Chapter Thirteen- SMA: Un/Forgettable People

I promise I'll get back to the story soon. I want to introduce the reader to some significant people I crossed paths with at SMA.

I am He as You are He as You are Me and We are All Together


Major Wease
One of the all-around best teachers I ever had. He taught American Government in my Senior year and I learned more about the workings of our bicameral system than I ever imagined. He held our attention through sheer breadth of knowledge and a quietly understated authority. He also had eyes in the back of his head. He would face the board and write, and if he had a sense you weren't paying attention he would simply say your name: "And so the Founders believed in a balance of powers, Mr. Newbegin.." "Yes, sir?" "...to ensure against any one branch, Mr. Hutton.." "Yes, sir?" "...becoming too powerful." Eventually we caught on and didn't automatically answer, though sometimes he did ask a question. So one had to beware. Whenever a Government exam was scheduled for the following day, the attendance reports at formation for Third Mess went "Beat the Wease, sir, all present and accounted for!" He still teaches at Fishburne Military School and had been honored by an endowed chair.

Major Neilson
Senior year English. "The Maj" was a very tough customer in class. He stood outside as we entered the classroom, talking with other teachers or a cadet. When class began he would stride into the room and we all had to snap to attention by our desks. He would act as if we weren't there for a bit, then glance around and say: "Be seated". Absolute silence had to be observed while he taught unless he asked for free discussion. I really lucked out getting him in Senior year. He was disgusted by a study that showed how few college freshman had basic English skills, so our entire first semester was remedial studies. My favorite! Second semester was classical literature, another favorite. He graded on a curve and I became a little unpopular due to my higher grades on tests. I think my classmates understood how important it was for me to be doing well for a change.

Major Johnson
Junior year American History. His nickname was "Skeeter", and he would not so much teach history as tell the story of it as if he'd been there. I had to repeat one semester of his class as well, but it was a pleasure. One day before a test, a cadet approached me in the bathroom to tell me he had a key to the multiple-choice portion, worth about 75% of the test. I copied it on a small strip of paper and put it under my Senior ring. The irony of that was not lost on me, and I took it out and swallowed it about a half hour into the exam. I never once looked at it and good thing, too. The two guys who used it were busted for cheating because they had the wrong key and identical answers. They got demoted and had to repeat the test. Major Johnson passed away in the late 90's. Here is our tribute to him.

Colonel McKracken
I never had the Colonel as a teacher, but some yahoo decided to start calling him "Coach", which angered him no end. So of course any time he was around, guys would start yelling "Coach, hey Coach" until he went apoplectic. Such good lads.




Major Kiester
Another teacher we loved to torment in my Junior year. The guys in his class called him "Rabbit". (Thanks, Mr. Nelson) That's why there's a little bunny head drawn on his lab coat. The guys would try to see if we could make him cry, and sometimes did. He didn't come back the next year. Wonder why.



Lieutenant Greenwood
As mentioned before, a really cool cat. He was my Junior English teacher and yearbook adviser in my Senior year. He also provided transportation for one of the escapades I'll write about in a following chapter. He wasn't much older than we were, and I think he identified with our generation, though he was pretty tough when he wanted to be.


Major Burnette
My Spanish III teacher, junior year. As he talked about verb conjugation and proper tense he would pick his nose. Gross enough, but then he would roll it between his fingers while he talked to us, creating a little ball of gluey snot that was very hard to ignore. We nicknamed him "Booger Burnette".



Colonel Love
Der Kommandant in my Senior year. A blustery Regular Army officer who presided over a very trying time for me at the end of my stay at SMA. He was not nearly as strict as our previous Commandant, LCDR Harris, who kicked out so many cadets. We loved calling Harris "Captain Crunch".



Sgt. Graham
Good ol' boy from down South. He was the military adviser to A Company and had a very wry sense of humor. Jim Lange played the part of Sgt. Graham in our Christmas play "A Day in the Life of the Military Sciences Office". More on that later.



Sgt. Gibson
Looked, acted and sounded like an American bulldog. He was a strict "lifer" Master Sergeant who would bellow out critiques on our appearance, attitude and aptitude at any time of the day. One day I had forgotten to shave (all I ever had in high school was peach fuzz) before Sunday Parade. As we passed for review I heard him bellow "Newbegin, get a shave, you look like a damn cave man!" Memories. I had the balls to salute him with my left hand every time I saw him and he never once busted me for it. Why did I poke that bear? It was in my nature. Couldn't help it.

Colonel Moon
The gentleman responsible for accepting me to SMA. All in all he was a nice fellow. He's passed away now, pinching angels instead of cadets.






Captain Davis
Senior Army Instructor in my Senior year. Quite simply the most pathetic excuse for a Regular Army officer ever to darken SMA's hallowed halls. His uber-military persona and ridiculous appearance earned him the nickname "Captain Howdy", for Howdy Doody. The sergeants in the Military Sciences Department were embarrassed to be seen with him and you could see the pain on their faces to be associated with this clown. He was infuriated by my portrayal of him in the Christmas play and he did what he could to have me singled out if I slipped even a little. When I slipped Big Time he led the charge to have me kicked out. In SMA's final year, 1976, he was relieved of duty after striking a former cadet during Alumni Weekend. Last laughs are the best.

Coming up: A Great New Start!

Chapter Twelve- SMA: The Daily Grind

Many of my reader have asked: "This is all well and good, but what was daily life like for the average cadet? Not a weirdo like you, a normal guy..."



A Day in the Life At Staunton Military Academy









6:35 AM: Reveille. First a klaxon bell rings loud and long enough to wake the dead, then one of the buglers from Band Company has to get up and walk to strategic points at each barracks. There, he blows the traditional Reveille call. Then he loudly announces the Uniform of the Day. One of the more colorful buglers we had was J.M. Cooke, affectionately known as "Z", for the many zits upon his face. Our normal daily uniform was Alpha, as shown. Gray shirt, Gray pants with a black stripe down either side, soft cap, and black tie tucked into the shirt below the second button. And if you felt insecure at formation you could just hold hands. Great camaraderie there. So you had about 15 minutes to get dressed and get your sorry butt up onto the Asphalt to form up with your Company. In my day we had four main Companies: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Delta. The Band was its own Company. Then there was Headquarters, for guys like the the Battalion Staff, Color Guard, Medic Aides and Commandant's Aide. Last of all were the Junior Schoolers, 6th through 8th grade, called Foxrtot Company.

No matter the weather, from 95 degrees and 90% humidity to freezing in the dark and snow, we were out there in military lines while the Color Guard hoisted Old Glory up the flagpole to the strains of Call to Colors. Then we all marched into the Mess Hall by company. Each month an Honor Company was named, and they got to march into the Hall first and eat first.

7:00 - 8:00: First Mess. We had good old American food, along with some Southern delicacies. We served buffet-style, grabbing a metal food tray and utensils and digging in. There was ham, scrambled eggs, hash browns, milk, juice, coffee, cereals (In those little individual serving boxes. It was against the rules to take food from the Mess Hall, but those little guys were gold when the munchies hit), bacon, grits and scrapple. Grits are basically Cream of Wheat; they taste like whatever you put on them: hot sauce, sugar, salt, butter. Scrapple was..unique.

