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Saigon Joe

Welcome to my blog which is dedicated to Ashley and John. Ashley because she asked me to write a history of my life for her and my son John who will never have the opportunity read these vignettes. Peace.

I Remember Mama

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There was a television show in the 1950’s, based on a movie (which I had seen), called “I Remember Mama.” It was the story of an immigrant family and their life since coming to the United States. The story was told by the daughter who aspired to be a writer and the focus was on Mama, the bulwark of the family. It was the TV show that got me started in writing about my experiences and was an influence in guiding me in the basic styles of personal writing.

As we all do, I remember my mom. She passed a long time ago, but the memory of her is deep within my heart. Mom was the mediator between my father and I (even though she sided with him most of the time). She softened the blows of his displeasure and although it was the old man’s castle, she ran it.

Although I was father’s son, I was mom’s child. I was closer to my mother than my father, not only because he worked long hours, six days a week at times, but because of his strictness and emotional distance. Dad was more the law giver and punisher, coming home and meting out disciplinary measures (usually applied to my rear end with a fraternity paddle), while mom was the diplomat always looking for peaceful solutions to matters at hand.

Mom would take me with her on the daily trips to the grocery store, meat market, variety store and, occasionally, to her lady friends homes where they would discuss neighborhood politics while I was kept busy with coloring books, milk and cookies.

When my two sisters came along, separated by two years, time with mom was shared but she always had enough love for all of us. We were clothed, fed, and repaired when broken, Having three kids kept mom busy around the house so lady friends sometimes visited her, and for us, while they chatted, it was either the television or more coloring books.

Mom would mete out discipline for minor infractions like a swift hand to the rear or perhaps temporary grounding, but the biggest fear was committing an offense that would cause her to utter those ominous words, “Just wait until your father gets home!”

Making my mother cry was the most miserable and emotionally painful experience I had as a youngster. On a few occasions, my belligerence and and backtalk caused her to shed tears. Making mom cry brought me to the lowest depths of my existence and all the “I’m sorrys” did not compensate for the miserable feeling within me. After profuse apologies and my own tears of repentance, only her hug of forgiveness could redeem my soul from self-hate in hurting her.

Mom changed my diapers (and that was way back before disposable ones), bathed me, healed my scrapes and scratches and even prayed with me. She shared her life because I was part of her and she, now, is still a part of me. There are occasions, such as Mothers Day, when her absence is more strongly felt and there have been times when I raised my eyes to heaven to talk with her.

Some believe that once you are dead, you are no longer involved in the world of the living and some believe departed souls cannot see or hear us any longer. Perhaps. As for myself, I believe that God has a special place in his heart for mothers and, especially on Mothers Day, even if He doesn’t let them see or hear us, I think He lets them know, somehow, that we are thinking of them.

Hooky

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It was a dismal, overcast morning as I headed off to school. I had just started second grade. The rain had held back as I approached St Francis Church. It got very dark and suddenly started to rain again so I took shelter under the front doorway of the church. I did not have my raincoat or umbrella for some reason that morning. I guess mom thought the weather was clearing before I left the house. Another kid, a few years older than me also ran for cover in the doorway. We talked about getting wet and possibly being late for school.

The rain really started pouring down so we stayed under the doorway to wait until it let up. It was a bit chilly and I had a jacket but if I got wet I would have to remain in school with soggy (I thought) clothes. I stayed there until after the first and second bell rang. Classes had begun and I was outside still.

The rain finally let up and the sun began to shine through the parting clouds as I decided to leave and head for the school. The kid who was with me said we would get in trouble if we went in now so maybe it would be better if we just played hooky that day. He said his parents were at work so we could go back to his house and wait until school was over. It sounded like a good idea, after all, older was supposed to mean smarter, so we went back to his house.

The kid lived on the same street about half a block down from my place. I would sometimes run into him on the way to school and we would walk together (he once offered me a rotten walnut). I didn’t really know him well but felt comfortable that we would have a good time playing in his house. He had lots of toys and for a few hours, I was having a good time. It was getting a bit uncomfortable, however, because he was acting bossy and deciding what we would do and I had to go along with it.

After we had eaten lunch (mom would make me a sandwich and I would eat in school), I developed a sense of guilt and foreboding, and wanted to leave and go back to school…or maybe home and confess, after all, it was my first offense and I might get off easy. I announced to my friend I was going to leave.

