Sun's "Good Advice" (Not Taken)

  

Spending too much time in Bill’s Pool Hall and not enough in class, I flunked the 8^th grade.  That failure, along with an early school-year birthday, placed me in draft status while still in high school.  The draft board informed my school that if I didn’t maintain at least a D average, I was theirs.  I graduated with a D+.  It was nip and tuck.  Two weeks after graduation, though, I received the greetings.  I took the induction notice to my father and moaned, “Gee, Dad, what do you think I should do?”  During WWII, my father was one of Darby’s original 500 Rangers, selected in Carrickfergus, North Ireland, and trained by British Commandos in Achnacarry, Scotland.  In 1942 at a place called Dieppe, the Rangers were the first American soldiers to experience combat against the Germans in Europe—the first to kill and be killed—and during every invasion that followed, they, along with paratroopers, led the way, were the tip of the spear.  While on a scouting patrol, my father was wounded and captured by Rommel’s troops at Faid Pass in Tunisia on Valentine’s Day in 1943, just prior to the German rout of the American forces at Kasserine Pass.  Except for three escapes, during one of which he remained free for a month, he spent over two years as a prisoner of war.  He was flown from Tunisia to Italy where he and other POWs were marched through Naples while the Italians lined up to spit and throw garbage.  Eventually, he ended up in Germany and bounced from camp to camp, but spent most of his time at Stalag 2B.  He was liberated by British troops in April of 1945.

Dad read my draft notice and, laughing, threw up his arms and said, “Join the Air Force!  They get coffee and doughnuts every morning!”  I did.  Six months later, following basic training and tech school, I found myself in Vietnam, but in the relative security of Phan Rang Air Base.  I worked in Life Support for a fighter squadron; that is, supporting the life of the fighter jock.  Anything that touched the pilot’s body was my responsibility: helmet, oxygen mask, survival vest, parachute, G-suit, survival seat pack with life raft, &c.  I trained on the equipment’s use, as well as escape and evasion applications. Jocks flying the day’s first sorties showed up all bleary eyed at squadron headquarters around 5 AM where I met them with coffee and doughnuts, suited them up, and sent them on their way to roar into the dawn in camouflaged F-100s.  Mostly due to the equipment, the headquarters building was air conditioned.   I was also responsible for mowing lawns around the building (as I was frequently in trouble), a task I performed wearing a shoulder-length, blond wig—a gift from a jock.  The wig originally belonged to a blow-up doll, the life of the party at the officer’s hooch until, alas, punctured beyond repair.

The job was gravy; the assignment was gravy; no war stories here.  Oh, Charlie lobbed in a few rockets from time to time just to let us know he was out there, but little damage was done, nothing of consequence that I recall.  Phan Rang was a world away from the combat Army grunts and Marines experienced out on the rice paddies or in the jungle.  In fact, we were so secure, those ground pounders came to Phan Rang for in-country R&R.  No doubt about it, we flyboys had it dicked: coffee and doughnuts every morning.  Well, except for the fighter jocks who got shot down, but that happened yet another world away.  I returned to the States physically unscathed.  The worst thing I experienced was the welcome a few college students provided when I passed through San Francisco on my way home to Arkansas.  At that time, troops were required to travel in uniform.  As the harassment increased, the mandate changed to travel in civilian clothes: My America.  After leave, I spent a year on a SAC base outside Columbus, Ohio, then back to a fighter squadron at Keflavik, Iceland, for a year, and then I was out.  I was discharged in New Jersey, having paid my dues for the natural facts, as John Lee Hooker would say.

A decade or so later and free of military obligation, I began to question the old man’s advice.  Killing time at my parent’s house one day, my Dad and I watched television; I stretched out on the sofa and he on his recliner and in charge of the remote as always and flipping channels.  We shot the shit, discussed politics and the war de jour.

“You know, Dad,” I said, “as a man, I feel like I missed something in life by not experiencing combat.”

“Stevie,” he replied, not looking away from the screen and still flipping channels, “you didn’t miss a thing.”




