The Barons of Buckingham

In the early 1960s, when I was a student at the University of Georgia, Candler Hall on the north end of campus served as an overflow dormitory for freshmen students. Each year, as demand required, Candler housed either men or women. This was in that quaint era before coed dorms were invented.

Students assigned to a room in Candler had no reason to celebrate. Majestic in its time, the building had become old, tired, and down at the heel.

By contrast, UGA had just opened a series of gleaming new dormitories — modern structures of metal and glass that made older dorms like Candler seem even more like throwbacks.

Candler Hall housed male students until 1966, when the building was remodeled for the umpteenth time and converted to office space.

While doing some UGA research recently, I learned that the old place has a surprisingly rich and interesting history…

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Candler Hall, constructed in 1901, was named for the Governor of Georgia at the time, Allen D. Candler. It was built to be a third men’s dormitory to ease crowding in nearby Old College and New College.

Because of the building’s general appearance, the residents of Candler referred to the dorm as “Buckingham Palace.” They called themselves the “Barons of Buckingham.”

Candler Hall.

Buckingham Palace.

Candler Hall stands at the north end of Herty Field, which in the old days was UGA’s athletic field. Old College, New College, and Candler Hall fielded intramural sports teams, and intense rivalries formed.

The rivalries were not friendly. All three buildings suffered regular damage as the residents launched surprise attacks and revenge attacks on the other dorms.

Fistfights, broken windows, and smashed banisters were common. Animals regularly were set loose in the buildings.

The most infamous clash came in 1926 between the freshmen of Candler Hall and the sophomores of New College.

One night, the sophomores stole a poster of actress Myrna Loy from a theater in downtown Athens and displayed it proudly above the entrance to New College. The poster was promptly stolen by the Barons and taken into Candler Hall.

Knowing an assault to retake Myrna Loy was imminent, the Candler freshmen raided a nearby construction site for materials and barricaded the entire first floor of the dorm.

The sophomores attacked, throwing rocks, assorted projectiles, and bottles filled with ammonia. In the ensuing mayhem, every window in Candler Hall was broken out. When University Chancellor Charles Snelling tried to intervene, he was doused with ammonia.

The sophomores failed to rescue Myrna Loy.

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1918 was the year the University finally allowed women to enroll as full-time students. The Barons of Buckingham were outraged.

To express their displeasure, they began the practice of dumping buckets of water from the dorm’s upper floors onto female students walking below.

The practice of dousing women persisted. The student newspaper reported in 1926 that “Slickers are considered a necessity among co-eds when passing Candler Hall.”

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In 1942, the U.S. Navy took over Candler briefly and used it as a pre-flight training school. The Navy moved out in late 1943, and Candler became a dorm again, this time for women students.

That year, a sailor stationed at the off-campus Naval Hospital, who had worked at Candler the previous year, began a bizarre ritual: waking up the dorm residents every morning.

Each day at 7 AM, the sailor appeared in front of Candler Hall and walked up and down, shouting to the women to wake up.

After a few days, the women answered with barrages of water, oranges, and shoes. The sailor countered by showing up on a motorcycle to make himself a moving target.

Coeds in Candler Hall, 1943.

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In 1910, Georgia and Alabama played a football game in Columbus, Georgia. The Crimson Tide had won every game since 1902, so, when word reached Athens that Georgia had won, the students rejoiced.

As reported in a history of Herty Field by John Stegeman, eyewitness Charley Wall described what happened:

A telegram told us of our victory and immediately put about two hundred of us boys to building a bonfire between Candler Hall and New College in the middle of the football field.

We went over the downtown area in groups of eight or ten and found flat-top drays, for hauling goods, on the side and back lots. We then piled them up with all sorts of boxes and excelsior thrown out by the merchants, and hauled it all to the pile accumulating on the field.

The last load to come was one with a wooden barrel of gasoline some of the boys had located. Someone knocked in the top, and then they started handing up buckets of gas to boys high up on the pile of goods, boxes, etc., who threw it over the pile.

The band was playing Glory to Old Georgia, with a snake dance going on around the field. An Athens boy named Michaels struck a match to set off the bonfire, and boy, that was it!

The gas-saturated air went off like gunpowder, and blew out every window pane in New College, Moore College and Candler Hall, and also some in the Beanery downhill from the field. I was in the snake dance and was bowled over but not hurt. Michaels was hospitalized for a long time.

Herty Field, 2012.

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A ghost reportedly haunts Candler Hall.

Reports say the ghost appears every four years, dragging a chain and brandishing a dagger.

On one occasion, the ghost materialized in a first floor dorm room, frightening a group of students who were playing cards.

On another occasion, a student reported passing the ghost in a stairwell. He saw nothing, but heard the sound of chains being dragged down the stairs. The student passed out in fright.

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1966 was the last year Candler Hall served as a residence hall. Since that time, it has been occupied by a succession of University offices and departments.

Since 2003, Candler has been home to the Department of International Affairs. In prior years, it housed the Affirmative Action Office, the African Studies Program, the Equal Opportunity Office, the Gerontology Center, the Institute for Higher Education, the Office of International Development, and the School of Social Work.

Candler Hall today.

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I have my own modest tale to add to the story of Candler Hall.

When I arrived at UGA in 1960, I was assigned, like most freshmen, to Reed Hall. By my second quarter, I had met a number of students living in Candler Hall, the freshman overflow dorm, and I stopped there on occasion to see them.

One acquaintance who lived in Candler, I believe as a proctor, whose job was to keep an eye on the residents, was Richard Brooks from Griffin, Georgia.

Richard was an upperclassman, a football player, tall, trim, and athletic. He was quiet and a bit stoic, but a friendly and pleasant guy.

Richard proudly claimed to be part Cherokee, and he did, indeed, look somewhat Native American — at least, based on my understanding of the typical characteristics.