8:10 - 2:10: Classes. Our subjects were the same required courses all students needed to graduate from high school in Virginia. The only courses unique to our type of school were the Military Sciences classes. That's where we learned to be good little soldiers. Our instructors were regular Army "lifer" sergeants, who taught us classes like Weapons and Rifle Squad Tactics, Health and Safety, Personal Hygiene, and Military History. Not only was this class an easy "A", if you got a 90% or better score you also got a certificate in that discipline. No big deal to us, but it was a nice present for the folks back home. Classes were typically small. I had a Spanish IV class with three other guys. The largest classes might be 12-15 cadets. Made for some great one on one learning.

While we were in class, a Military Department officer would come to our rooms for Daily Inspection. Each cadet was rated on how neat his room was, right down to the dust over his door and the polish on his drill boots and how clean his rifle was. Each cadet had an M1903 Springfield 30 caliber rifle, just like Sgt. York used in WWI. (No firing pin) We had an open dresser, called a "Press", that showed our shirts and whatnot, and they all had to be folded just so. We got a little note card indicating whether the room was Superior, Good, Fair or Poor. Based on this we got Merits (good points) or Demerits (I already told you about them...bad).

11:45 or so: Second Mess. Form up. March in. Eat. Go back to class.

2:30- 3:30: Drill. Form up. March down to the Track. March around and do Column Lefts and Right Face and Eyes Front and all that Army jazz. One day as we marched back up the Hill our platoon leader started a chant:

Call: "What's the word?"

Response: "Thunderbird!"

"What's the price?"

"Thirty twice!"

"Howdaya drink it?"

"Out of a cup!"

"Whattas it get you?"

"ALL FUCKED UP!"

"Sound off!"

"ONE TWO"

Sound off!"

"THREE FOUR"

"Bring it on down!"

"ONE TWO THREE FOUR ONE TWO............THREE FOUR!"

Yeah, he got in a bit of trouble for that one, but it was cool to do it so enthusiastically.

3:30 - 6:00: Monday, Wednesday and Thursday we stayed on campus and did intramural sports, study, varsity sports, goofing off, going to the school Canteen (snack bar), or getting extra help from teachers. Tuesday afternoons we were allowed to go downtown, if your name wasn't on the Beat Squad list. If so, it was even more marching, raking leaves, cleaning toilets or whatever else made you regret being alive. On Fridays Third Mess was often optional, so we could go downtown and eat at the Tack House or go to stores or visit the girls at Stuart Hall. Sometimes a select few of us would take our illicit sacramental herbs and steal off into the countryside. More on that later. Oh, and interacting with the townsfolk. Definitely a treat. Carloads of drunken hicks sideswiping us as we walked by the side of the road, the call of "Bellhops!" (because of our uniforms, get it?) and a can or bottle thrown at us. I get misty eyed just thinkin' about it.

6:00: Third Mess. Form up and listen to the daily announcements: Upcoming events, an address by the Commandant, and sometimes Special Orders. A Special Order was issued by the Commandant when a cadet had greatly transgressed the Rules of Conduct. 95% of the time a Special Order meant expulsion from the Academy. By the time it was read the poor bastard was probably already gone. Ben Alexander had barely left school when his S.O. was read. Then we all marched off to dinner.

A couple of things about dinners there still stick with me. Fried Chicken Night. Man, that was some seriously good chicken. Most nights a cadet could go back for seconds if there was food left, but on Fried Chicken Night the servers made sure there were no second helpings available. The leader of the servers was a big, black man named Chick. He called everyone "Buddy".

"More chicken please, Chick?"

"Sorry, Buddy, no chicken."

You could clearly see trays of chicken in the kitchen area, covered with cloth. Hmmm. One night I was in the Commandant's waiting area and I saw Chick pull his car up to the kitchen loading dock and put a huge plastic bag of chicken into it. I realized that these guys probably made shit pay serving these little rich boys, and the chicken was the closest thing to a bonus they would ever get.

The other weird thing at Third Mess. Sunday was the day we always wore our dress uniform, called Charlie, to dinner. It featured a white shirt and white trousers. And Sunday night dinner was always spaghetti. Tell me the logic behind that.

Occasionally a very large percentage of the Corps would come down with the "runs" all at once. This was never traced back to the food and who knows? We might have been the subjects of mass poisonings by the Army. Could happen.

7:10: Call to quarters. Study time in our rooms. If a cadet was in some academic trouble, (me), he had to go to supervised Study Hall, where a proctor would confirm the homework and make sure it all got done that night. Everyone else had to sit at their desks and be actively doing something academic. Minimal conversation allowed between roommates. No music. No visiting. No bathroom breaks unless by special permission. In warm weather we had to keep our doors open, so the faculty officer on duty could come into our rooms and observe and ask questions about our studies. We had a ten minute break signaled by a bell, and there was always a mad scramble for the bathrooms. Then back to study until 9:40.

9:40 - 10:00: Preparing for lights out. Brush teeth, change into jammies (shorts & t-shirt), visit briefly with buddies.

10:00: Lights Out. Doors closed. No talking. No music. And the soft strains of Taps. Seniors were allowed one extra hour of study until 11:00, and we needed it.

That was the typical weekday.

On Saturdays the day started the same, but after First Mess we had weekly inspection. Time to really scrub out the room and polish the floor. Some guys used this concoction called Bowling Alley Wax. It's a thick paste that had to be lit on fire, melted down and spread over the ancient linoleum. Then it was buffed to a brilliant shine. I stuck with Mop N Glo. Cheaper and safer. I don't think anyone has ever nearly burned down a private school with Mop N Glo.

What the hell are you talking about?

Patience.

After room inspection we were free for the day. Sports, town, memorizing porn, whatever floated your boat. And of course bad little boys got Beat Squad. Used to love walking by those guys on the way downtown: "So long, suckers!" "Fuck you!" they would cheerfully call back.

Sunday was Church Day. Our owner, Layne Loeffler, wanted SMA to be known as a Christian military academy. We would form up after First Mess and then break off into our Church Squads. In my first year I dutifully trooped off with the Roman Catholics to go to Saint Francis. An incredibly ornate place for such a cow town, I became discouraged with it after a run in with one of the priests. He wanted me to sit down with the cadets and I had been ordered to stand in the back and supervise them. I told him I would not sit and he told me to leave the church and never come back. Which I did.

What denomination to choose? After casting around a bit I fell in with the Presbyterians. The coolest thing about them was that all the folks at First Pres were really happy to see us when we chose to come. They offered us cake and tea and asked us about ourselves. Nice. If we chose not to go, we would hang out at Woodrow Wilson' Birthplace, conveniently located out the back door. We'd sit and smoke cigarettes, enjoy the weather and get back to school when "service" was over. A damn sight more relaxing than "Stand up, sit down, kneel and feel guilty."