(Photograph of the author by "The Choker"; Phan Rang, Vietnam, 1970)

Taking Five

DELTA OSCAR...SIERRA VICTOR INDIA DELTA ALPHA NOVEMBER INDIA
YANKEE ALPHA...ALPHA UNIFORM FOX...WHISKY INDIA ECHO
DELTA ECHO ROMEO SIERRA ECHO HOTEL ECHO
NOVEMBER...ALPHA DELTA INDIA OSCAR
SIERRA...GOLF OSCAR OSCAR DELTA
BRAVO YANKEE ECHO.

Boating on Lake Hamilon

Hot Springs, Arkansas

When these photographs were taken, the man-made Lake Hamilton was only twenty years old, the result of damming the Ouachita River with Carpenter Dam upstream of Lake Catherine, another man-made lake which began to fill in 1924 as a result of the Remmel Dam. As this family boated in 1952, the gates closed at Blakely Dam on the Ouachita river upstream of Lake Hamilton, and that lake, which would be the largest and named Lake Ouachita, began to fill. Twenty years after these photographs were taken, the father and two of the sons raced hydroplanes on all three lakes and throughout the South, and often finished in the money.

(Photographs by Steve and Jane Ketzer, 1952)

Two Boys and a Spider

At this age, they hunted spiders amid the bamboo, elephant ear, un-cropped shrubbery and cactus gardens of Long Beach, California, circa 1956.  Their plan was choreographed, simple, and yet, effective. The larger boy held a pickle jar, holes poked in the lid with a steak knife, the glass already obscured with web and spider juice or something and a third full of crawling spiders, some faster, depending upon time of capture.  In his other hand, he held a red and black dotted lady bug.  Together, the boys searched for webs, the larger the better.  Upon finding one, the lady bug was tossed upon it, while the smaller boy stood vigil, right hand ready to grab, for they were sometimes fast, those spiders, but the boy was quick, too, and snatched up both spider and web in his fist, careful not to crush the spider that he felt scurrying around in his hand making him giggle, because it tickled. The larger boy shook down the spiders, unscrewed the lid, and another deposit was made. He then retrieved the lady bug.  Oh, they knew of black widows and recognized them immediately; they knew of stinging bees and those with Hs on their backs that did not sting; likewise, they knew the red ant sting, but that some black ants didn't, and termites never.  They knew lizards and snakes, horny toads and frogs, and the architecture of ant lions. They discovered one particular large web that led to a funnel, a tunnel of web, and they could not see the spider, but tossed the lady bug with Pip-like expectation.  A large spider charged from the tunnel, up the funnel, and before the small boy could seize it, it grabbed the lady bug viciously, injected it and began to roll and wrap it in web within its needle legs.  Of course, the boys were shocked, aghast, apalled, and yes...frightened.  They became the hunted, and to this day share an abnormal fear of spiders.

(Happy Birthday, Brother!)

(In 1950s Long Beach, enterprising photography studios, sometimes working with a dairy company, came and sought customers where they lived, in their neighborhoods. They came in  large vans that contained makeshift studios, complete with chairs, backdrops, tripods and the like. Upon learning photographers were in their neighborhood, mothers rounded up their kids, scrubbed their faces, wet and combed their hair, dressed them with a clean shirt, and marched them out to the van.  Proof sheets arrived in the mail weeks later, and, depending upon their means, families selected photographs.  These are two examples of that photography; the one on the bottom is cropped, but had a calendar at the bottom.) 

The Second Amendment

(First two photographs by Steve Ketzer, Sr., 1952, 1960;
second two by Steve Ketzer, Jr., 1983; third by Charles Bradley, 1968)

Headaches

The small kid worked in a bowling alley as a pin setter, scampering around behind the lanes, sending back balls, raking away fallen pins, setting up new racks.  He got in a fight with another kid, who, apparently losing, whopped him over the head with a bowling pin.  His skull was soft where the pin struck.  Later, in high school, he boxed in the Golden Gloves...he was always fighting, with or without gloves.  In 1942, he was one of Darby's Rangers and no doubt gave and received blows while with that outfit.  In his 50s and 60s, he suffered terrible headaches and wondered why, as did his VA doctors.  I could have told them: He was my father.

