JACK'S BLOG
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2/29/2012 1 Comment Girls! Girls! Girls!Sea ScoutsWHAT ELSE EXCITES young men, especially teenagers, more than girls? Young boys, unprepared for the first assaults of pheromones, succumb like ducks sitting under the business end of a punt gun. Okay, let's pause here a moment. Punt gun: a large caliber shotgun mounted to a small boat -- a punt -- that is rowed near a flock of waterfowl and discharged. Used on the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay to supply Baltimore restaurants with large quantities of ducks and geese. Yep, that's a pretty good metaphor for the effect that just one girl could have on the whole Sea Scout crew. Unfortunately, there weren't many young ladies in evidence at the Baltimore Yacht Club. Pre-teen girls usually weren't of much interest to the boys, and once they became teenagers, the girls rarely wanted to hang around a boat all day with their parents. Of course, when one put in an appearance, their parents weren't enthusiastic supporters of our pursuits of them. To most of the parents of young girls, we were a bunch of hooligans. Probably a fair assessment. As the child of an abusive parent, I was fatalistic about the girls. It's hard to muster up much faith that anyone will find you loveable when the people who should love you, your family, don't. However, that didn't keep me from becoming involved in everybody else's flings. [Note: This will be the first time that I won't mention names to protect the innocent.] On one cruise when I was skippering the boat, the preteen daughter of a yacht club member became enamored of a fifteen year old boy on the crew. She was seriously enamored. On one occasion, I received a radio call from her mother asking me to call the boy inside from bow watch. Her father needed to use the binoculars and he couldn't get them away from her while he was visible on deck. Unfortunately, the boy in question did not reciprocate her feelings. Inasmuch as her family was very supportive of the Sea Scouts at the yacht club, I felt it was in our best interests to keep the relationship under control. Things came to a head on the last night of the cruise. There was a dance and she wanted to go. The boy complained that he couldn't afford the price of admission, so I loaned him the money. Word reached the girl that I had paid him to take her. That didn't end as well as I had hoped. This wasn't the only occasion in which I found myself in the middle. A woman and her very attractive daughter cruised with the yacht club fleet to Norfolk, Virginia, during one of the years when I was ship's boatswain. In an age when male chauvinism was rampant, I may be excused for being impressed that they would attempt the journey without the benefit of a male companion. However, the mother was an excellent sailor and they did just fine until we reached our destination. As soon as we arrived, their engine gave up the ghost and we had to tow them back to Baltimore. They were guests on our boat for two days and the daughter began to take an interest in one of the crew. I was a little ham-fisted on this occasion and “ordered” the boy to escort her to the final night's dance. Lacking any way out of the “assignment” he walked off the dock as he led her to the dancehall. Again, I was confronted by a woman scorned. He had spilled the beans. Seriously, thinking back, I still don't get it. She was crowned Princess of the Baltimore Yacht Club the following year. Did I mention that she was very attractive. What was his problem?