Sunday afternoon we donned our dress uniform and showed off the marching skills we'd been practicing all week. This was the Sunday Parade. Man, we did a lot of marching. That's the Army for you, a bunch of guys sweating with rifles on their shoulders going nowhere.



Sunday night we were back in quarters, doing homework and readying ourselves for the week to come.

Lucky Chapter 13: These are a few of my favorite folks

Chapter Eleven - SMA: Summer Camp

OK, what the hell was that? Wireless Internet? Steak dinners? Freakin' RV Camping for Families? Now I feel very old indeed. I want to rant about how all we had was powdered drink mixes and peanut butter and jelly for lunch. Blah, blah, blah.

When I got back home from SMA I only had about 10 days to get ready for camp. It felt very much like going off to military school, with lists of uniform parts, personal supplies and paperwork. Big differences: I was getting paid to go and I'd be sleeping in the great outdoors for over two months. I was riding an emotional high and I could hardly wait to get there.

I got to Goshen Boy Scout Camps and set off to Camp PMI for indoctrination. The camp was run by two brothers, Dave and John, who attended the University of Maryland. They were both big lacrosse enthusiasts and used to play that sport's version of "catch" in the parking lot. But what set our staff apart from all the others was our volleyball team. Dave and John taught us how to serve, set, pass and spike, and we were simply awesome. We challenged camps from around the lake, (there were six altogether back in them days), and never lost a match. It started an appreciation for volleyball that I still have.

My particular job was to instruct campers in two merit badges: Rifle and Shotgun Shooting and Archery. My supervisor was a guy named Ron. Interesting guy, and a paradoxical character at that. He was a certified NRA Safety Course Instructor, and he was a dyed-in-the-wool hippie. Long, blond hair tied in a ponytail and he brought a coffee can stuffed to the brim with some of the finest Colombian bud I had ever seen or tasted. He did have one disturbing personal habit: He would occasionally reach into his pants and scratch his balls. That's not so bad. And then he would smell his fingers! Eeeww. I won't lie, the bud and the weirdness set the tone for the whole rest of the summer. And the games were on!

As a first year counselor, one of my duties was to greet new campers and give them the tour of the place before leading them to their site. I would then act as liaison between the troop and camp staff. I showed them were to get food for each meal, and I ate with the guys now and then for goodwill. Each week passed pretty much like the one before. I would tour the Scouts, teach rifle class, eat at our amazing camp staff dining area, and enjoy lots of free time canoeing and hiking out in the Appalachians. Free time also meant going into Lexington, known to us as "Big Lex". Our choices of entertainment were limited, but we did our best. Top of the list had to be the Lexington Theater. No, we never saw any first run movies there. It was the first place I ever saw an "R" rated movie specifically featuring sex scenes. These were really tame by today's standards, but to see mostly naked women cavorting around the screen simulating sex was a tremendous turn on for this Boy Scout. Those images fueled many a fantasy-driven solo act. Like the song says, it's only nat'chral.

Our transportation to and from camp was a cranky old school bus that probably took Harry Truman to elementary school. The driver was this fellow with huge, coke-bottle glasses, and he maneuvered the shock-less rust bucket over the twisting dirt roads like he was being chased by the hounds of Hell. With no air conditioning we had to leave the windows open, allowing the diesel exhaust and dust to wash over us in a toxic wave. This driver dude had only one rule: Be on time. The bus pulled out of Big Lex at 9PM sharp, and if you weren't on it you had to walk back. One night some fellow staff members and I missed that bus and trudged that lonesome road. All 17 miles, in the dark. We arrived at camp just an hour before dawn and got excused from duty all day. Good lesson in punctuality.

I was the only staff member who knew about flag protocol, so I got to be in charge of Flag Detail. We made a whole production of it, marching out to the pole, hauling it down, folding the flag and marching off. Grandpa would have been proud.

One group of Scouts stood out that summer. A particular Troop I escorted had a Patrol made up of all the older Scouts, guys close to my age. They took one look at me, growing my fringe of a beard and looking a bit bleary eyed, and they saw a party buddy. One night they introduced me to the wonders of PCP-laced pot, and I thought I had lost my mind. After that I only socialized with them to play some guitar and sit around BS'ing.

The mosquitoes were vicious, and I used to coat my body with OFF! foam every night to keep 'em away. I heard that one night a bunch of them got together and carried off one of the smaller campers. I'm pretty sure that was just the aftereffects of the PCP that made me think that, but I wasn't taking chances.

At Camp PMI we played this horrible practical joke on all the new campers. In the main hall there was a beautiful picture of a clear mountain lake, with fir trees and mossy rocks all around it. Underneath it was the title: "Iron Springs". We would plan a hike for all the new guys up to Iron Springs, embellishing the story every day. "Oh. man, the water is so clear you can see all the way to the bottom." "And it's so cold it'll take your breath away." And so forth. The Scouts would dutifully follow the camp guide up an incredibly steep trail, sweating and cursing all the way but thinking always of the reward at the end. And at last, there it was: A rusty old bed with, you guessed it, iron springs. The looks on those kids' faces were precious. And the lesson learned there would last them a lifetime: Don't trust nobody, sucka.

We hosted a Troop of deaf scouts, and I learned some ASL that summer. Always nice to get a view on another language.

That summer was also nearly my last one on Planet Earth. I took part in a Closing Campfire ceremony near the end of the season, and the other two guys and I decided to do something really special. We painted our faces and torsos half white and half black and did a "silent ceremony". It was all very American Indian and sacred and whatever. The guys were impressed. After we started the bonfire we went to the swimming dock to rinse off the makeup, after smokin' a quick doobie, to be sure. I jumped into the water in the deepest area and ducked under to scrub off. When I emerged, one of the other counselors was standing on the dock right over me with his schlong out preparing to piss on my head. Hilarious! So ducked back under and did a frog kick to swim under the dock and come up on the other side. Just as I kicked off, it felt like I had been hit on the top of my head with a hammer. The world turned gray around me and I drifted briefly before realizing I needed air. I started to swim but I had no idea which way was "up". My hands flailing in front of me, I felt sand and mud and knew I was at the bottom, so I pushed off slowly, in case I was under the dock itself. I broke the surface a few feet from the other side and gulped in a lungful of air. The other two counselors looked plenty worried as I climbed up the ladder.

"Man, what happened?. The whole dock rattled and we didn't know where you were!"

I was feeling a little bleary, and a warm trickle was running down the side of my face.

"We gotta get you to the Medic."

With the help of the two guys I wobbled up the camp road to our Medic's office. He was a medical school student making some extra dough tending to cuts and scrapes so common to boys playing with axes and such. In the hot, humid confines of his office, lit by a strobing fluorescent light, he peered at my scalp and poked at the cut. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he slurred:

"Lo's like you gotta purty good cut. How'd it hap'n?"

"Cut myself shaving."

He grinned back at me, then disinfected the wound with something that felt like XXX Hot Pepper Sauce. One butterfly bandage later I was out into the night again, thankful to be alive.