We were sitting at the kitchen table and he got up and went into a counter drawer and pulled out a steak knife. He pointed it at me as told me I wasn’t going anyplace and to sit down. He sat across from me and proceeded to stick the knife through the plastic table cover announcing he would do the same to me if I tried to leave. He said I would have to wait until school let out and then I could go.

The next two hours were terror filled for me as he led me around holding the knife while we continued to play games he wanted to play. I forget what they were entirely. We went to his room, played and then went back to the kitchen where we played some board games at the table. He stuck the knife through the table cover a few more times just to impress me with his ability if I should try to leave.

Three o’clock could not have come fast enough as we went to the front room and peered out the window waiting for the first indication kids were on their way home. Finally, as the kids appeared he said I could leave. He opened the front door and looked left and right and then said, “Okay, now.”

I hurried out the door and headed home wondering if I should say anything at all (he had warned me not to), but I did not know the school had called my mom asking why I wasn’t in class that day. She confronted me when I got home.

To the best of my ability, I explained what happened and how I could not leave and was held prisoner for the day. I don’t think my mom believed me at first and I do not remember the specifics of our conversation although we waited until my father got home and he would decide the course of action and my punishment.

Upon hearing my story, dad decided we would go over after supper and pay a visit to the kid and his parents and settle the question of my defense. I don’t remember too much at all about the confrontation other than my folks repeated my story to the kid’s parents and they did not believe me. They asked the kid who, of course, denied everything (while giving me one of those, “I’ll get you for this” looks). My defense was kind of flimsy, my word against his, until I remembered the tablecloth. I went over to the drawer and pulled out the knife and told them he had run it through the tablecloth several times. They checked, and found the slits which were made. There was dead silence as his parents and mine looked at each other, at the kid, and back at each other in disbelief. I was exonerated.

We left and went home, my parents leaving it up to them what to do with the kid. I never heard anything more about the incident, nor did I ever see that kid around the neighborhood any more. We moved the following year and I never did find out what and if anything happened to that kid, or if my parents followed up at all. Soon, I had forgotten about the incident and my parents never mentioned it after that meeting. I do remember being told about the hazards of playing hooky and getting into trouble like that. I learned my lesson well. I never did it again. I do not remember being punished at home or at school the next day.

What remains until this day, is my aversion to knives. I am very uncomfortable with anything larger or sharper than a butter knife. For a time, I didn’t know why until the incident was recalled years later.

I hope that kid got help.

The N- Word

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Cashews and pistachios are my favorite nuts. There are a few, however, on my list I will never eat because of the psychological effects they have had on me. I think it was nuts that opened the window of racism for me although, at the time, I didn’t understand the implications.

I was around seven years old while walking to school one morning when a friend offered me a walnut. I had had walnuts before so I gladly accepted. It had a hard to open shell so I placed it between my teeth and bit down. It cracked open and when I separated the shell with my fingers, the interior was a brown sawdust looking mess and staring back at me was a worm. I screamed in disgust and tossed the nut into the street. My friend offered me another which I refused. I have refused walnuts to this day unless the meat has already been extracted from the shell.

The above is a nice way to ease into the next category. Being under ten years old, most of the words I learned to identify things were from my parents. Unknowingly, I am certain, they taught me in the ignorance of the times without understanding the long range effects it would have on me as well as others.

I liked certain nuts my parents, and everyone else I knew, called “redskins.” I knew them by no other name until one day saw a newspaper ad regarding a sale on a pound of Spanish Peanuts. I was confused as to why they were called Spanish when the name redskins implied (to me) Native Americans. Needless to go into detail, it took a while for me to understand the social incorrectness of my parents terminology. Eventually, I didn’t like the way the flaky skins stuck in my throat so I stopped eating them.

Then there was the nuts I knew, again, by no other name but “N-word toes.” The term, as my mother had to explain was not because we were actually eating someone’s toes, but only that they looked like that and so, the name. Well, I didn’t know, because I had never even seen a person of Color (much less their toes) in our neighborhood on the Northwest side until I was fourteen years old!

I grew up in all White neighborhoods, went to all White schools and shopped with my folks in all White stores. Honest, it was that segregated at the time. The first Black people I even talked to were two men who cleaned the Will Rogers movie theater when I was an usher at fifteen years old.