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2/28/2012 2 Comments Juvenile GamblersSea ScoutsJUST ABOUT EVERY yacht club in Maryland had slot machines during the 1950s when I was a Sea Scout. You could also find them in stores and bars in the out of the way places around the Chesapeake Bay even though they had been outlawed some time after World War II. I'm not sure when. I haven't been able to find any citations to help me along in my research. I don't think there was ever a time that Maryland didn't have parimutuel betting. The race tracks at Pimlico, Timonium, and Laurel are historical institutions. But, the state also had casinos. The corridor along US 301, between Baltimore and Washington was an east coast version of Las Vegas. The law seemed to look the other way at private clubs when it shut down operations at the public establishments, for a time. I didn't see any slot machines after 1962. I remember that year specifically because our pre-law class once partied at Kurtz's Pleasure Beach at the confluence of the Patapsco River with the Chesapeake Bay. (I was surprised to find it on Google, still in operation.) One old lady, not a member of our class, nearly knocked me to the floor with her hip when I accidentally stepped up to play one of the four one-armed bandits that she was playing simultaneously. We also found an occasional pinball machine that paid back coins instead of free games for large scores. They were distinctive in that they didn't have legs. The base extended to the floor and contained the payoff mechanism. One of our crew, Jim Urch, seemed to have a real talent for them. There was one at a dockside store on Deal Island that he played from the time we arrived until we left except at night when the store was closed. I loved the sound of it paying off. Cachunk-cachunk it spit out the coins, nickels, one-at-a-time. Jim ignored it and let them accumulate in a bin at his feet. He was a young man with a purpose and I think he may have emptied it. No one seemed to care that a bunch of teenaged Sea Scouts played the slots. We waited for the adults to tire of them and then stepped in. Dunaway Walker, the yacht club's resident storyteller, who frequently cruised with us, would stand at our backs lecturing on the evils of gambling as we played. I liked his company. I invariably won under his scrutiny. He was my good luck charm, I guess. It must have vexed him, especially when I would leave and he would step up after making sure not one was watching. He would feed a couple of coins, lose, and then stalk off certain that no good would come from playing them. My most intriguing experience with the slots came one year when a guest on one of the yacht club boats won a jackpot at every port. We became his stalkers trying to figure out what he was doing. We discussed the way he put in the coin and pulled the lever. We watched what he did with his hands as the dials were spinning. Nothing. Finally, I happened to be waiting on the porch of the boathouse at Solomon's Island, for my turn in the shower, when he arrived and won his usual jackpot. He then placed a long distance telephone call using the pay phone. He talked a long time and the operator frequently interrupted him to insert more money. Let me pause to explain something for those of you who have never used a phone in the days before cells and direct dialing. My mother was a long distance operator and had explained this to me. The money he was depositing was being held until the operator sent a signal for it to drop into the coin box. This man struck the phone on the dial, just so, as he hung up and all his money came spilling out the coin return slot. He collected it and left.
The phone rang shortly thereafter. It persisted ringing until I went and answered it. It was the operator asking for the man who had been talking on the telephone. I'm sorry, I didn't know where he had gotten off to. He definitely knew something about coin-operated machines. 2/27/2012 1 Comment No Sea Scouts were harmedSea ScoutsCHERRY BOMBS. M80s. Helicopters. Sky rockets. Roman candles. Cracker balls. Mortars. Our mouths watered. We couldn't buy these things in Maryland. But, this was Virginia. The Old Dominion State. Sic Semper Tyrannis. Mother of Presidents. Virginia is for lovers. Yeah, and teenage boys with gunpowder dreams. We had walked from the mooring in Onancock, Virginia, down a long, dark country road, flat as a pancake, straight as a Baptist preacher's bourbon. "There's a store down that thar road, boys. Hell, ain't nuthin' else out that way 'cept the Higgins' place and you can't see that from the road. The store's right along side it. Y'all can't miss it." After an hour walking in the muggy heat of early evening, we were beginning to fear that we had missed it. But, there it was at last. It didn't look much like a store in the distance. Just a silhouette in the twilight. One light burning in a window. An old man wearing bib overalls, sitting on a porch, rocking, holding a glass of iced tea in his lap, cooling his privates with the condensation dripping off it. He smiled. “Yep, dis ere's da place y'all lookin for,” he informed us before we could ask. “C'mon in.” “Where's y'all from?” he asked over his shoulder as he led us inside. “Balmur,” I replied. Baltimorese sounds like that, really. He chuckled and looked at me. “Sounds like it,” he responded. He gave us lots of room and let us gawk. There it was. Forbidden merchandise stacked on wooden shelves nailed to every wall. Cherry bombs and M80s – Hammerheads, we called them – in boxes of seventy-two. “Twelve bucks a box,” he said seeing in which direction our eyes were bulging. We couldn't believe our ears. Dick started to say something to confirm the price. “Ya heard me,” the old man cut him short. “Twelve bucks a box.” Good Lord! The corners of my mouth were getting sore from the grin that stretched them to unaccustomed distances. We pulled out our wallets and began calculating our purchases. I didn't see any need to buy both the cherry bombs and the hammerheads. They're about equal in power. Others just grabbed a box of everything. The walk back to the boat began cheerfully. We were too wrapped up in visions of mayhem to consider the discomfort that would soon afflict us from embracing our contraband during the long walk back. There was a lot of shifting of loads and stops to rest. It didn't matter. We were too excited to care. We didn't even give ourselves a minute to rest when we climbed aboard. The skipper was at dinner with the other members of the yacht club fleet. We began tossing cherry bombs and hammerheads into the water, cheering each explosion. The boatswain disappeared inside when the novelty began to wear off and reemerged with a roll of electrical tape and a box of spare hardware: nuts and bolts. He taped a cherry bomb to one, lit it, and tossed it over the side. We watched expectantly. A flash of light. A muffled wump. A stream of bubbles floating to the surface followed by a school of stunned fish. Dinner anyone? We followed his example. Hell, he was the leader, wasn't he. We recreated the Battle of the Atlantic during the trip back north, launching depth charges port and starboard, two and four at a time, all the way home. No u-boat was safe in the Chesapeake Bay that summer.