I was a pretty good shot on the rifle range. I could put a hole through a dime at 75 feet. Ron noticed this and told me I should try for the NRA Sharpshooter Badge. So I started a serious program of target shooting that got me qualified for 6th Bar Sharpshooter. Felt great to do that, as I could wear the medal on my SMA uniform. A week before we broke camp, Ron presented me with my certificate and a bill for $50 to cover all the ammo I'd shot up to get it. I was floored. He had never mentioned paying for the bullets, and I got pissed. I took my case to John, the Camp Supervisor. He told me that he was the one to instructed Ron to bill me. I tried to make the point that I really needed the money for school. No dice. Then a devious thought struck me: blackmail. I am not a devious person by nature. I have been taken advantage of many times and will be again because I just don't want guile to exist. I'll bear the burden of my bleedin' heart. But this time I did not back down.

"John, there are a lot of people at the National Capitol Area Council who would be pretty pissed off to hear about the stuff that goes on around here. The parties, the dope, the drinking. I don't want to be the rat, but I will if you keep shoving this bill at me."

John looked like I'd just run over his dog. "Fine. Don't pay it, asshole. But you won't be getting a job up here again."

Whatever. I won. Stick it.

August 9, 1974

We'd been hearing the news all Summer. Congressional hearings, impeachment procedures imminent. It was only a matter of time. That afternoon somebody went into town and rented a black & white TV so we could watch Mr. Nixon give his resignation speech. It was odd to have the outside world intruding on our idyllic hideaway in the mountains, and we all left the dining hall with mixed feelings.

A week later the last campers rolled out of the parking lot. We set all the critters in the Nature Center free, including the rattlesnake I had caught. We took down tents, racked the canoes, had one last big blowout party, and went back to the world.







In Chapter 11: The beginning of the Best Year

Chapter Ten - SMA: Friends Like These

The views and opinions presented here are the responsibility of the author, and do not reflect the opinions or policies of blogspot, blogger.com, or enough of the civilized world yet. Damn it.

Smear the Queer

The title of this section refers to a lovely pickup game we used to play when I was in Boy Scouts. It was like football, except that one side (the guy with the ball) was the "queer", and the other side was everyone else. The Queer had to run around, avoiding the mob for as long as he could. If caught, he was wrestled to the ground and forced to give up the ball. Whoever was the next bravest would pick it up and run, and the game was on again! This continued until nobody wanted to be the Queer or we were just too damn tired to run any more. I'm sure the menfolk watching us were filled with pride at how we strove to eliminate the Queer from our midst.

The idea of equating being queer with being gay seemed to come from my generation. And in a short time, especially in my neck of the woods in the SF Bay Area, it has become a badge of honor.

"Yes, yes, yes, but what about your freakin' story, man?"

Let us return to those heady days.

Think about this: Close to 300 male students ranging in age from 10 to 19, living in close quarters and fighting the effects of raging hormones and a spectrum of desires to make one giddy. We all had that range of interest, and it sometimes bumped up hard against nurture. Set this conflict in the cauldron-like environment of an all-male boarding school and you have a perfect social experiment. In order to balance, therefor deny, latent desires against personality type, scapegoats had to be found. The arbiters of sexuality in this case were the same troublemakers who spread other rumors about cadets in school. Luckily for me, I was not made a target. Which was odd, because my interest in poetry, soccer (considered a gay sport in the South) and creative arts had gotten me that rep among the rednecks back home.

In military school you couldn't just say "that's so gay". There had to be a more personal point of reference. So one needed to know who the Queers were. There were two unfortunate cadets who were roommates in my Junior year who weathered that storm until it got to be too much and they both withdrew. Then there was a mild mannered officer whose name had a very squeally sound to it, so it became a gay mating call of sorts. Another poor guy had a last name that sounded like Homo, and he was a bit effeminate and submissive, so he had to bear the burden.

It was sick, and I can't say I was immune from using these guys as gay references. But I was one of the downtrodden as well, so I never took part in persecuting them. Seems like such a weak defense, but it was a matter of survival. Whether we missed the mark with those guys or they genuinely were gay, I hope they made it out OK.

And Now the Circle is Complete

Just after the mid year guys came on board, one more cadet joined the group. He was Jim Lange, a student from West Virginia. He was a guitar player like me, had incredible taste in music, and he definitely did not take the military part seriously. That didn't make him a malcontent in the strictest sense. He did all the drill and uniform stuff and room inspection prep, etc. He just seemed to be figuratively rolling his eyes at the whole thing. When he joined our burgeoning little group of buddies, I could tell it was going to work.

Later we had other great friends to hang with from time to time: Tom Smith, a joker dude from Philly who somehow ended up with the nickname "Tohm Smeet". Ken Cooper, a post grad cadet who was a consummate stoner. Rick Kessler, Pete's roommate. Rick was a "lifer", a guy who had been at SMA from the 7th grade. He was a great audience for all the crazy shit we talked about, as well as being a witty guy himself. Want to see a picture? It was taken by Rick:


Left to right: Tom, Pete (In T-Shirt), Boots, Me, Jim

Yes, the picture is old and hazy, much like the memory of old men. Seems all too appropriate. Jim, Boots and I are holding matches to cheer for the end of Dark Side of the Moon. Or was it ELP? Or maybe The Yes Album...

Times were definitely good. Because of my promotion to corporal I no longer had to participate in the daily ritual of Sweep Detail. Right after Third Mess a designated noncom would come out into the open Quad and yell :"A Company Sweep Detail fall out. Get yer brooms and dustpans and get yer asses out here!" The resulting mob would sweep litter and dust from the upper galleries out into the Quad proper, then all would troop down to the floor and collect the rubbish for disposal. No matter how hard we swept or how often, there was always a haze of dust in the air for a while. Since the place had been built in 1918, it wouldn't have surprised me to learn we were breathing in all manner of toxic substances. But we were young and strong, and most of us smoked anyway, so that probably killed whatever else was getting into our lungs.

The rest of my Junior year passed swiftly. The gaggle of jerks who called Alexander a friend just melted back into the crowd. I now had a single room. What luxury! My grades were improving rapidly. I aced Algebra II and actually got on the Superintendent's List for a high grade average. Other cadets were coming to me for help on their homework. Finally, Dad wrote to tell me that he had swung a summer job for me with the Boy Scouts. I was going to be a merit badge counselor at Goshen Boy Scout Camps near Lexington, VA. I would get $300 for the summer plus free room and board. Score.

When my folks came to get me in June, they asked if I wanted to come back for Senior year. No question. I had the system down and I was ready to do it right.

Be Prepared! That's the Boy Scout marching song.....

Chapter Nine- SMA: The Sun'll Come Out...

Over Christmas I saw Dianne only once. It was clear to me now that we had been drifting apart even before I went away, and now she made it official. We were "OK to be seeing other people." This was an announcement, not a question. Maintaining a girlfriend was going to be tough anyway. Yeah, I was better off. For sure.