Richard had black hair, high cheekbones, a dark complexion, and (he always seemed to be lazing around shirtless) minimal body hair.

As everyone knew and could observe, however, Richard was not completely hairless. In the center of his chest — a fact to which I can attest — grew a single black hair.

Richard was very proud of his lone chest hair.

One night during Spring Quarter, while Richard slept, the inevitable happened. Someone, most likely his roommate, used tweezers to deftly pluck the hair from Richard’s chest.

According to reports, Richard awakened instantly, bellowing in rage. Shouting and cursing, he pursued his assailant out of the room, down the stairs, and across the campus into the night.

The assailant escaped. Although the roommate denied responsibility, most people believed he had done the deed. Richard suspected him, too, but was never sure.

The chest hair did not grow back.

Richard Lamar Brooks, 1940-1998.

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Diabolical

When I retired in 2005, I made two solemn vows: I would never again wear a wristwatch, and I would never again set an alarm clock.

So far, I have kept those vows. If I want to know the time, I whip out my cell phone. If I need to get up early, I go to bed early. Bada-bing.

Foregoing the wristwatch was just a symbolic thing, but swearing off alarm clocks was serious and heart-felt.

I’ve always hated alarm clocks. The thought of them causes my eyes to narrow, my upper lip to curl, my teeth to clinch.

During my working years, I usually woke up shortly before the blasted thing went off. Then I would doze, checking it with a bleary eye every few minutes, so I could shut it off before the ringing began.

I’m a bit hypersensitive on this subject, but with good reason. It has to do with a particularly loathsome alarm clock I used during my high school years.

In those days, my dad was in the Air Force, and our family lived in Stuttgart, Germany. We overseas kids attended American schools operated by the U.S. military. We were up and off to school every weekday morning, like normal.

Mom and Dad rousted my brothers out of bed manually on school days, but in deference to my status as the oldest kid, they gave me an alarm clock.

The clock was made in Germany. I don’t remember the brand, but it was a small, round, modern-looking device (in its day) of creamy white pearlescent metal. It featured luminous hands* and a snooze button on top.

A vintage alarm clock similar to mine, made by Junghans (founded 1861), Germany’s largest manufacturer of timepieces.

Electric clocks in those days were not common. My clock, like most, was spring-operated. One of my nightly rituals was to wind up the clock via the key on the back. The gentle ticking was a soft, familiar, hypnotic sound at night.

In appearance, the clock was quite ordinary. But in performance, it incorporated a unique characteristic — unique to my experience, anyway — that was absolutely diabolical.

Instead of going off with a loud cacophony of ringing, the clock emitted a single gentle ding.

It was a sweet, comforting, low-volume ding. Somewhere inside, a tiny hammer lightly tapped a tiny bell, and a single ring reverberated pleasantly.

Then, five or six seconds later, just as the reverb subsided, the clock would emit a second ding, identical to the first.

The clock might repeat the ding in this manner three, four, five times or more.

And then, without warning, it would erupt in an ultra-loud, furious clamor of frantic, non-stop ringing that was capable of stopping your heart.

Coming after the series of gentle dings, the full-on alarm was twice as awful.

And you never knew when the frenzied ringing would commence — after the first ding, the third, or the seventh. The device was truly diabolical.

I hated that clock. Every morning, when the initial ding rang out, I slapped the button on top with lightning speed, wide awake and focused on turning off the infernal thing.

Yes, I loathed it, but I grudgingly acknowledged that it was a fiendishly clever marvel of German engineering. And because it worked so supremely well, I used it throughout high school.

When we returned to the U.S. and I entered college, I went modern. I abandoned the German clock and purchased a new-fangled electric alarm clock.

It was important for a young man to keep up with the times, you understand, and besides, the constant ticking of a wind-up clock might have been offensive to my dorm roommate.

I don’t know what happened to the German clock. Maybe it got tossed in the trash. Maybe one of my brothers inherited it.

I hope it was the former. I wouldn’t wish that clock on friend, foe, or relative.

Thinking about it now, I can imagine the scene in a factory office, somewhere in Germany, years ago. A technician goes to his department head with a simple, ingenious idea to help the clock do its job with ruthless efficiency.

The superior listens quietly. Then, as the sheer genius of the concept sinks in, an evil smile slowly spreads across his face.

Perhaps this occurred during the Nazi era.

* Looking back, it’s very likely that the luminosity of the clock hands came from radium paint, which has a long half-life and for years will emit low levels of alpha, beta, and gamma radiation. In the old days, some clock-makers got bone cancer from working with the paint. Supposedly, people who owned the clocks were in no danger. Knock on wood.

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Rolling My Eyes

A few weeks ago, when I was writing a post about my former boss Major Walker, I found an old newspaper clipping in a souvenir box. I can’t remember the last time that saw the light of day.

I remember precisely where it came from: the base newspaper when I was in the Air Force. It was sometime midway through my hitch, maybe 1966 or 67.

The base paper, the Mach Meter, had a habit of sprinkling its pages with random inspirational stories for the troops. You know, gung ho stuff to bolster spirits, build esprit de corps, etc. Nothing wrong with that, mind you. It’s sort of expected.

Some months later, I ended up being assigned as the editor of that very newspaper. And, and as I suspected, it was always the base commander or some other high personage who ordered us to run such stories.

But the effort was always SO transparent. And honestly, it never worked very well. Soldiers are a tired, jaded, sarcastic lot who quietly roll their eyes at puffery and propaganda.

In this case, I executed my symbolic rolling of the eyes by strategically cutting off the end of the sentence. What you see below, I laminated and displayed on my refrigerator door.

And now, for the life of me, I can’t remember what the next line said we were full of.

 

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Major Walker

In every war, they kill you in a new way.