I do not blame my parents for their ignorance because they grew up learning the same things they were passing on to me and, I didn’t know any better for many years because of my non-association with people of color. So it was not only me calling them Brazil nuts “N-word toes,” because when my mom went to the store and ordered a pound of them by that name ( she, like many others, probably never knew their actual name) as she also did with “Redskins,” the clerks knew exactly what she wanted. She was never confronted nor admonished. No one was. It was the 1950s.

By the way, I never did eat Brazil nuts, only because of the mental image I had of eating someone’s toes, even until this day.

As an aside, I never heard my parents use the N-word when discussing people of color (only when ordering Brazil nuts) and the folks in my neighborhood did not have to deal with the presence of people of color until the City started bussing Black students to schools in 1967! Then racism, exposed, reared its ugly head and things began to change.

Dog’s Life

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Part of growing up in the 1950’s was living vicariously through the television characters we admired. Every kid emulates his role models and we played, acting out our kid heroes in the back yard with their lives of adventure and mystery. One problem was that most of them had intelligent pets which guided and helped them, and if not the animals themselves, save the day.

It never occurred to me that most all the kid heroes of my day were orphans. There was Rusty on Rin-Tin-Tin, who was taken in by the kindly soldiers of Fort Apache. He had a captain-father figure, a bumbling sergeant uncle and a canine German shepherd brother who was more intelligent than the troopers. When we played, my friend Jose would give the famous call, “Yo, Rinty” hoping his dog Sandy would rush to his aid and attack us, but instead she just went off somewhere in the yard to poop.

I used to watch You Asked for It on Sunday evenings until one episode scared me (I think it was the one on the haunted Winchester mansion in California) so I switched channels to Lassie. There was Jeff who lived on a farm with his mom and a chronically exhausted grandfather and, of course, Lassie, the family collie, who just happened to be smarter than all of them.

Although Jeff had a chum named Porky, his down-the-road neighbor, the story revolved around Lassie and her uncanny ability to sniff out bad guys or situations that would occur in a rural setting like falling down a well, getting lost, occasional wild animals or unscrupulous carnival barkers and escaped bank robbers.

Then there was Fury, the story of Joey who lived on a ranch with his uncle and an old bunkhouse occupant, Pete, and Fury, the horse no one could tame and ride except, of course, Joey. There was also Corkey the circus boy, another orphan who had the standard cast of uncles and such but lucked out with not just an elephant pal, but lions, tigers and bears, oh my!

There was Spin and Marty, a fifteen minute serial on the old Mickey Mouse Club show. We would tune in every afternoon to see what was happening to a group of summer camp boys (all 12-13 year old white kids as I remember), ranging from a precocious rich kid with a butler to the urban middle class kid who learned to get along with each other through riding the range and singing songs around the campfire which became another Disney hit song, “Way Out There on the Triple R.” I guess that’s what prompted me to join the Boy Scouts at age eleven.

I admired these TV kids because I, for one, had never been to a circus; never had a horse but, like Jeff and Rusty however, I did have a dog at one point who, unfortunately, did not save me from rustlers and thieves but mostly sat in the yard licking himself or dry humping the living room sofa.

These shows had conflict and resolution and a moral to the story as the characters dealt with family and social problems. Guidance was provided by the adults and companionship from the less brighter friends and the love and devotion from a super intelligent pet.

All these shows had an effect on my personality and it took a while to realize that their perfect lives were not be be jealous of since it was all entertainment and not all kids had pets, loving parents, perfect friends and middle class homes, nor did they go to summer camps or vacation spots. Later, the disappointment and sadness of learning how my childhood idols turned out in later life, made me realize how we can be influenced by television, believing our lives are less fulfilled or happy than our TV counterparts. Especially when they had a dog who could save them from disaster. Or a butler.

You Can’t Go Back

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A few years ago, on a lark, I decided to visit the old neighborhood where I spent the first eight years of my life. It turned out to be a bittersweet experience as places I remembered were no longer in existence and those that did remain had changed.

The old apartment building on the corner of Francisco and Diversey looked about the same although the old windows had long been replaced and there was an iron fence around it now. Many of the old buildings had survived and there were new ones (built after I had moved) dotting the street. The vacant lot where we used to gather and watch the fireworks now had a building and the big side yard by the alley where we used to play for hours on end was now a private parking lot for tenants and what remained of the back yard was fenced off so I could not see in.

I walked along the alleyway noticing the back yards where we played also were gone, replaced by garages. As I walked back up the alley to Francisco, I tried to peer between the wooden slats of the fence to see if the hole we began to dig back in 1950 to reach China was still there. It wasn’t.