Darkest Before the Dawn

The first two weeks back from Christmas break felt like descending to the Outer Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell. Well rested from their break, Alexander, Ratcliff and the other morons got on me worse than before. I had failed Algebra II first semester and would have to repeat it. Other new cadets were getting promoted and I felt pretty much abandoned by anyone in my life who mattered. Including God. I'd been skeptical enough even though I had been raised Roman Catholic and had First Communion and Confirmation. Classes sucked, the people were irrelevant and the cold walls were closing in. That was it. I left my room one night after Third Mess (Dinner) and went to the pay phone at North Barracks. I called home and when Mom answered and began to break down in tears.

"I want to go home, Mom. I can't take it any more. I'll do anything you want, just come and get me out of here."

I can't remember exactly what she said, but it was a tender mother and son moment. I needed to hear a sympathetic voice and she came through. After I had composed myself she told me she would talk to Dad and see what we could do. I felt better after that, though as I walked back across the Asphalt I felt oddly disconnected from the scene, more like an observer than a participant. I heard Alexander's voice booming from South Barracks, shouting "Newww-beginnnn", in his Southern drawl. All I could think was "Hmm, a talking building."

The night passed and in the morning I felt a weight off my shoulders. I can clearly remember being in Major Johnson's history class, listening to his daily dissertation on the Depression, when a fellow cadet named Chuck Pfarrer came to the classroom door, in his capacity as a Guard, to tell me I had a visitor. I followed Chuck up to the Asphalt where I was directed to my Dad's car, parked on the far side. Here it was, just before lunch on a Monday, and Dad had driven all the way out to SMA to see me. I didn't know what to think. Was I going home?

Dad got out as I approached and I tried to read his expression. He quietly said "Get in, son". I sat in the passenger side and closed the door. He got in and we both sat there in silence for a moment. Then he said: "Your Mom tells me you are very unhappy here. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I was nearly 17, and two different kind of responses warred within me. I wanted to lash out, to say I'd been treated unfairly and didn't deserve to be sent away. That it was all his fault for years of physical and mental abuse. The other side wanted to tell another truth, the one more immediate to my concern. I started with the first day and unloaded the whole story, complete with the jerks I'd had to put up with. When I was all talked out, he seemed to be lost in thought. He and Uncle Bob had also been sent to military school before going to the Naval Academy. Was his mind going over some of those memories? He began speaking to me, not like the Dad I thought I knew, but as somebody who understood all I had been through. As we both talked, the Corps of Cadets formed up on the Asphalt, read announcements and marched off to Second Mess. Over the course of those few hours he instilled in me a resolve to identify what was causing me the most problems and deal with them bravely. He told me that if I would promise to do that and things didn't change by Spring, I could come home. It didn't take much thought for me to know I had an opportunity to do something right after all the crap I'd been through. We had a deal. We shook hands on it, literally. Dad just wasn't a hugging kind of guy. No matter. I got out of the car and watched him drive away, then I went down the steps into the mess hall to get some food. I was starving, but my head was clearer than it had been in a long time.

Ya Gotta Have Friends

With the New Year came some other changes. I had a squad leader named Duncan Smiley, and he was another minor bad actor in my Passion Play. One day, during a routine room inspection, the faculty officer found a fifth of vodka in his dresser and just like that he was booted out of school. I was shuffled to another squad and my new boss was Sgt. Pete Bantz. He was a New Yorker and had been at SMA long enough to know how things worked. He took a personal interest in making sure I didn't screw up any more, meaning he kicked my ass and didn't let me feel sorry for myself. His tough but fair approach was one of the elements I'd been lacking, and it started the process. This guy ended up being my Best Man and I named my first kid after him, but that's all for a future chapter.

A couple of new cadets joined A Company at mid year as well. Andy Blythe was a visitor from Neptune who came to SMA disguised as a Kansas boy with a fascination for Janis Joplin. Boots Shelton was a creative and insightful guy and ended up being our official photographer. At first, the little creeps I've mentioned earlier tried to give them the same old story about me, but day by day they could both see I was something of a kindred spirit. I sensed a circle of friends was developing. But there were still obstacles to be overcome. It was time to pull the plug on Ben Alexander.

Reckoning

Bearing in mind what Dad had told me, I wasn't going to take the crap any more. One day while Alexander was out I searched through his locker and found all the things he'd stolen, including a medal I'd won in a "Best Drilled Squad" competition. It had my name right on the back. A lot of other stuff had cadet names on them as well. This was it. Time to call in the big guns.

I went down to my company commander's room. Coincidentally, both of the platoon commanders were there as well. I told them what I'd found and they told me to go back to my room and wait. It was Saturday inspection, and we all had to do a thorough cleaning of our rooms before being released for the day. I was scrubbing away at the floor, trying to look casual while my heart was racing a mile a minute. Man, where are those guys? Are they just going to shine me on? I kept looking for little tasks to do while Alexander busied himself pulling the wings off flies or something. Tick. Tick. Tick. Cold sweat under my shirt. Then, here they came: Captain Steve Crane, Lieutenant Gene Ehman and Lieutenant Julian Lake, their shoes clicking authoritatively on the wooden walkway. Crane walked into the room, directly up to Alexander and said: "Open the trunk".

It was the first time I had seen a person literally turn white with fear. I thought my own heart was going to burst out of my ribs it was pounding so hard. "Why?" he said, in a small, squeaky voice.

"Just open it!"

There's a scene from National Treasure where they finally break through into the final chamber, revealing more than they even dreamed of. When I saw it I was reminded of the expressions on the faces of the three officers. "What is all this stuff?" said Crane. He picked up my medal. "Hey, that's mine!" I said. Alexander and his trunk of loot were taken down to Crane's room and he was interrogated. A while later we all met in the study hall room and held kangaroo court. It was mostly for A Company cadets, but other guys whose stuff was in there testified as well. That's when I found out just how many guys he had ripped off. It was staggering. After Ratcliff argued to keep him in school and Alexander pleaded for mercy we went to a vote. There went the blood pressure again. A vote? I couldn't imagine how he could be kept among us after betraying a trust so important to the Corps. I needn't have been so worried. The vote was overwhelming to turn him over to the Commandant for expulsion. A curious thing about the vote: Somebody cast an abstaining vote, and everyone thought it was me because I was his roommate. To this day I thank that selfless person. It took all the heat off me. Alexander was packed and picked up that night by his Mom. Adios, muchacho.

Classes were starting to make some sense. I was actually getting it in Algebra II. My English teacher, Lt. Greenwood, saw me less as a slacker and more as an abstract thinker. Spring was in the air. And I got promoted to corporal. It was getting better all the time. I had to admit.

Better, better, behhhter.....

Chapter Eight - SMA: Soldier Boy

I have no recollection of the three hour drive from our house to Staunton. The countryside was a blur. My thoughts were racing. I was sweating even though the air conditioning was on. Before I knew it we were rolling up the long driveway to Weiland Memorial Gate, looking so much like a prison.