– Will Rogers

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During the Vietnam War, American military forces sprayed 20 million gallons of herbicides onto South Vietnam, eastern Laos, and parts of Cambodia. In effect, we caused Roundup to rain from the skies. For a decade.

Initially, the idea was to clear vegetation from the perimeters of U.S. bases.

Then the spraying was expanded to defoliate other areas of jungle, thus denying the enemy cover and concealment.

Then it was expanded again to destroy crops and deny the enemy food.

Destroying crops as a tactic of war is a violation of the 1925 Geneva Protocol. We did it anyway.

The defoliation program was known as Operation Ranch Hand. It lasted from 1962 until 1971, when the health effects of the herbicides — on our soldiers as well as their civilians — became too clear and alarming to ignore.

Ranch Hand used a variety of chemicals concoctions. They were shipped in drums marked with an identifying colored stripe.

The most widely-used mixture came in drums with an orange stripe. It became known as Agent Orange.

Today, Agent Orange is the term we use to refer to all of the chemicals mixtures sprayed at the time — Agents Orange, Pink, Green, Purple, Blue, and White.

To spray them, the Air Force used the Fairchild C-123 Provider, a sturdy and reliable military transport. When fitted with special aerial spraying equipment, these aircraft became the UC-123B, with a capacity of 1,000 gallons of herbicide.

In about five minutes, a typical plane could spray a swath of land 80 yards wide and 10 miles long. It applied the herbicide at the rate of about three gallons per acre. Missions usually consisted of three to five aircraft flying side by side.

Agent Orange was used because it was a powerful and effective herbicide. And, like Roundup, it was highly toxic. It posed a severe health risk to people, livestock, and wildlife. We used it anyway.

In the late 1960s, researchers came upon something unexpected. They discovered that small amounts of dioxins were being created, unintentionally, during the Agent Orange manufacturing process.

Dioxins, which are not found in nature, are some of the most toxic chemicals known. According to the EPA and the World Health Organization, there is no “safe” level of exposure.

Dioxins have been linked to cancer, birth defects, damage to the immune and hormonal systems, learning disabilities, diabetes, skin disorders, and more.

In 1970, a study specifically linked Agent Orange to birth defects in animals. By the end of that year, Operation Ranch Hand was terminated. All military use of the herbicides ended in 1971.

During the 1970s, veterans returning from Vietnam began to report skin rashes, cancers, psychological problems, and birth defects and handicaps in their children. Large numbers of veterans believed that exposure to Agent Orange was the cause.

In 1979, a large class-action lawsuit was filed against the herbicide manufacturers.

The primary manufacturers of Agent Orange, Monsanto and Dow Chemical, have always maintained that (1) their products caused no harm whatsoever and (2) they aren’t liable anyway.

It was clear that the chemical companies had the ability to drag out the litigation until the claimants were all dead. So, in 1984, the lawsuit was settled out of court.

It resulted in the Agent Orange Settlement Fund, which distributed roughly $200 million to 52,000 affected Vietnam veterans. The exposed veterans received an average of $3,800 each.

The impact of Agent Orange on millions of civilians in Southeast Asia was many times more horrific. The Vietnamese in particular suffered terribly. For 40 years, the country has dealt with disease and birth defects on a massive scale. They’re still working to reforest the land and restore wildlife populations.

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When I went into the Air Force after college, the war in Vietnam was at its peak. The government shipped me off to Cannon AFB in Clovis, New Mexico, where I was assigned as Administrative Officer, Headquarters Squadron, 832nd Combat Support Group.

The Admin Officer is the assistant to the squadron commander. That’s the way young second lieutenants learn — working for a seasoned officer who knows what he’s doing.

And the system works pretty well. Spending every day around the commander and his key NCOs, I learned the art of running a military organization.

And I was luckier than most. My boss was the best military officer I ever knew, Major Lloyd Francis Walker.

Major Walker, a career man from Oregon, was a crackerjack officer. He was talented, dedicated, and a person of great integrity. He loved the Air Force. And he was a leader, not a whip-cracker.

Being the boss in any context, military or civilian, is tricky. A surprising number of bosses become bullies, because that’s the easy route. Your underlings can’t do much about it, except impotently despise you.

But that isn’t leadership. Leadership is when you earn the respect and good will of your people.

Major Walker was well-known and highly-regarded at Cannon. He also was a seasoned pilot, which is a good thing to be, career wise, in the Air Force.

Inevitably, the Major’s flight status meant a ticket to Vietnam.

In late 1966, he was transferred to the 12th Air Commando Squadron, Bien Hoa Air Base, as the pilot of a Fairchild UC-123B defoliation aircraft.

I don’t know if he welcomed the assignment, but he accepted it like a good soldier. I replaced him as Squadron Commander. His going-away party was a big deal at Cannon.

So was the news, just months later, of his death.

This item appeared in The Oregonian, the Portland newspaper, on February 1, 1967:

Oregon Major Dies in Battle 

Salem (AP) — Air Force Maj. Lloyd F. Walker, 45, was shot down and killed on a flying mission over enemy territory in Vietnam, relatives here were notified Tuesday. A veteran of World War II and the Korean conflict, he was a pilot. Walker was born and reared at Mount Angel and attended Oregon State University. He leaves a widow, the former Betty Fay Guttenberg of Salem, and four children at home in Clovis, N.M. 

Just recently, I found this information online on the P.O.W. Network:

Major Lloyd F. Walker was the pilot of a 12th Air Commando Squadron UC123B which was sent on a defoliation mission (Agent Orange) on 31 Jan 1967 over Laos. As the aircraft leveled off to start spraying, its propeller was struck by hostile fire. The aircraft crashed about 5 miles south-southwest of Sepone in Savannakhet Province, Laos. After an investigation, it was decided that Major Walker and his crew of 4 (which consisted of 3 captains and 1 Airman 1st class/flight mechanic) had died in the crash. 