(First Photograph by Stephen Ketzer, Grandfather Heretic, circa 1932;
Second Photograph, circa 1942, photographer unknown.)

35/40

I don't know the girl on the left, but the one on the right was my aunt.  Some 35 years after this photograph was taken and 40 years since then, I can still hear her yell at me for combing my hair in her kitchen; she also yelled at me for jabbing food with a sharp knife and putting it in my mouth. She made the best lasagna.  The boy was my uncle, a master mechanic, who rescued me frequently and sometimes my friends. He showed me how to set the internal timing on an aircraft engine magneto.  He showed me again and again.  His patience never failed: I finally got it.


(Photograph by Stephen Ketzer, aka, Grandfather Heretic, circa 1936)

Automobiles

No, it wasn't brainwashing.  Since the first Fords, Americans loved automobiles because they love individual freedom, the ability to go where you want to go, when you want to go, on your schedule, not one dictated by a public transportation authority with some Mussolini beating his chest about how, for a brief moment, it runs on time. And as for trains, our men got their fill riding 40 & 8s, anyway.  But, say it was brainwashing; then I would suggest the washer is currently at work in India and China.


(Photograph by Steve Ketzer, Sr.)

Tire Pressure

Whenever adding air to tires, always spit on your finger and put that slime on the valve stem. If it makes bubbles, that's your air leak. Buy a tool and tighten the valve core--cheap fix.  I learned that trick from my father in 1956 at the age of six while airing up bicycle tires, but it works equally well for motorcycle, automobile and aircraft tires.  It would work on the Space Shuttle, F-22 and F-35 tires, but we killed that technology birthing happy-dance puppets, so those tires no longer require inflation.


(Photograph by Steve Ketzer, Sr.)

I Don't get out of Bed

I don't get out of bed anymore to catch a rhyme, line or stanza, to sit drinking reheated coffee at the pendulous hour of 3 AM while children sleep and the refrigerator sings white lullabies. Oh, they still come, the visions, epiphanies, simple scenes that mean so much, and it's only a matter of hearing them correctly, their music, and rising to find words, knowing polish will come in the morning or next week, next year, that it's the idea that must be grasped and held. But, no, I lie there and fall asleep, letting them drift into dreams that vanish upon waking. I think it was Updike who said poetry was a young man's game, maybe someone else. I could look it up, but I'll let that go, too--it doesn't matter--but you, hey, get your ass out of bed and write that shit down.

Pinky's TPLO Physical Therapy Song

She's my sweet little girl.

She's my Pinky baby Sue,

I love that little doggy,

tell you what I'm gonna do,

gonna kiss her on the snout,

gonna toss her ears about,

gonna tell her that I love her,

and there's no doubt.

Oh, Pinky baby Sue,

 little doggy rescue,

you'll never wear a ribbon,

but don't be blue.

You'll never make the cut,

you little mixed breed mutt,

but if the prize was precious, girl,

you'd kick their doggy butts.

She's my sweet little girl.

Oh, Pinky baby Sue,
I know you love me, too,
because you roll in human poo...

(Continue adding absurd words to  

the rhythm of pets and slow scratches.)

Coffee and Cigarettes

Today, coffee, 
but with Eric being gone, 
no cigarettes,
 although there might be a
 butt in the trash can...I'll go see.

Eric Ketzer

Thanks to my son, Eric (well, actually, my only son), now flying back to St. Louis, for creating this blog for his computer illiterate father.

Little Rock

Following Marilyn Monroe’s lead, I put my underwear in the freezer, but added socks and