Fortunately, we were always at the last boat in the fleet and the skipper usually stayed on the bridge making sure we didn't run into something. Thus, all the adults had plausible deniability. Back home, the Baltimore County police got wind that someone had invaded their territory, armed to the teeth. I suspected that the busybody who lived next door had ratted me out. I watched a squad car parked at the end of our street one day. They were there a long time and there wasn't a donut shop within a mile. I sneaked out the back door. Crossed the stream behind our house and cut through a narrow strip of woods that separated us from the sand lot where we played ball. I used one of my dad's cigarettes as a delayed fuse and attached it to a mortar. I ran back home and was sitting on the front porch in full view of the police when the charge was launched high above the trees and exploded. The cops peeled out to investigate the scene of the crime. I was still sitting on the front porch, sipping on a Coke, when they cruised by about ten minutes later. I waved, friendly like. They scowled. 2/27/2012 8 Comments What is beauty?Opinion“THE MOST-TALKED-ABOUT LIMB at the Academy Awards on Sunday night? Definitely Angelina Jolie's right leg. “The actress presented the screenplay awards while wearing a black gown with a thigh-high slit and striking an exaggerated pose that drew attention to her shapely leg.” --Gael Fashingbauer Cooper, MSNBC Seriously? Shapely leg? Is this what passes for beauty these days? Am I caught in some real-life version of “The King's New Suit of Clothes?” Is this the image that we want young girls to emulate? Is this the body choice that the actress will want her daughters to emulate? I would far prefer that our daughters emulate any of the professional female dancers on Dancing With the Stars. Not all women may aspire to be athletes, however these dancers clearly demonstrate the figures that may be attained through healthy diet and exercise. Something has gone horribly awry in our perceptions. I fear that peer pressure has escaped the bounds of adolescence and is making itself felt at all ages. Passing elementary schools, I see preteen girls dressing and acting like hookers on Hollywood Boulevard. Passing Starbucks outlets, I see adults paying exorbitant prices for coffee brewed from inferior beans heavily roasted to hide their poor quality. It seems that people of all ages are abandoning good taste for the allure of mass media advertising messages and the examples set by celebrities. Do I sound old and crotchety? You may dismiss me as such if you like. However, emulating the example of Ms. Jolie, our daughters may be exposing themselves to health risks. Women have died pursuing a body mass index that comes with anorexia. Remember Karen Carpenter? Anorexia stole one of the purest, most beautiful voices in recent decades. I don't know if Ms. Jolie is suffering from anorexia, however, that is the choice most girls will have to follow to emulate her example. Of course, they may not attain the actress's famous beauty. Given the manner in which Karen Carpenter hid her body, she did not have a self image of beauty. But, that was a different time, and I come from a different time.