The day after the Major’s death, I wrote this entry in my diary:

Major Walker was killed yesterday in Vietnam. 

We were notified this morning, and the whole base knew by noon. I was in Base Supply, and Sgt. Smith came in and told me. The Major was on his first combat mission as an A/C. It was only his 4th mission since he got there. 

He and 1st Sgt. Stricklan were close. I can guess how Strick is taking this. 

The Major planned to stay in Clovis after his retirement, which was just 10 months away. He told us this would be his 3rd and last war, and it was. 

The young guys fight for the chance to go over there and win medals. I say let ‘em. But wasn’t two wars enough? They should have let him sit this one out. But they didn’t, and he went, and it killed him. What an awful waste. 

First Sgt. Stricklan, Major Walker, and the Airman of the Month, Cannon AFB, August 1966.

Major Walker was a genuinely good man. He was universally admired and respected. He was our own real-life Mister Roberts.

A few years ago, I went to Washington and took this photo of Panel 14E, Line 102 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

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The tragedy of war is that it uses man’s best to do man’s worst.

– Henry Fosdick

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The Mercy of the Court

Bryson City is a small mountain town in Swain County, North Carolina, located on the southern slope of Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The town straddles the Tuckasegee River, just upstream from Fontana Lake.

If you visit the North Carolina mountains very often, as I did back in the 80s and 90s, you’ll pass through Bryson City regularly.

In 2009, I mentioned the town in a blog about the history of the region and some delightful folks I met there in 1998 at a family reunion.

I have one other fond recollection of Bryson City and the people there. It happened in 1995 or 1996 when I spent the night at a venerable old hotel in town.

This is the story.

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In 2011, Bryson City has six or eight motels, some with names you know, others that are independents. Fifteen years ago, lodging was scarce.

I found that out when I arrived in town late one brisk afternoon in early spring, ready to find a room and relax.

There wasn’t much available. I felt relieved and lucky to get a room at the Swain Hotel, an imposing old place on the main street downtown.

The Swain was more boarding house than hotel. Most of the 20 or so rooms were occupied by long-term guests — as I learned after I dumped my bags and went downstairs to the communal living room to dry my boots in front of the woodstove.

When I walked in, a dozen heads turned my way. There was a rumble of greetings and howdies, after which most people went back to reading, playing board games, and chatting.

Although exclusively Caucasian, it was a diverse bunch. All ages were there. Some were working men in denim, others wore white shirts and ties. Two were women — one white-haired and grizzled, the other young and beefy and wearing a police uniform.

On a summer day, I might have found the room crowded and claustrophobic. But the sun was going down, and the evening chill made it cozy and comfortable. I sat down in a well-worn easy chair, took off my wet boots, placed them near the woodstove, and settled back.

From the conversation, it became clear that I was the only transient in the group. My fellow guests were permanent residents, most of them just getting off from work. This was their ritual gathering before supper — an alcohol-free happy hour at the Swain Hotel.

Although I was an outsider, they accepted me graciously into the conversation. In no time, I had picked up interesting bits of information about several people, and they had coaxed the same from me.

Supper was on my mind, but there was no hurry. My boots would be a while, and staying at the Swain Hotel was turning out to be a memorable experience.

It became even more so when a young couple came down the stairs and into the room. All eyes and attention turned to them.

They were in their late teens or early 20s — an attractive pair, neatly dressed, and bubbly in demeanor. Both carried jackets, ready to go out somewhere.

The residents were clearly fond of them, and vice versa. For a few minutes, everyone engaged in happy talk.

When the excitement finally subsided, someone asked where the youngsters were going.

They were on their way to dinner.

Someone else asked if they were walking or driving.

Walking. The girl wanted the exercise. She was a few months pregnant.

Someone else asked what time they would return.

Back no later than 8:00 PM, they said.

I sat there, taking this in with amazement.

Why were the residents grilling the young couple? Why were the answers being given without hesitation or complaint? And why was everyone so cheerful about it? Something didn’t make sense.

The youngsters soon departed amid a chorus of jubilant farewells. After they were gone, the room got quiet.

It was a contented silence. The residents positively radiated their deep and sincere affection for the young couple.

There was some fact I was missing, something that explained what I had witnessed. And I said so.

A wave of chuckles went around the room. They understood why I would be puzzled.

They explained that the young couple had left Virginia about a year earlier and drifted into Bryson City. They liked it and stayed. Both found work, and they took a room at the Swain Hotel. They were good kids. They fit in.

But things happen, and bad choices left them convicted in city court of a minor drug offense.

After hearing the case and considering the situation, the judge sentenced the young couple to a period of probation.

He allowed them to remain at the Swain Hotel under certain restrictions.

And he formally appointed their fellow residents at the Swain Hotel, as a group, to supervise the probation. Legally, they were all probation officers.

The next morning, I left the Swain Hotel with dry boots and a warm heart.

I’ve never seen a more sincere display of affection among friends — or a better example of the mercy of the court.

The Swain Hotel in 2011, reborn as the "Historic Calhoun House & Country Inn." Today's rates are eyebrow-raising. I'm sure the previous residents have moved on.

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A Glorious Habit Rekindled

Seeing my granddaughters blossom into reading machines has been very gratifying. I am, after all, a wordsmith, and a veteran one at that.

Not only is it a delight to watch them, but it also gave me a reason to relearn the art of selecting high-quality children’s books. Which is a lot of fun.

Reading — and its co-perpetrator, writing — keep life interesting.

The reading virus infected me at an early age. I can remember plowing through book after book, weary, but unwilling or unable to stop.