Although the food store on the southeast corner was still there, it was no longer Edmund’s but changed to Logan Square Grocery. The tavern where my dad used to get his empty milk bottles filled with beer was still there but beer had now changed to cerveza.

Gone were the bakery, fish market, Johnny’s meat market and, sadly, Zappa’s Confectionery. Many of the businesses along my old childhood route were gone and the buildings rehabbed. Only the cleaners down the street and the grocery looked about the same.

I looked northward down Francisco and wondered if the path I took to school every weekday was still navigable. That street held both good and bad memories, like the time I bit into a rotten walnut, or my school chum who held me at knife point the day we played hookey. All stories I hope to eventually relate to you.

The path was blocked now by the Kennedy expressway so I had to turn down Richmond and head back to Diversey where I took it to Albany and headed north toward the steeple of the old church as a guide.

When I got to the church and school where I had graduated kindergarten and transferred out of the 3rd grade when we moved, I discovered that the old parish, St. Francis Xavier had, in 1991, combined with another and became known as Resurrection. The church itself was locked and I could not see in to determine if the interior was much like I had remembered, but on the outside it appeared the old stained glass windows were still there.

I walked down the side and behind the school, rectory and convent where I took a few months piano lessons, and into the playground. Indistinct shadows and voices surrounded me as the memories of the past became more vivid in my imagination. As I walked back down the street to my car, I noticed the building which housed the old penny candy store where I hoped to one day get a pink peppermint (another story), was still standing, looking the same except it was shuttered and boarded.

As I got into my car, a young Hispanic women exited the church rectory and, as she turned onto the sidewalk, she caught sight of me and smiled. I smiled back. It was her neighborhood now and I was merely the past, but I felt, in that instant, the generations had been bridged and it felt satisfying.

I headed back to Francisco for one more quick look hoping to gain entry to the rear of my old apartment building to see if the book of matches me and my buddy Johnnie hid under the porch stairs was still there. The gates were locked and the porch appeared repainted several times. The matches were well hidden, tucked between the risers and maybe one day they will be discovered and someone will wonder what the heck they were doing there. Or maybe Johnnie went back later and recovered them.

Come to think of it, I dont remember why we hid them in the first place (I was only six). But I do remember what they were used for. I had a toy steam shovel and we could stuff paper and twigs in the rear boiler section and watch the smoke come out as we pretended to excavate the dirt in the front of the building and maybe, if there was time, dig a hole to China.

Magic Screen

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I was the first generation introduced to the electronic baby sitter: the television set. Moms across America discovered that Saturday mornings, as well as after school, could be less of a burden by placing their kids in front of the box while they did their household chores, and the programmers knew it. By today’s standards, early kids television shows required a substantial need for imagination due to restricted and low budgets, but it worked.

There was Smilin’ Ed’s Gang which gave the appearance it was filmed before a large, live audience but each week, it became obvious that it was the same enthusiastic kids jumping up and down in their seats as the week before. It was still the same kids when the show was later hosted by Andy Devine. Even Gunga the Indian Boy, in the serial film short, was attacked by the same tiger time and again.

There were shows like Rootie Kazootie and Fury (a horse story), but the ones I like the best were the sci-fi programs like Space Patrol and Space Cadets. Each week the loyal crews would embark on interplanetary missions against the cardboard backdrops of outer space. Space ships with cigarettes stuck in their exhaust gave the appearance of rocket smoke as wire suspended ships zoomed through twinkle light space to fight evil meanies that looked like Uncle Louie after an all nighter. Even as a kid, you had to watch with a degree of suspended disbelief as the cameras tilted left to right and up and down to convey motion as the crew sat amid normal tables and chairs simulating the ship’s bridge. Some early first generation Star Trek episodes even employed the same tactics, I seem to recall.

My Uncle George was always on the forefront of innovation. Once, when we went to visit, he had a plastic color tinted film to place over the TV screen to give the appearance of color to the black and white set. It was cut to fit the size of the screen and was held in place by static electricity. It was a simple plastic film with graduating colors starting with green on the bottom, light tan in the middle and blue on top. It was great if you were watching the old westerns such as Gene Autry or Hopalong Cassidy because you would have your brown sagebrush and blue sky, but close ups and any other show made actors look like aliens from another world (which made it great for watching Captain Video and his Video Rangers.

