore a resemblance to George C. Scott: the nose, the eyes, and the noble attitude.
Aside from that, Uncle Johnny bore no other attributes to either George C. Scott, or Patton: he liked to bowl, and he liked to dance.
My father has always enjoyed serious converstations. There were none between him and Johnny.
Dad: "So, what do think about Kennedy sending more troops to VietNam?"
Johnny: "So, how's your bowling. Been bowling lately?"
Dad: "I'm worried that we could get into another war."
Johnny: "So, Pat, what's your bowling score these days?"
It wasn't until last year, when my father had a serious fall and broke his nose, that he told me what I'd never known before: this wasn't the first time his nose had been broken; Uncle Johnny broke it once when he was drunk and punched my father in the face. Now I understand!
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For those of you who thrive on sleep deprivation and are still reading this, and particularly to those who are in their teens and twenties: you ain't old.
Those in their 20's still have the physical ability to do work that us "old farts" cannot, but can also present a professional image.
If you've played your cards right, you have the best of all worlds. You have an advantage that can only be utilized once.
You don't get this pass in life twice. Take it, run with it, make it the best that it can be.