Back then, my parents’ books were of no interest, and I depended on the library. Later, when they began giving me an allowance, my practice was to invest part of it every week in a paperback book. Cheap paperbacks surely are one of history’s greatest inventions.

After college, when I started earning a paycheck, I joined the Book of the Month Club. I always awaited my shipments from Camp Hill, Pennsylvania, with great relish.

But alas, during the years when my kids were growing up, and I was focused on job and career, and I had discovered the joys of hiking and backpacking, I found myself reading less. Instead of buying books, I subscribed to magazines, because time was limited.

Slowly, I devolved from voracious book-lover into a person who read lightly and occasionally. Reading was no longer a glorious habit. I had lost the sense of exhilaration and enjoyment.

And then a funny thing happened to reignite the spark.

After I retired, I bought a house in Jefferson that featured a bonus room over the garage. The house has three bedrooms, so the upstairs space really was a bonus. How should I use it?

As a sitting room, I decided. A reading room. A li-bry.

So I purchased bookshelves suitable for the space, brought my books out of storage, where some had languished for years, and populated the new shelves. The room looked great. Felt great.

Immediately, the siren calls began. Read me! No, me first! No, over here — start reading me where you left off!

It was good to be back in the saddle again, back in reading mode.

I spent considerable time upstairs in my recliner, stacks of half-read books on either side, a cup of coffee or a glass of iced tea nearby, enjoying the return of the glorious reading habit.

Soon, I was haunting the local bookstores, searching for titles I never got around to reading, old favorites, and random new finds.

Paperbacks are no longer as cheap as they were in my youth, but used hardbacks and paperbacks are plentiful — and a bargain even today.

Often, for a few dollars, I would come home with an armload of books. I pursued and located old classics. I found the complete works of certain favorite authors. The thrill of the hunt and the joy of the aha! moments were very satisfying.

Then, late in 2010, my reading habits took another interesting turn. I bought a Kindle, the eBook reader from Amazon. I wrote about that earlier this year.

To be clear, I have nothing against eBooks. I have friends who work at or own independent bookstores, and they fear and hate eBooks. They loathe the new technology and see it as a juggernaut that someday will snuff them out.

If they can’t adapt, maybe that will happen. But the way I see it, books in digital form are still books. The Red Pony is an exceptional work, whether the medium you choose is printed book, eBook, audiobook, or Braille.

And so, I reach my point of this long-winded post — getting there, as I am wont to do, by a widely circuitous route.

Several months ago, when I bought the Kindle, I began happily downloading eBooks to it. Soon, I had about 50 eBooks on the device. I also have a stash of 75-100 more on my computer, waiting their turn.

Most days, I spend an hour or more reading on my Kindle.

But the Kindle, instead of taking over, has simply stimulated my appetite for reading. The fact is, I’m now buying more printed books than ever.

A very unexpected outcome.

My bookstore friends would take comfort in that knowledge, if they knew about it. But I can’t tell them.

I never confessed to buying a Kindle in the first place.

Cheeky sign in the window of a local bookstore.

A snarky poke in the eye.

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Out of the Closet

In 1960, when we Smiths left Germany and returned to the ZI (Military abbreviation for Zone of the Interior, meaning the US of A), I took with me about 200 45 rpm records from the four years we lived overseas.

As I explained previously, I got most of those records free, as a perk for being Vice President of the base Teen Club and thereby the guardian of the jukebox.

My collection of 45s never grew much after that. By the early 1960s, 12-inch albums, 33 rpm, were taking over. The 7-inch 45s… well, they soon were kicked to the curb.

My collection of old 45s from the Teen Club is notable for two reasons. One is the unusual way I acquired it. The other is that most of the records bear European labels, not American.

They are the same top 40 songs and musicians as in the U.S., but the records were made and distributed by British and German companies.

I sorted through my record stash recently to see what exotic labels were there.

London
Decca, Ltd.
Parlophone
Columbia, Ltd.
His Master’s Voice
RCA Telefunken
MGM Great Britain
Mercury EMI, Ltd.
Capital Warenzeichen

And a few others. Those labels may or may not be more valuable than American recordings from the same period, but it doesn’t matter. I have no plans to let go of them.

In fact, I’m pleased to say that this year, the old 45s are out of the closet for the first time in a long time.

That’s because technology has finally caught up with a long-standing wish of mine: to convert the 45s to digital files. Finally, the hardware and software exist to do that.

So I recently purchased a new toy: a turntable with a USB plug, along with the software to make it go. I’m in the process of saving all of my old 45s, as well as my old albums, in MP3 format.

It’s a fun and satisfying project. Tedious, too.

But you know, when I play the old tunes, it isn’t the same as hearing them from those giant jukebox speakers, booming forth from the Teen Club and reverberating to the far reaches of Patch Barracks.

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The AYA

The Army takes care of its own.

In the late 1950s, when I was a teenager, we lived in Stuttgart, Germany. My dad was the Air Force liaison officer to Seventh Army Headquarters at Patch Barracks.

In those days, the U.S. Army had seven or eight bases around Stuttgart. Each was a small, self-contained American town.

Well, almost self-contained. For practical reasons, some resources were shared. Not every base, for example, had a theater, bowling alley, or golf course. One high school and a couple of elementary schools served the area, and we had a very efficient bus system.

But each base had the essential facilities: commissary (grocery store), Post Exchange (retail store), housing, gas station, Officers and NCO Clubs — and the good old AYA.

The American Youth Association was quite an elaborate operation. It was the overseas equivalent of a city recreation department. Its mission was to provide enough activities for military dependent kids to keep them busy, entertained, and out of trouble. We were, after all, enclaves of foreigners in a foreign country.

The Army had reason for concern. Generally, the little kids weren’t a problem. But less than two decades after World War II, allowing cheeky American teens to aggravate the Germans, many of them sullen veterans of the Wehrmacht, was not a good idea.