My girlfriend, Dianne, had come with me to hold my hand through the ordeal, but it was clear from the start that all family members needed to go elsewhere while we were indoctrinated. It was a huge assembly line. We filled out forms, got our uniforms, we were assigned a PO box at the Cadet Store, got the proper haircut and trooped off to our rooms to change into our new outfits. I thought it was strange that the belts we new cadets got were these thin little straps that didn't look at all like the ones I'd seen the other guys wearing. Whatever. And now it was time to say goodbye to the family. Mom cried a little, Dad was looking proud of his little soldier boy and Dianne didn't seem all that upset. Hmm. Well, probably because we would be seeing each other at Thanksgiving. Yeah, that's it. Then they all got into the car and were gone. Just like that. I turned around out there in the parking lot, which I would come to know as the Asphalt, and gazed at the crenelated walls of South Barracks, "A" Company, my new home. Dread rose in me like magma.

The first thing we new cadets had to learn was the "rat rules". Rats are first year cadets, and special rules for rats are supposed to instill discipline and respect for authority. When a non commissioned officer walked into the room, rats had to stand at attention. When an officer entered the room, rats had to "brace" against the wall. This position was achieved by standing at attention with the back firmly against the wall and forearms sticking straight out in front, elbows against the wall and hands in a fist. Rats had to remain silent, speaking only in response to questions. Either of the two positions had to be maintained until the ranking cadet said "at ease". This was also a good way to find out just how much of a prick some of these ranking cadets could be. Most would come in, make sure we were properly positioned, then release us. But some guys, most notably our platoon sergeant, would revel in our discomfort. His last name was Henry and he was a dyed in the wool Georgia boy. He would stalk around the room, staring down the rats and asking them questions like "Are you a rat?" "YES SIR" "I said ARE YOU A RAT?" "YES SIR!", etc. Later in the year someone came up with a call: "Henry Blows!" I have no idea what made that so damn funny. Somebody would start it, like a sailor spotting a whale at sea and call: "Henry Blows!". Soon everyone would be calling out from around the Quad, adding voice after voice to the mix. Poor guy went a little nuts, finally getting out of his platoon sergeant duties and becoming a virtual hermit in his room.

Rats couldn't use certain walkways, always ate last and were treated like pond scum. Which was OK, since I was used to that kind of treatment.

My first roommate was a fellow named Tony Miao. He was from Taiwan but he tried to convince me he was from mainland China. He taught me a great self defense move that I could use to kill a person if I needed to. In the 35 years since he showed it to me I haven't needed it and I hope I'll be ready if I ever do. It's all about practice.

Classes were very much like regular high school, though smaller. The teachers knew they had complete control over us because we lived right there. Any acting up in class was subject to demerits. Ah, demerits...Little Black Marks that accumulated over the week, posted on the bulletin board by the Commandant's Office every Sunday. A certain number of demerits cost a cadet a set number of hours taken from his free time. These were called "beat squad" hours. While the other guys were heading into town on Tuesday afternoons or on the weekend, the Beat Squad would grab their rifles and hit the Asphalt. There we would march in formation, back and forth, back and forth. Rest. March. Repeat. I originally thought I could skip classes and get away with it like the old days, but several of these sessions cured me of that.

Demerits could be racked up in so many creative ways: Keeping an untidy room, not dressing in the proper uniform, showing disrespect to an officer. Any cadet officer over the rank of corporal could write up a lower ranking cadet for infractions. These little slips of paper turned in to the Commandant were called "sticks". Conjugations: "You got stuck" "That's a stick", etc. The top demerit getters were ranked by card names: Ace, King and Jack. These guys rarely saw the world outside our cold gray walls, and some ended up being kicked out. In my first year, 47 cadets were kicked out or withdrew out of barely 300 in attendance. Tough stuff.

A bright spot that Fall was the mixer with our sister school, Stuart Hall School for Girls. I met a nice girl and we went out on a few dates, but she was an even bigger nerd than I was and it was painful to be around her for too long.

I still struggled with my studies, even though we had two hours of mandatory study time each night. I switched roommates when the guys in Headquarters Company thought Tony was cool enough to join them. My new roomies were a couple of screwups named Blair and Hawkins. Blair was an OK guy but we didn't have much in common. Hawkins had this strange ability. He had about 400 record albums, and if you picked one at random he could tell you all the songs on it in order from side A to B. His greatest gift to me was Todd Rundgren's album A Wizard, A True Star. Hawkins and Blair both ended up leaving school and I had another roommate, a complete loser by the name of Ben Alexander.

It all comes down to this: Alexander was a thief. A raging kleptomaniac who stole from dozens of cadets. He was a sloppy, drunken pig who once stole my driver's license and opened an account at a local pool hall, charging a custom pool cue to me. He even showed the damn thing to me the day he bought it! He had a neat little circle of friends whose duty it was to torture me psychologically until one night I decided to walk back to my home. All 158 miles. I got as far as downtown and I was freezing my nerts off, so I went back. That went over well. There was also a little creep named Ratcliff who never missed an opportunity to bully me. He was a "pet" of the post graduate football players and had the kind of protection Mob guys dream of. He tossed a shaving cream bomb into my room and once wrote "Nigger Lover" on my door because I had the nerve to date a black girl. He and Alexander started a rumor that I was a "grub", a guy who never changed his underwear or got his clothes washed. This stuff was getting old, and I admit that I let it go on because I didn't have the courage or physical tools to fight back. With one exception:

In early December all us "rats" were promoted to Old Boys. We no longer had to follow the silly rules reserved for the new guys, and we got those nice, wide belts. Oh, by the way guys, on Old Boy Day you have to submit to "swats". Depending on the rank, an officer got to take your new belt from you and swat your butt with it a number of times commeasurate with that rank. The first person to approach me with that news was none other than Sergeant Henry. "Gimme the belt, rat."

"I'm not a rat anymore."

"You still get swats or I'll stick you for gross disrespect."

"Do that. Then we'll all talk to the Commandant about hazing, which he outlawed this year."

He stood staring at me for a minute, then stalked off to find a weaker victim. In my life I had been belted by a pro, and I would have beaten him to a pulp if he had tried to carry through. I can say it was one of those times I was "seeing red". I was shaky, nauseous, and thrilled. Take that, ya bastard.

I didn't have anyone at the school I could call a friend and things were going from bad to worse. I felt like I was crawling toward Christmas break through broken glass.

Finally the day came and the Greyhound took me back to CivilianLand. I wanted to put SMA far behind me for those few weeks and succeeded, with one catch. Dad wanted me to wear my uniform to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. I balked a bit, and Grandpa Newbegin opined that it was because I was ashamed of it. He wasn't far off, but the shame ran far deeper than the wool. I saw my buddies from Madison High School and again tried to forget how quickly time can pass. Welcome home! Christmas! Hey, buddies! Hot, sweaty drive in an overheated car. Boom. Back again. Yay.

Don't stop now! We're getting to the best part!