Speaking of plastic screens, there was a show called Winky Dink and You. It was a semi-animated show with a live host. It was unique because you had to order a special magic screen to place over the tube in order to draw right on the television set with the special crayons also provided. The show’s premise was to help Winky by drawing what he needed (ropes, a car with wheels, balloons, etc) to succeed in his endeavor.

Most kids could not wait the two or three weeks to get their magic screen, much less spend the required cash and a boxtop to get it so we just drew directly onto the TV screen. This did not please mom at all as the regular crayons were a bit difficult to wipe off, so we were forbidden to participate in the show and thus stopped watching it, which may be the reason it was canceled after a short run.

There were other kids shows that had cartoon specialties such as Crusader Rabbit, Tom Terrific (with his mighty wonderdog, Manfred); some live action shows like Susan’s Show where she sat on a kitchen chair and was magically flown to a place with talking furniture which featured a table named Mr. Pegasus whose legs wobbled and mouth was the front drawer. They were cheapo sets and crude scripts but imagination in those years was king and sorely needed if you were watching this stuff.

There was Super Circus (another story), Garfield Goose, a puppet show with Frazier Thomas who also employed a magic screen to view cartoons, and a goose who didn’t talk but clacked his beak. Thomas, however, knew exactly what the clacking goose was saying. There was Kukla Fran and Ollie, another puppet show created by Burr Tilstrom, with Fran Allison. Both the aforementioned shows were more creative than the others and lasted for a long while.

These are only a few of the kids shows (there were many more) available to sit us for free while mom did her daily chores or visited with friends. I’ll share more of the shows that played a major role in my early childhood development, such as Elmer the Elephant, Mickey Mouse Club, Howdy Doody and Ding Dong School later on. Right now, I want to see if I can catch Spongebob Squarepants.

Remember the Alamo

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It was in late fall, 1954 when the television show, DisneyLand, premiered a three part mini-series (maybe a TV first) on the life of frontiersman Davy Crockett, and the rest was television history.

The show took off like two riverboats in a race when Fess Parker became an overnight hero Disney style. Although there was an element of truth to the series, Davy Crockett, with the help of his sidekick George Russell, tamed the frontier, set Andrew Jackson’s Congress straight and was the last man standing at the Alamo. Impressive for someone we kids had not heard of before Disney.

Disney styled his programs to appeal to children and Davy Crockett was no exception. Davy could grin down a bear with his charming toothy smile. His sidekick Russell, played by Buddy Ebsen (later of Beverly Hillbillies fame), followed Davy everywhere plunking on his guitar and singing verses of what would become a number one hit record, “The Ballad of Davy Crockett.”

Although politically incorrect and offensive in parts by today’s standards and enlightenment (such as references to Native Americans, British, Mexicans and perhaps Congress), given the context of the time it was presented, the program introduced young people to several chapters of American History (as embellished by Disney) and began a mania of Davy Crockett emulation and hero worship.

As the Christmas season approached, stores and catalogs were filled with coonskin hats, miniature Alamos with plastic and rubber fighters, buckskin jackets, toy rifles, rubber Bowie knives and a host of other paraphernalia. Even prior to the holidays, kids were flocking to the stores to buy comic books, trading cards and records while they eagerly anticipated the next “official” Davy Crockett something (which, shortly, would be Davy Crockett and the Riverboat Pirates).

Even other shows mentioned Crockett. Jackie Gleason, who portrayed Ralph Kramden on the Honeymooners, belonged to a fraternal group called the Raccoons whose members wore a coonskin cap like Davy. This was before the series but now had gained popularity because of it. On one program, Gleason enters the room dressed in his lodge uniform with cap and the little boy Ralph’s wife Alice was babysitting, rubs his eyes and states: “I never knew Davy Crockett was so fat!”

The series ran one night a week for three weeks and by then kids were discussing and playing Davy Crockett Indian Fighter, Davy Crockett Goes to Congress or Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Disney announced a movie would be released with all three episodes combined into a full length movie. This was great because now we could go to the show and see Davy in color on the big screen.

My gang pretended that Jose’s front porch was the Alamo, and Rich and I defended it while Freddie and Jose (you guessed it, Jose was Santa Anna) attacked it and we wound up breaking a few pickets along the railing as the attackers scaled the fort.

Aside: I remember that Jose’s mom always wanted him to be the “good” guy when we played war but it was interesting that his role was Santa Anna when we played Alamo. As I reflect back with the wisdom of an old man, perhaps Jose was the good guy at the Alamo, considering Texas did belong to Mexico at the time.