The AYA was staffed by Army enlisted men who specialized in the field of recreation and activities for children.

And they provided activities aplenty. They organized intramural sports for all age levels. They took the kids on swimming trips and sightseeing tours. They bussed the older ones to football and basketball games at other bases around Germany.

The Patch Barracks AYA, a sprawling, hangar-like structure, was typical. Inside were two basketball courts and a large activity room for arts and crafts, instructional classes, and playing pool, chess, checkers, and fussball.

The building also housed offices for the staff, sports equipment we could check out, vending machines, a separate activity room for the younger kids, and a Teen Club.

The Teen Club was our sanctuary, off-limits to the younger ones. At any given time, 10 to 20 teenagers would be there, hanging out, listening to music. On special occasions, we might have a dance or a pizza party.

I told you the AYA was elaborate.

Before long, I got myself elected Vice President of the Teen Club. It was a position I had coveted mightily — hungered for, salivated over, yearned longingly for — since we arrived at the base.

The reason was simple. Among the duties of the Vice President was keeping the jukebox in the Teen Club stocked with the coolest music.

Nowadays, of course, jukeboxes are digital, and they hold enough tunes to last the rest of your life.

But in 1958, a jukebox was a quaint mechanical device that played 7-inch 45 rpm records. Its capacity was about 50 records and 100 songs.

As Vice President, I was given a monthly allowance with which to purchase new 45s. What I bought was entirely up to me.

Naturally, my peers lobbied me constantly to purchase their own favorites. I was everyone’s pal.

I have to admit, I allowed some tunes on the jukebox that I didn’t really like. That was necessary if I wanted to continue being the VP. But mostly, I bought the records — all of them rock and roll, mind you — that satisfied my personal taste.

Which, when I think about it, was about the same as everyone else’s.

Best of all, for every record added to the jukebox, another one had to be retired. Retired to Rocky’s personal collection.

No other AYA officer had perks like that.

More about my collection of 45 rpm records in a future post.

On an AYA bus trip to Munich, 1959. The busses were Army ambulances converted to carry passengers. Note the flat-top haircuts.

Pool party -- Taken on an AYA trip to a public swimming pool in Stuttgart.

A state-of-the-art Wurlitzer loaded with 45 RPM vinyl, circa 1958.

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Night Shift

As one would hope it to be, my college experience was a happy, entertaining, and enlightening time of my life.

I loved the freedom, the challenge, the sheer joy of those years. Every day was fun and exhilarating, not just for me, but for those around me. What could be better than that?

As I explained in an earlier post, those were austere times for the Smith family. Dad had just retired from the Air Force, and he took a substantial pay cut to reenter civilian life.

As a result, my financial situation at college was bleak. I was functionally poor. Chronically bereft of spending money. Always lacking a few extra bucks for a few extra beers.

Technically, everything was under control. At the beginning of each term, Dad paid in advance for my dorm room, meals, tuition, and books. But after that, precious little remained for socializing and frivolity.

I wasn’t alone, of course. Plenty of other students were on a shoestring budget. You simply made the best of it.

And, if you truly were in need, a solution was available. You could get a job.

Later on, I worked various part-time jobs here and there. I worked downtown, for example, serving tables at Ma Dean’s Boarding House. In exchange for working one meal a day, I got three meals free.

I finally had to quit. The food was great, but eating three meals a day at Ma Dean’s was killing me. Half of everything she served was cooked in a deep-fat fryer.

But for my first two years in Athens, I made the conscious decision not to take on a part-time job.

Why? For one thing, carrying a full academic load was time-consuming. I took college seriously and wanted to do well.

Furthermore, at least for a while, I wanted to enjoy the little free time that was left to me. I was willing to forego the money in exchange for the freedom. To me, that seemed like a reasonable and harmless arrangement.

Mom seemed to understand, but Dad was clearly irked. To him, it was evidence that I lacked a proper work ethic.

In Dad’s mind, it wasn’t enough to have a work ethic; you needed to demonstrate that you had it. He communicated that feeling without formally expressing it, as most fathers are capable of doing.

For my entire freshman year, Dad fumed about it. Then, when summer arrived and school was out, he ambushed me. He set me up with a full-time summer job.

Dad probably made the arrangement through a business acquaintance. I don’t know for sure. In any case, the plan was completely unrealistic, doomed from the start. And, after certain unfortunate events played out, even Dad admitted that.

The events of which I speak occurred as follows…

The job was at Flowers Baking Company on the south side of Atlanta. At the time, Flowers was franchised to produce Sunbeam Bread.

Sunbeam — the brand that featured on its packaging the wholesome, angelic image of Little Miss Sunbeam, one of the great symbols of both white bread and whitebread culture.

The bakery was a huge operation, employing hundreds. Production was largely automated. On the giant factory floor, ingredients were mixed, poured, baked, cooled, wrapped, stacked, and shipped out to the grocery stores, all in one continuous operation, around the clock, shift after shift, without end.

My job was in the stacking stage. I stood at the end of a gravity-operated steel conveyor belt. As the wrapped loaves rolled downhill in my direction, I had to place them in stackable plastic trays waiting behind me.

When a tray was full, I placed an empty tray on top of it and filled that one in turn. When the stack of trays reached a certain height, another worker took it away, into a waiting delivery truck.

On paper, it was simple. In practice, it was a nightmare.

First, the bakery was 40 miles from home, on the other side of Metro Atlanta. The cost of gas was going to dent my paycheck severely.

Further, I was assigned to a shift that worked from 6:00 PM to 2:00 AM. Getting to work meant fighting the evening rush hour traffic.

The work itself was not only tiring, but stupifyingly repetitious and monotonous. We had to repeat the same motions, over and over. Loaves came down the rollers without let-up. Unless you kept up, they would be all over the floor. In the eyes of the bosses, surely that would be a flogging offense.

