Letters Home

The other day I remember promising myself that I would learn how the heart of my Harley ticked; I never did.  But I pondered how there seemed to have been a thread of mechanics in this part of the Clan.  My dad had gone into auto mechanics as his selected trade when he was in Public High School.  Back then, it was accepted practice to steer kids into a trade so they'd have opportunities for work when they graduated.  Unlike today, or well, when I was in High School, the emphasis was on college prep; so there wasn't a whole lot of attention spent on anyone who wasn’t pointing in that direction. Most of those I knew who realized books were not in their future took the initiative and got summer jobs doing what they were interested in.  Then, most of those were also just clinging on to HS until the senior year because they needed the diploma for the work a day world; not sticking to it out for some deep abiding love of learning the hidden nuance of Chaucer or the anomalies of fractions. Unfortunately for my dad, the Korean war came around, and he had a job working in a grocery store, so any plans he may have had were whisked away by war.  Once his time was up, he was standing hip deep in kids in California and out of the Marines.  So, he fell back on the only trade he had.  Then he stuck with it all those years to provide for his little family. 

   Ironic how sometimes our values move around surviving current situations.  It was more important for him to be a dependable father and husband than aspire to fulfill an ill defined dream of what he’d prefer to work at.  Guess that's what matters, that we do what nurtures our self esteem.  It works out when we do.  To listen to him, he had no regrets in the least.  I consider that a success, we should all be so fortunate.

    When I enlisted into the Army, I choose aircraft mechanic as my military occupational specialty.  I did a stint as an aircraft crewman; for a very very short time on what is called a medium lift helicopter; CH-47 Chinook, (we called them Shit-hook mostly because they didn't really fly all that well.  We use to say it just made such a racket that the earth repelled it! HA just a monstrosity of leaking hydraulic fluid, with huge 60 foot blades moving at 700 mphs in tandem, [fancy words for opposite circular paths towards one another] So much like British sports cars. Nice sexy idea, but prepare to tinker on it in obscure rural roadsides)

    I didn't have to fly on it often to realize I was not cut out to live in a vapor of oil...just knew this wasn't good for longevity's sake.  Somehow fate had it that our First Sergeant took an instant dislike to smart-asses; by his glare I could tell it was his mission in life to get me; what better way then to make me the unit mail clerk?  I can still recall that wonderful bonding moment.

"Cuddy, you're a flake"

"Yes First Sergeant"

"I don't like flakes"

"No First Sergeant"

"I'm making you my mail clerk because you have the security clearance and aptitude called for by the regs, to get a mail clerks card.  And you will pass that test.  I'm not asking"

"Yes First Sergeant"

"I'm guessing you'll fuck up and I can kick you out of the Army"

"Yes First Sergeant, I'm sure I won't disappoint you"

"You being smart with me boy?"

"Me First Sergeant?"

"You just try fucking with me son, I've ways to make you suffer that are just this side of legal, moral, and hu-mane. I know your type"

"Yes First Sergeant"

"You just step out of line"

"No First Sergeant"

"Get out, go find something useful to do Cuddy"

"Yes First Sergeant, have a nice day"

"It will be when you get the hell out of my office, why are you still here?"

"Roger Wilco First Sergeant"

"yeah...you Californians...I hate Californians, they're all..."

(I caught the flake part while closing his door, along with a chain of superlatives and profanity....it was art how that man could string them together...a sort of ....Poetry. I made it a point to stay out of his path because I had no interest in finding out what those suffering techniques he was talking about were. Fortunately he entertained those wiles with other not so cunning and clever underlings.  Fellows; who we in the barracks affectionately referred to as, shithead-targets. When he made Sergeant Major, he left our unit and moved to Stuttgart. I enrolled him in every porn magazine that came through the mailroom....it was the least I could do to show my appreciation for his kind and considerate manner; sort of a frosting to my nature at the time.  I was a hero to those in my company who were also card carrying flakes...in the words of Tony our beloved icon,

"We're Grrrr-ate"

   Well, so much for a snippet of those times that shaped me into that dynamic kinda fellow that is watched closely and pondered...is this guy for real?  And to just think, that at one time, I was signed for a dozen tactical nuclear warheads....now that's a prudent government decision for ya.