Chapter Seven- Summer 1973

So the die was cast and no matter what I did for the rest of the year I was going to SMA. I took it easy, didn't stress, even did a little better in my classes. My parents decided to move to Alexandria, VA, so Dad could be closer to his office in Maryland. Dianne and I had a nice summer together, with me constantly wondering just how far we would go. Some heavy smooching and nothing more. Sigh. I got a job working at Burger Chef. That place was so typical of the exploitative work environment so many teenagers have had to deal with for generations. My boss was a middle aged guy who rarely ventured out of his office except to tell us it was closing time and then go over to the time clock and punch us all out. That's right, he would collect all our time cards and wait for the clock to hit 10PM, then dutifully punch us out. It didn't matter that there were closing chores to do that kept us there well past 11. He used to tell us that if we wanted to leave at 10 we had to be done by 10. Tough to do when we closed at 10. I would see him in his dull, unadorned office, sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. There next to him was his small black trash can, empty of trash but for a single piece of paper neatly folded and placed over a bottle of Old Grandad. I made enough dough to put some allowance money in my school account and I learned some things about how not to manage people.

I also got my driver's license. My folks had denied that privilege because of my poor grades but they felt I would need it on my trips home from school. I showed what a great decision that was by getting into my first car accident three days later. It wasn't my fault! Fortunately that was mostly true, and the guy who hit me was a psycho who called the house and threatened my Dad. The damage to the car was minor and the weirdo never called back, so I dodged that bullet.

There was a swimming hole not far from the new house and I used to go up there to smoke cigarettes and cool off. The greatest thing about that place was the mud pits. You could wade out into these clay pits that would just coat you completely in bright orange goo. And there was this neighbor girl would really intrigued me. She was funny and so very cool. She dated older guys and talked about stuff like Tantric sex like I wasn't some horny teenage maniac. No. Not me. I drove over to Vienna to see my old friends and tried to deny that September was coming fast. Mom and Dad got all the supplies together that the school told us I'd need. We went to the barbershop to get the official military haircut. Oh man, I am not ready for this. Somebody, help!

All together now: Dum de dum dum.....dum de dum dum dummmmmmmmmm

Chapter Six- 1973: In Deep Shit

I am not blameless for what happened to me in the Fall of 1973. Over the years I had been a truly frustrating kid in the eyes of my parents, and that's just the stuff they knew about. I had committed acts of vandalism that would have shocked anyone who knew me. I would occasionally take my Dad's Marlin 30-30 and sit in my room, zeroing in on the kids who tormented me and picking them off in my mind. I dreamed of burning their houses down. I have only revealed these things to a trusted few. Here is something I discovered early on: I don't just see the bright line between madness and sanity. I feel its smooth surface and know I can never get through and over the edge. Numerous psychedelic experiences and emotional traumas have brought me smack up against it and I have stood back to marvel, but not enter. I could never explain to Mom and Dad how weird my world really was. Grades, misbehavior at home and my burgeoning rebelliousness began to overwhelm them and they could see that there was only one answer: military school.

Introduction to the System

I was given one last chance to get my act together in school, but my third quarter grades sucked just like the rest. Now it was a definite thing. Private school. Which one? My folks looked into a number of places, weighing the benefits offered by the brochures and talking to administrators. After that process we (meaning they) decided to visit the Staunton Military Academy in Staunton, Virginia. The fateful day came and we all bundled into the car for a trip to the hills. Upon our arrival we were greeted by a cadet who would be our guide. His name was Chris Reardon, and to me he seemed almost human, for a guy in a monkey suit. Then we met the venerable Colonel Moon, Superintendent of Students. I wondered why he kept pinching me, then I found out he did that to everyone. Well, stop it! My parents and I sat in his office, with the adults discussing my life like I wasn't even there. After a while Col. Moon asked my parents to leave us alone for a while. After they left the room he said:" So. What do you think of our school?"

"I don't like it."

"Why?"

"I don't belong here. My life is crap, school is crap and there's nothing anyone can do about it. If I go here I'm going to do everything I can to get out."

"Great! You're just the kind of young man we need!"

What? So self-absorbed was I that I couldn't even see what I'd done until it was too late. I had let this man know what category I fit into with just those few words. There weren't that many pigeon holes to put guys into in military school:

The Brains: They came for the fancy diploma. They have the best chance to be cadet officers. And they got away with murder. (Usually)

The Jocks: In my first year we had an incredible football team. Mostly because they were 19 and 20 year old "post graduates" who needed extra credit to get into a good college. Nobody messed with these guys. One of them, a guy named Sorianno, had to shave twice a day!

The Screwups: That was most of us, and any military school is geared to whip us into shape from the first step in the door.

I was toast.

Next: Last civilian summer for Ed

Dramatis Personae

Please take a moment to meet some of the people in my family:



Mom: Nancy to her friends. My Mom met my Dad when she was only four years old. They grew up on the same neighborhood and married when she was 19 and Dad had just graduated from the United States Naval Academy. Her parents divorced when she was young and she lived with her mother until marrying Dad. It always pained me how strained their relationship was because Grams was such an influential person in my life. Mom liked to listen to the radio and sing along with the songs, so I did and still do as well. She's a hospice volunteer in Charleston, SC, and was named Volunteer of the Year in 2005. She worked for the Post Office in Vienna, and there were days I would go with her on the route, stuffing mailboxes from the passenger side of her Ford Torino wagon. Our relationship has had its ups and downs, but within the last few years since Dad passed away we have come to respect each other as fellow parents and put a lot of our past behind us.

Dad: Complex cat, my Pops. He came of age through the Depression, with his Dad off to war and his Mom working in a wartime factory. He and his twin brother, Bob, had a "reputation" in the neighborhood, though I never got a straight story from him. Uncle Bob once told us how Dad shot a squirrel on a neighbor's roof from his bedroom window and caught hell for it because the neighbor was the mayor! When he wasn't at sea, he was home fixing up things and meting out discipline. This involved using objects, usually his belt, to "spank" me. I asked him once how he knew when to stop. "When I wasn't angry any more." Ah. Dad drove like a typical New Yorker, that is to say he went from point "A" to ballistic in 60 seconds. He was also named Ed, but with a different middle name I was spared being called "junior". I was "Little Ed" until high school, when I finally got taller than him. Dad had a brief active career after graduating from the Naval Academy, then worked for the Navy Department until retirement. Along the way he did volunteer work for the Boy Scouts, the Red Cross, the Sheriff's Department, the USS Yorktown Visitors Bureau and others. He taught me to shoot and got me into Boy Scouts, which was a great way to get outdoors a lot. His drinking is what stood in the way of any normal relationship between us. He could get pretty mean after that second martini. He loved golf, and played up until just four days before he died in 2005. We had a prickly relationship that settled to a respectful truce in the last few years. We said all that needed to be said two days before he passed, and that made a big difference. I scattered his ashes at sea beside his beloved USS Yorktown.

Leslie: Two years younger than me. She was the wild child of the family, and with no malice here I can say she was always Dad's favorite. She was a really good softball player and she had the record player in her room when we were kids. That meant that a lot of the music I listened to was her favorite music as well. She now lives in Maine with her husband, Bill. Her son Hank is going into the Coast Guard this year and the younger son Jon has been in the Coast Guard for the last four years.