Every hour, we got a 10-minute break. That was my time to rest, to contemplate the miserable working conditions and the pathetic pay — and to endure the taunts of my co-workers.

Ah, yes, my co-workers.

I was assigned to a team of four. The other three, about my age, worked at the bakery full time. Two were black, one was white.

The white kid was an arrogant, menacing person who considered himself the lord of his corner of the production line.

From the very beginning, he went after me mercilessly. He needled me for being a soft, privileged college kid. He ridiculed me for how I got the job. He made fun of my inexperience, my clothes, my glasses, my haircut.

The black guys served as his audience and enablers. They never joined in the heckling, but they laughed uproariously at everything the white kid said.

After the third or fourth break, the white kid went analytical on me. He started in on my inner shortcomings, such as why I was such a snob with such an irritating air of superiority.

All of his wisecracks were expressed as humor, but he meant every word. The hostility was genuine and ominous.

At first, I tried to go along with it. I laughed politely at the jokes and mildly protested. I also tried asking the three of them friendly, benign questions — where they were from, how long they had been at the bakery.

When that didn’t help, I ignored them. Naturally, that didn’t help either.

Finally, at a rest break around midnight, I saw red and got really angry. I told the little punk to back off.

He reacted as if I had stomped on his toe.

He rushed at me, fists and curses flying.

I wasn’t prepared for so quick an assault, but he never reached me. The two black guys, apparently knowing their co-worker well, grabbed him and held him back.

As the white guy struggled and yelled, one of the black guys pleaded, “You wanna get yourself fired? You wanna get all of us fired?”

Soon, the fit of rage subsided, and the white guy stopped straining. For a few long seconds, he fixed me with a cold, murderous look. Then he jerked his arms free and left the break room.

The incident was over. So was my career at Flowers Baking Company. The next day, I quit. I didn’t tell the bosses why.

A day or two later, I sat in the living room with Mom and Dad discussing my run-in with psycho boy.

Mom thought the kid should be reported. He was unhinged, a loaded gun waiting to go off.

True enough. But Dad thought getting him in trouble would only enrage him further. He was bound to lash out, maybe at work, or against his girlfriend, or a family member. I agreed.

Finally, so did Mom. Any action we took probably would backfire. We could do nothing to help. We let it go.

In the break room that night, I came very close to having my butt soundly thrashed. The white guy was a thug and a bully, but I remember him with sadness and pity.

What happens in a person’s life to leave them so bitter and angry? So damaged?

A few days later, mail arrived from the bakery. It was my first and final paycheck, for an insignificant sum. Typed across the bottom of the check was, “Worked one shift and quit without explanation.”

Ordinarily, I care a great deal about what others think of me. Ordinarily, that statement would have been humiliating.

In this instance, it wasn’t. Except for the bosses and some accounting clerk, everyone who mattered understood the facts.

Somehow, when I think back on my brief career at Flowers Baking Company, my first thought is not about my volatile co-worker.

No, Instead of that unpleasantness, my first thought is about the omnipresent, overpowering aroma of baking bread.

And second, I think about the episode of “I Love Lucy” in which Lucy and Ethel are assigned to an assembly line, with predictable results.

I feel their pain.

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Boot Camp Lite

When I was in college, as I’ve written before, I was in Air Force ROTC. Upon graduation in 1964, I got my commission as a loo-tenant, and I served four years on active duty.

I chose the ROTC route to avoid being drafted as an infantryman, sent to Vietnam, and probably shot. I chose Air Force ROTC to please my dad, who had been a career Air Force officer.

As military training goes, being a Rotsy cadet was pretty mild stuff. It amounted to a few extra hours of classroom training every quarter (called military science and air science), and we wore uniforms on Saturday mornings and learned to march properly.

We cadets even had an hierarchy. The more gung-ho among us became the higher-ranking cadet officers. They could, but usually didn’t, lord it over their underlings.

Gung ho was never in my nature, but I had a good record. I graduated as a cadet major and, to my great surprise, as a Distinguished AF ROTC Cadet. Just thought I would mention that.

On the whole, ROTC was not terribly demanding. It was sort of a sideline, a little extra duty to the main task at hand, which was steering a course through college.

Usually, the idea of military training evokes different images altogether — boot camp, drill sergeants, aggressive physical training, forced marches.

ROTC was more gentle than that. With one exception.

During the summer between our junior and senior years, we cadets were sent away for four weeks of special field training that was almost, but not quite, real boot camp. Call it Boot Camp Lite.

It was STU. The AF ROTC Summer Training Unit.

In my case, STU was held at McCoy Air Force Base, Orlando, Florida. Yes, summer in the mosquito- and cockroach-infested jungles of central Florida.

In mid-June 1963, the STU commander sent out a form letter to the mothers of the cadets, including my mom in Georgia…

Dear Mrs. Smith:

Cadet Walter A. Smith has arrived safely at McCoy Air Force Base, Florida, for participation in the AF ROTC Summer Training encampment.

The Summer Training Unit is composed of 150 cadets representing colleges and universities from all over the country. We have a staff of 10 officers and 3 non-commissioned officers who have responsibility during the encampment for executing the training program. The training will be rigorous.

The program includes aircraft and aircrew indoctrination, flight safety, aircraft equipment and armament, maintenance, survival, defense, and the normal military type functions which are part of day to day operation.

The cadet’s day begins at 0445 hours (4:45 A.M.) and he will be in bed each evening at 2100 hours (9:00 P.M.). His room will be inspected daily, and he will be required to keep it absolutely spotless and immaculate.

We sincerely believe that Walter will benefit greatly from his training here.

It’s true, I did benefit greatly. But when I think back on the experience, the negative lessons seem to emerge first.