T-shirt.  Prior to dressing for work as a mechanic at an aircraft repair station, I donned the frozen under-things, and was cool, at least for one brief moment.  Temperatures in Little Rock and most of the south had been above 100 for two weeks, hitting 110 a few times.  I worked the night shift, which began at 4 PM and concluded at midnight. Our only relief in the hangar came from floor fans that stood as tall as a man, but in such heat, blew only hot air. On this day, with the hangar full, High Speed Haxby and I had to work on the ramp.  He drew a single engine Beechcraft Bonanza, the owner demanding more cooling from the air conditioner.  (Look, Fella, in this weather, the AC can only do so much.)  Like the aircraft I drew, a West Wind business jet, affectionately known as a “Jew Canoe” since the Israel Aircraft Corporation held the type certificate, the Bonanza sat cooking on the ramp all day.  High Speed crawled down into the fuselage to bleed the system, but soon came crawling back out, his face pale and sweating.  He stood, leaned over, grabbed his knees and puked.  We all got a laugh out of that.  My West Wind was a simple tire change, but when I attempted to jack the right main gear, the jack sank into hot asphalt; I went back in and cut plywood to augment the jack pads.  With the job finished, I opened the cabin door to retrieve the logbook and was pushed back by a horrendous smell.  Apparently, the last passengers dined on lobster, but the flight crew failed to remove the leftovers or dump the potty.   Man, did it reek.

                 Our normal after-work ritual was to pool our money and send someone for beer, the cheapest beer they could find, the desire being quantity, not quality.  But on this night, and with the beer already in coolers, we headed for the Arkansas River to cool off and go for a ride in Tom’s boat.  Consequently, around 3 AM from the darkness of the Arkansas River, a boatload of us laid siege to downtown Little Rock that began with a barrage of bottle rockets and no doubt awoke businessmen and visitors in their high hotels.  Soon a police cruiser showed up at River Front Park and made the mistake of finding us with a spotlight to which we replied with a landing light designed for a Boeing 727 that we had mounted in a cutout gallon milk jug and wired to a 24 volt aircraft battery—you couldn’t leave it on too long or the jug melted.  Our spotlight being much brighter than the cops, theirs went dead, but we heard much yelling and saw them running toward the bank.  After flashing hotels with the landing light, we chose discretion and withdrew in darkness down the Arkansas River, two of us being pulled behind the boat on inner tubes; drunk, of course, and free of life jackets.  By the time we loaded the boat and headed our separate ways, dawn was breaking.  I could tell by the sky, it was going to be another hot one.

Phan Rang

Spending too much time in Bill’s Pool Hall and not enough in class, I flunked the 8^th grade.  That failure, along with an early school-year birthday, placed me in draft status while still in high school.  The draft board informed my school that if I didn’t maintain at least a D average, I was theirs.  I graduated with a D+.  It was nip and tuck.  Two weeks after graduation, though, I received the greetings.  I took the induction notice to my father and moaned, “Gee, Dad, what do you think I should do?”  During WWII, my father was one of Darby’s original 500 Rangers, selected in Carrickfergus, North Ireland, and trained by British Commandos in Achnacarry, Scotland.  In 1942 at a place called Dieppe, the Rangers were the first American soldiers to experience combat against the Germans in Europe—the first to kill and be killed—and during every invasion that followed, they, along with paratroopers, led the way, were the head of the spear.  While on a scouting patrol, my father was wounded and captured by Rommel’s troops at Faid Pass in Tunisia on Valentine’s Day in 1943, just prior to the German rout of the American forces at Kasserine Pass.  Except for three escapes, during one of which he remained free for a month, he spent two and a half years as a prisoner of war.  He was flown from Tunisia to Italy where he and other POWs were marched through Naples while the Italians lined up to spit and throw garbage.  Eventually, he ended up in Germany and bounced from camp to camp, but spent most of his time at Stalag 2B.  He was liberated by British troops in April of 1945.

 

Dad read my draft notice and, laughing, threw up his arms and said, “Join the Air Force!  They get coffee and doughnuts every morning!”  I did.  Six months later, following basic training and tech school, I found myself in Vietnam, but in the relative security of Phan Rang Air Base.  I worked in Life Support for a fighter squadron; that is, supporting the life of the fighter jock.  Anything that touched the pilot’s body was my responsibility: helmet, oxygen mask, survival vest, parachute, G-suit, survival seat pack with life raft, &c.  I trained on the equipment’s use, as well as escape and evasion applications. Jocks flying the day’s first sorties showed up all bleary eyed at squadron headquarters around 5 AM where I met them with coffee and doughnuts, suited them up, and sent them on their way to roar into the dawn in camouflaged F-100s.  Mostly due to the equipment, the headquarters building was air conditioned.  Frequently in trouble, I was also responsible for mowing lawns around the building, a task I performed wearing a shoulder-length, blond wig—a gift from a jock.  The wig originally belonged to a blow-up doll who was the life of the party at the Officer’s Hooch until, alas, punctured beyond repair.