For over a year after the series premiered, there was not a kid in the neighborhood who didn’t have a coonskin cap. The fervor of response to Davy Crockett may have been due to the times. It was 1955 and communism and nuclear war were the threats of the day. Crockett instilled a sense of patriotism in kids and a sense of pride in our country and its defense.

When our local theater, the Will Rogers, displayed a sign that Davy Crockett was playing that Saturday only, kids lined up down the street to see the movie thinking it was the much anticipated Disney version. In a rare gesture, my father took me to the show. As the lights dimmed, my excitement could not be contained. It was then I learned about bait-and-switch, and misleading advertising.

The theater manager had gotten hold of a cheap print of some old black and white movie where Davy Crockett was only mentioned in passing. My father was pissed and stated that he had seen this movie on television recently. Kids were beyond disappointed and parents who had taken their kids began to gather outside the manager’s office door (he locked himself inside) to demand a refund.

“Read the marquee,” the manager yelled out from behind the locked door. Above the big bold red letters stating “Davy Crockett,” just above, in small black letters, “Son of.” And that is what I heard a lot of fathers mumbling as they left the theater, “Son of…”

Aunt Agnes

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If there is one person to whom I owe my spirituality to it would be Aunt Agnes. I am not talking about religion, but a relationship with God, one on one and it was she who, through a gift for my first communion, started me on the journey of knowing God more intimately.

Agnes was my favorite aunt and this was due, of course, to the fact that whenever she visited our house she had a shopping bag full of gifts for us kids. She knew what we liked, too. Always superfluous stuff and toys, never anything practical. Comics, coloring books, dolls and golden books, she gained an everlasting place in our hearts for her understanding of childhood.

She was a very kind and gentle lady, my mother’s friend, and whether she was actually related or not, she was always invited to our birthday and holiday celebrations. I gather she probably brought the gifts so we kids would go off into the other room and play while she discussed adult things with our mother.

It was my First Communion party when Aunt Agnes presented me with a little book titled, “Jesus and I,” written by Jean Plaquevent and translated from the French. Although it was Catholic in its presentation ( I was raised a Catholic), it held a fascinating situation for me as it was composed of everyday conversations between a little kid and Jesus.

The preface stated it was conversations between Jesus and any child who wants to talk to Him. Up until that point, I didn’t know a kid like me could actually just talk with Jesus. I was brought up where we had a myriad of saints and ritualistic prayers to get to God. Being able to talk directly to Jesus was a step up from St. Jude or St. Anthony and multiple Hail Marys, and I learned as I read the book that Jesus had a childhood just like me. I was told in the book by Jesus that I did not have to always pray prescribed prayers but could just talk to Him. That was an eye opener for me!

It was then, after consulting this little book, when I had anything to question or needed guidance, I would call on Jesus and tell him my problems or ask for advice. The chapters of the book had conversations about being rich or poor, about being lonely or sad, obedient to parents, happy, or getting angry and even having too much candy. It was a book written for children and unlike the pomp and ritual of the church, it held a fascination that Jesus loved me for myself and all my shortcomings and I could talk to Him as an understanding friend because He was a kid just like me once.

Long ago I gave up conventional, corporate religion for a more personal and spiritual walk with my God. Throughout the years I have learned that it is an individual walk with the Lord and a matter of the heart rather than mind and, when I want to know God better, when I want guidance or need help dealing with my trials and afflictions, I once again become as a little child and just talk with my Heavenly Father like I did over 60 years ago.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them for such is the Kingdom of Heaven.” I believe that with all my heart thanks to an enlightening little book given to me by my Aunt Agnes many years ago.

Toy Soldiers

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Freddie, Jose, Rich and I would play “war” at least twice a week after school. We played war in two different ways and the question we asked before starting was, “Do you want to play little or big?”

If we played “little,” the rubber toy soldiers were gathered out of their bag or box and assembled in the battlefield of dirt, rocks and popsicle stick fences near the old apple tree in my back yard. Back then, we could buy assorted soldiers in various poses in a bag of 50 for around a dollar. You could buy them in green or grey and sometimes other colors so you could tell which soldiers belonged to whom. They were the same soldiers and the only difference were their color, and we had hundreds of them ready to engage in battle in a designated area along the fence line where there was more dirt than grass.