Lori: Four years my junior, Lori and I shared the "lifeboat mentality" in our family. I think we both felt that we were working toward surviving our youth. She is the other person responsible for my foray into music. She kept borrowing my guitar and when I complained to Mom about it she said: "Well, you weren't playing it." So I played it even more to deny her the opportunity. She was also my best audience. Everything I ever did was brilliant or funny. She is a very intelligent and gifted person herself, currently teaching at San Diego State. She and her partner, Deena, also instruct Aikido.

Jan: My soul mate, my best friend and a really nice person. We met when she was managing a video store and I made some casual remark on the order of "What ya doin' on Friday night?" I always had a flair for opening lines. We were married in September of 1988 and will be celebrating our 20th anniversary soon. Jan is the mother of Casey and Zack, my youngest two kids. She is an accomplished musician, playing classical piano and singing with a Master's choral group. I can't imagine my life without her. She came along at just the right time after my first marriage fell apart. She's also way smarter than I am. (That's right, the women are smarter!)


Peter: My oldest. He lives in Northern California currently with his long time girlfriend Joy. He works in the framing and art restoration business and he's a hell of a musician. I remember vividly the night I saw him perform at his high school. His guitar wasn't working and he flung it away from him and grabbed the mike to sing into. That moment electrified the crowd - you could feel the energy level rise. In September of 2005 we parted on very bad terms and I haven't heard from him in three years. I love this kid and it's a weight I carry every day to have him away like that.


Jessica: My older daughter. Beautiful, intelligent, talented...the list could go on. She danced hula for many years, winning individual titles and group awards in Hawaii and Nevada. She has a Masters degree in accounting from UNLV and lives in Henderson, NV, with her husband, Keith. After her Mom and I split up she stayed with her. Over the years I let one clue after another go by that she was unhappy and needed me to fill a gap in her life as a kind and loving Dad. I just didn't do it and like with Peter we have a distant relationship now. In my mind it will never be too late to do the right things, say what needs to be said. Aloha Pumehana, Pi'ikea.

Casey: My younger daughter. How lucky am I to have not one, but two daughters who are lovely, talented, yadda yadda yadda. She got straight A's from kindergarten all the way to high school graduation, so obviously she takes after her Mom! Casey has been singing barbershop style with a select group of girls and they won national honors at several competitions. She's in her freshman year at Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon. It's been clear to Jan and me from the time she was a little girl that she has an Old Soul. Go ahead, be skeptical. You don't know her like we do.


Zack: The youngest of the bunch, 14 as of this writing. Zack has a really witty sense of humor and a ton of natural musical ability. I bought him a bass guitar less than a year ago and he's just blazin' away on it now. I see the way he dislikes many aspects of school life and I struggle to keep him focused. The hardest part of having kids is remembering that they are their own person, not a little version of me. No matter what Zack does, he'll be successful. And he's so cute, don't you think?

Lani: My ex. Her Mom and I worked together in a photo lab, and I was captivated by the things she told me about her 19 year old daughter. How she collected pictures of sunsets, danced hula and loved to sing. We had a very passionate relationship that led quickly to our being "in the family way". We were married in April of 1980 and our boy Peter was born in October. Jessica came along in 1983. Our marriage ended in 1984 but we had two amazing kids and I think we both learned something about who we were really looking for.

Grams: A typical grandma in so many ways. She always had an encouraging word for me and she fed me like it was my last meal every time I went to her house. When she and my grandfather David divorced, she raised my Mom through adolescence. Not an easy task under the best of circumstances. She graduated from the Julliard School of Music and desperately wanted me to play the piano. "You have piano player's fingers", she always said. Alas, I fell for the guitar, an instrument she equated with low life musicians. She wasn't far wrong, if you knew me and some of my friends.

Grandpa Newbegin: A stern, unforgiving man. He was a Naval officer during WWII, leading a flotilla (14) of destroyers in the Mediterranean and at D-Day. Graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1927. He was very much in favor of my banishment to private school. This man couldn't resist pitting his two sons against each other to curry his favor, and that carried on to my cousin Bob and me. That was exemplified one night as I sat at the kitchen table listening to the three of them singing old seas chanteys while they drank whiskey. I was spinning a small magnet, not paying much attention, when the room became silent. The three men were watching me spin the object and my grandfather was timing me! It became a game, with my Dad, my uncle and me all spinning the thing and Grandpa timing us to determine a winner. Sheesh! Well at least I won, so it was all good. Upon his death we laid him to rest at Arlington National Cemetery.

Grandma Newbegin: She had one of those very cultured New York accents, very much like Katherine Hepburn. She was an English teacher, stopping during the war to work in a bomber factory as a "Rosie the Riveter". She enjoyed a drink or two whenever the spirit moved her. Grandma had two dogs: A beagle named Lucy who survived a bout of distemper and a very fat dachshund named Ducky. That dog was so rotund that she had to be helped up a single step! Lucy developed a twitchy eye due to the distemper, making her look like she was doing a perpetual Groucho Marx imitation. Spooky. She was buried at Arlington with Grandpa.

Uncle Dave: My Mom's older brother. What a cut-up! He knew card tricks, always had a ready smile and gave my sisters and me goofy nicknames. We were Edwin, Lester and Loren to him. He served as assistant secretary of HUD under President Carter and vice president of the American Institute of Architecture. He served in the infantry in WWII and he is also interred at Arlington. I gave his name to Zack for a middle name in honor of my cool uncle.

Uncle Bob: My Dad's twin brother. I always considered him the cool version of my father. His hair was a bit longer, he laughed more readily and he acted as if he liked me. He was a Navy pilot and flew missions in Vietnam. My folks told me that when I was a toddler I used to call him "Dada" when he came to visit while Dad was at sea and cry when I found out it wasn't him. I think I knew all along he wasn't Pop and I cried because they knew it, too. He was born just minutes before my father and died in July of 2006, just 17 months after him. So he won that one for sure. My cousin Joe and I had a cool poem about our Dads. Read on.

Cousin Bob: The black and white photo of the "five cousins" was photographic proof that I was taller than Bob. The competition fostered by Grandpa didn't last too long because we actually became different people, much to our Dads' disappointment. Bob went a little over the edge mentally when his parents split up just after he graduated from high school. He's a very nice person and I wish there was more we could all do for him. His brother Joe is such a stand-up guy in dealing with him. Peace, brother.

Cousin Joe: The brother I never had. When my ex and I first broke up my first thought was to get back to SoCal and find some sanctuary with him. When we were kids I relished the times we spent together. When I lived in Norfolk, Virginia his friends were my friends. We had a special poem about our Dads that never quite had an ending until both had passed. It goes like this:


Our Fathers
Our Fathers, who art in Heaven
Golf's got to be thy game
Thy days are done
So go, have fun
With mirth, and a Seagram's Seven


Upon our Return: SMA, An Introduction