The job was gravy; the assignment was gravy; no war stories here.  Oh, Charlie lobbed in a few rockets from time to time just to let us know he was out there, but little damage was done, nothing of consequence that I recall.  Phan Rang was a world away from the combat Army grunts and Marines experienced out on the rice paddies or in the jungle.  In fact, we were so secure, those ground pounders came to Phan Rang for in-country R&R.  No doubt about it, we flyboys had it dicked: coffee and doughnuts every morning.  Well, except for the fighter jocks who got shot down, but that happened yet another world away.  I returned to the States physically unscathed.  The worst thing I experienced was the welcome a few college students provided when I passed through San Francisco on my way home to Arkansas.  At that time, troops were required to travel in uniform.  As the harassment increased, the mandate changed to travel in civilian clothes: My America.  After leave, I spent a year on a SAC base outside Columbus, Ohio, then back to a fighter squadron at Keflavik, Iceland, for a year, and then I was out.  I was discharged in New Jersey, having paid my dues for the natural facts, as John Lee Hooker would say.

A decade or so later and free of military obligation, I began to question the old man’s advice.  Killing time at my parent’s house one day, my Dad and I watched television; I stretched out on the sofa and he on his recliner and in charge of the remote, as always, and flipping channels.  We shot the shit, discussed politics and the war de jour.

“You know, Dad,” I said, “as a man, I feel like I missed something in life by not experiencing combat.”

“Stevie,” he replied, not looking away from the screen and still flipping channels, “you didn’t miss a thing.”   

Wood Stove

Living in Fairbanks, Alaska, it had to reach twenty below before I fired up the woodstove; the woodstove was for back-up, anyway, for power outages and to augment the boiler when it really got cold.  Besides, I could never control that sucker.  If I cranked it up much warmer than that, I’d run us out of the house.  Mostly, I burned birch.  Spruce worked, as well, but popped like crazy and the smoking sap made a mess, blackening the woodstove’s glass.  I’ve burned cottonwood, but it burns cold and leaves too much ash. Firing up the stove at thirty below or colder was tricky.  The chimney was cold soaked and cold air pushed down the stack and out into the room.  I had to start with a propane torch and let it shoot up the chimney for five or ten minutes to get a draw going; otherwise, if you just put a match to the paper and kindling and closed the door, the fire would jump to life, but smoke like crazy until it ate up all the oxygen and killed the fire, although it continued to smolder and puke smoke out into the room, setting off every smoke detector in the house, frightening my dogs and irritating my wife, so that, at thirty below (or colder), I’d have to open the front door to chase out the smoke and let in fresh air.  That being said, we did enjoy a fire.  Oh, and the dogs—Alaska, Dingo, Pinky and Gertie—really did.  They couldn’t get close enough.  They’d lie in front of the woodstove and stare into the flames with their paws crossed—I swear to God.  Who knows what they were thinking.  At those temperatures, I did a better job of controlling the heat, but it still got away from me from time to time.  Once, it was fifty-five below outside (by the thermometer; in Alaska, you don’t talk about wind-chill), and I had it ninety degrees inside.   +90F(three inch door)-55F: it was fun going from one side to the other wearing nothing more than shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops and letting the cold just kiss you all over, and then back into the sauna with the smell of red beans and rice simmering in the kitchen; but, had I locked myself out, it could have turned bad.  Even with it that hot inside—at least at eye level, where the thermometer hung—the cold outside was so extreme that it radiated through the door and created thick frost at the bottom on the inside, a frost that refused to melt.  Chimney fires claimed a few houses in Fairbanks every year, but I never had one—I kept my chimney clean—and I don’t need to knock on wood, as we moved to Florida last summer.  Yeah, Florida, where our dogs pant even while at rest, and we have a house with a fireplace—I don’t know what the hell for.