For example, I got a taste of how life would be as a low-ranking, wretched foot soldier. I learned with certainty that life as an Air Force officer was by far the better choice.

The 150 cadets formed six flights of 25 each — a flight being the Air Force version of a squad. I was in “A” Flight. Our training officer was Captain Hansen, and we called ourselves Hansen’s Aggressors. A for Aggressors, get it?

We were housed not in an open barracks, but in dorm-style rooms with two beds each. My roommate was Bill Tweedle, a jolly, likeable fellow from The Citadel.

As promised, we were awakened each day at 0445 hours and formed up for a session of vigorous exercises. The culmination of the session was our daily one-mile run. We ran as a unit, in formation. Double time, ladies! Hut, two, three, four, hut two, three, four!

After the run, we had about 15 minutes to shower and dress. Then we fell in again to march to breakfast. Everywhere we went, we marched in formation, usually double-time.

All of our meals were square meals, meaning they were eaten military-style — back straight, eyes straight ahead. You were expected to scoop something from your plate, raise it to mouth level, and pop it in without looking at it. Cage those eyeballs, mister!

After breakfast, we prepared our rooms for inspection. We had been advised to bring duplicates of all personal items — toothbrush, toothpaste, and the like. That way, fresh versions of everything were on display for the inspecting officer.

The lectures and other activities began at 0700 hours. Most of it was quite interesting.

We toured the flight line, the aircraft maintenance shops, and assorted base facilities. We were set loose to explore the inside of a KC-135 tanker and a B-52 bomber. It was very cool to sit in the pilot’s seat of a B-52.

We had marksmanship training on the .38 Smith and Wesson Special, which was the official handgun of Air Force officers at the time.

Most memorably, we had two days of survival training in the Florida swamp.

On the first day, we were taught how to construct a shelter suitable for the local environment. We were taught how to stay cool, how to stay warm, how to sharpen a knife, and how to build a rabbit trap.

We also learned how to chop open a sabal palm and extract the tender core — the heart of palm, aka swamp cabbage. I can still remember the taste of the instructor’s heart of palm soup, made with the local sulfur water.

That evening, the instructors gave each cadet his survival equipment: insect repellent, a rain poncho, a sheath knife, a folding shovel, two cans of survival rations, and a surplus parachute.

I ate one can of rations, cut up the parachute to make a hammock, nicked my thumb with the knife in the process, and slept soundly.

The next morning, we were awakened at 0445 hours for the usual exercises and one-mile run, this time through the swamp. After I breakfasted on the remaining can of rations, we learned how to skin a rabbit, how best to hold a poisonous snake, and other skills.

All of this was 48 years ago, so it isn’t surprising that many of my memories have faded.

For example, looking through my old STU “yearbook” recently, I read about a volleyball tournament in which A Flight placed second. I recall nothing about a volleyball tournament.

I also read that weekends were “open post” for the cadets — free time, no training. I remember nothing about free time on weekends.

Skit Night? No memory whatsoever.

What I remember is sweating all night in a silk hammock, and marching in formation, and running in formation, and eating square meals.

I remember our five-hour orientation flight in a B-52, and watching in amazement as the bomber was refueled in the air by a KC-135.

My proudest accomplishment at STU came a few days before the encampment ended. Captain Hansen informed us that A Flight had just completed its predawn one-mile run in four minutes, 43 seconds. Officially.

Have you run a mile in under five minutes?

As for my most vivid memory at STU, that came at the end of the first week, when my roommate, Cadet Bill Tweedle, was dropped from ROTC and sent home.

Tweedle — even the instructors called him Tweedle — was a large, loud, happy young man who lived life with a swagger. Tweedle dominated the room, but no one objected. He was too engaging, too entertaining.

Tweedle also was smart and competent. He quickly became the best known and best liked cadet at STU.

One evening, after the regular assembly at 1645 hours to lower the flag, Tweedle and I were in our room, getting ourselves ready to go to chow.

Suddenly, Tweedle went rigid. He stood beside the bed, frozen, his eyes wide and staring.

Alarmed, I rushed over to him. He began to gag, spit, and shake violently. I caught him, barely, and we both crumpled to the floor.

I had no idea what was happening. Trying not to get injured myself, I protected his head in my lap as he spasmed and jerked, foaming at the mouth, his arms and legs flailing wildly.

By that time, Tweedle’s eyes were shut tight, and his teeth were clenched. He was breathing heavily and jerking erratically.

As soon as the seizure started, I began yelling for help like a crazy person. Other cadets quickly arrived, but they just stood there, watching Tweedle writhing in my lap. No one, including me, knew what to do.

Then Captain Hansen rushed in. He told us Tweedle was having an epileptic seizure. He said the seizure would run its course, but we needed to be sure he didn’t swallow his tongue in the meantime.

He sent one cadet to fetch a broom. He told another to find a washcloth and roll it up tightly.

Using his fingers and the smooth end of the broom handle, Captain Hansen pried open Tweedle’s clenched teeth. He used the washcloth to pad the teeth and hold down the tongue. He told me to continue doing what I was doing.

Within a minute or so, the seizure subsided. Tweedle’s body relaxed, and he slowly came back to reality, sheepish and exhausted. He was fine. No injuries.

But Tweedle had failed to disclose his medical condition to the Air Force. He knew, and he told us he knew, that epilepsy disqualifies you from military service. He hoped it wouldn’t be discovered, and he guessed wrong.

The next morning, the cadets fell out for morning exercises without Tweedle. By mid-day, transportation arrangements had been made for his trip home. He gathered his things, said goodbye to a group of us briefly, and was gone.

After the STU encampment was over, the instructors stayed behind to grade us individually and rank the members of each flight from best to worst.

In A Flight, I was ranked number 12. Exactly in the middle.

Like I said, gung ho was never in my nature.

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