There were rules when playing “little.” As we tossed small clumps of dirt or pebbles at each others forces, they toppled over when hit. If the soldiers landed face up, they were only wounded and could engage in the next battle. If they landed face down, they were out of the action and laid there until one or the other army was still standing. There is a toy cemetery in the backyard near the tree which still contain the rubber bodies of scores of rubber soldiers who no longer could stand on their own and were given burial.

When we played “big,” the yard became “no man’s land.” We used our cap pistols or Mattel tommy-burp weapons to dispatch each other. Our parents preferred our playing “little” instead of “big” because of the running and shouting and noise we would make as we yelled, “I got you!” and “No ya didn’t!” and, of course, the verbal and guttural attempted sounds of the weapons we were firing.

Getting shot and having to fall down in Jose’s yard was difficult because he had an old dog named Sandy whose only outdoor activity was crapping anywhere in the yard she felt like. Many a time a truce was called while one or more of us went home to wash the dog poop off our arms and hands. We died in battle many times over and, in the end, when our mothers called us in for supper, we would resurrect ourselves from the battlefield, prepared to fight another day. After all, it was pretend.

Ten years later I was in Viet Nam. A real soldier in a real war.

We had uniforms, helmets, flak-jackets and weapons. I carried and fired a single barrel double-aught buck shotgun, an M-79 grenade launcher, an automatic M-14, several hand grenades and a boot knife. My playmates would have been impressed. I could cause some serious damage!

This was real war. Dog poop was replaced with feces covered punji sticks, soda pop cans we used as kids for grenades were replaced with cans filled with explosives for booby-traps. Tommy-burp guns were replaced with 7.62mm rounds of ammunition, AK-47s and M-16s. And when people got shot it hurt. When people died, they stayed dead. No one’s mother yelled out a window telling them to stop and come home for supper.

I wondered if any of my fellow soldiers, and even the enemy, played with toy guns and rubber soldiers when they were 10 years old. Were they the backyard heroes and platoon leaders who led their men to victory with water balloons, wooden swords and clumps of dirt?

Today, you don’t see kids playing war in the neighborhood. They can’t. People would be calling the police if they saw half a dozen kids chasing each other with (toy) weapons. And there is always the fear that someone would shoot back, only it would not be playing around.

Maybe it’s time we stopped playing war altogether.

Used Parrot

Parrot

My grandfather was, like my father, not very communicative. Family information was not readily revealed and many times we kids were given no information as to why things were so. This was also true of grandpa’s parrot which he may have talked to more than the rest of the family.

All I know is that grandpa was given the bird by a family that was moving. Like my father, grandpa was a warehouseman, a mover, and his house was a refuge for discarded and abandoned items left by folks he had moved over his 30 odd years in the business.

He had interesting lamps and vases and knick-knacks all over the house. One lamp I remember was on top of the television. It was cylindrical and when turned on, the painted celluloid exterior would revolve and it looked like a forest fire with flames licking at the trees produced from a 40 watt bulb within.

The parrot, whose name I do not recall (although it might have been Polly), resided in a side room, kind of a sun room/den in my grandfather’s house. The reason for this was the bird’s language.

Every time our family went to visit grandpa, as we walked into the house, we could hear the bird squawking, “Al, Al.” It was believed that Al was the former owner and the bird was mimicking Al’s wife who would constantly be calling him for something or another. Whenever the bird sensed someone was out there in another room, it gave out with the shrill, nagging, “Al? Al?”

The parrot did not have an extensive vocabulary but did have a wolf-whistle that indicated that Al might have been interested in other women. It also knew a few swear words (probably learned from Al responding to the nagging call of his wife!). Seeing an exotic bird like this was a treat for me. Its feathers were red, blue, yellow and green and it looked huge!

Grandpa’s bird was not as prolific in speech as Squawky of the Happy Pirates but that could be because the television bird’s voice was produced by an off screen stagehand. Grandpa’s parrot was for real and I liked to go back and see it, usually kept in its cage while we were there, but it would only be for a few minutes before I was rushed out of the room and back into family society.

I have no tales to relate about grandpa’s parrot dive bombing guests or plucking out eyes or even being social when we were there. It was in the back room, in a cage, and we only saw it for a few minutes but it is a memory of a time when, until I saw grandpa’s parrot, I thought these birds were black and white like on the television. When I went to grandpa’s, I saw it in living color and it looked like the NBC peacock when we finally got a color tv set.

Thanks, Al, wherever you are, for giving my grandpa the bird.