I suppose that I may have some Latino in my soul. In Mexico the men say, "Bone is for the dog. Meat is for the man." 2/26/2012 3 Comments Can I believe you?WritingBEFORE LENO AND CARSON, Jack Parr hosted the Tonight Show. One night he told the story of the Army's new “Atomic Grenade.” “It has a bursting radius of twenty-five meters,” Parr related. “Unfortunately, you can only throw it fifteen meters.” I never saw an “Atomic Grenade.” We only had ordinary grenades when I was in the Army. However, filmmakers seem to have an ample supply of them. Think back over the war dramas you have watched. How do those explosions compare with these actual demonstrations? A grenade does a good job destroying a washing machine. But, where was the giant fireball? Why didn't it level the surrounding dirt piles? Would that explosion have blown out an entire store front? I doubt it. The terrific explosions that filmmakers portray are great theater and probably excite most audiences. However, for those of us with any knowledge of weapons, their artistic license makes it difficult to suspend disbelief and enjoy the show. Generally, audiences are eager to accept almost any fantastical element that a storyteller throws at them. Even trained scientists are vulnerable to their fantasies as evidenced by the recent announcement that they discovered a particle traveling faster than the speed of light. Oh, how they dreamed of hitching a ride on it to the stars until they found the data error that led to the erroneous conclusion. However, every story must have some semblance of truth. Storytellers must throw their audience a bone of reality here and there to help them out. People who read books or listen to radio dramas are the easiest to appease. They are, after all, helping the storyteller by providing the visual images. Name a monster, and the audience will visualize whatever is believable for them. However, in film and on television, the audience are passive viewers and an actor in a rubber suit isn't going to cut it, especially not with modern audiences. Serious dramas will turn into comedies at the drop of a hat. I have much the same problem watching modern police dramas featuring female detectives. Now, before you dismiss me as a knuckle-dragging chauvinist, allow me to explain that I have nothing against women serving their communities on police forces and fire departments. However, in all honesty, I would not expect that such women are physically challenged as are the anorexic models who star in these roles in film and on TV. I cringe when I see one of them kick in a balsa wood door. Actually, I'm surprised that they aren't injured attacking props. I once had a friend, a Marine aviator. Our sons were members of the same Cub Scout den. We were demonstrating “Indian Wrestling” for the boys wherein the opponents hold one hand behind their backs and clasp the others while attempting to throw their opponent off balance. I had a fifty pound advantage on my friend and threw him about easily. Imagine what that does for my ability to suspend disbelief when I see a model-turned-actress portraying a detective taking down a rampaging biker dude.
I don't suppose that I helped things very much when I wrote Rebels on the Mountain. I not only took great pains to portray weapons and tactics in a realistic fashion, but also, I took the time to educate the audience. Inasmuch as I surmised that Fidel's few trained soldiers must have had to teach the recruits the weapons and tactics of organized warfare, I included scenes inspired by the infantry training I received in the Army. In my book, readers learn what a grenade is and how it is employed in battle. They learn about rifle squad tactics and the use of demolitions. I not only infused my story with a sense of reality, but also, I made it harder for my audience to suspend disbelief when they see these elements poorly used in other stories. Why should they have it any easier than me? Ultimately, I believe that audiences read historical fiction because they find reality far more fascinating than pure fantasy. Like me, they must find real heroism more exciting than imagined feats of daring. After all, who inspires us more, an imaginary person facing imaginary danger, or a person like ourselves, confronting their fears and doing what is good and necessary in spite of those fears? 2/25/2012 1 Comment Pleasure TripsSea ScoutsWITH THE ADVENT of steamship service on the Chesapeake Bay in 1825, citizens of Baltimore began cruising to escape summer heat and humidity on the beaches of Tolchester and Betterton on the Eastern Shore also known as the DELMARVA Peninsula – All of Delaware and portions of Maryland and Virginia were located there. Amusement parks were built for their entertainment and Annie Oakley gave frequent exhibitions of her world famous talent for sharp shooting. The amusement park at Tolchester was still in operation when I was a Sea Scout, and it was located just 12 miles across the Bay from the Baltimore Yacht Club, making one of our favorite day trips. The Skipper trusted us with the Gig whenever we wanted to make the hour and a half cruise. We would drop the anchor about a hundred feet from the wooden pier. We would then backup until the stern gently touched and tie up. We had to use the end of the pier inasmuch as an excursion boat might arrive at any time while we were there. I remember the boatswain taking me under the roller coaster after riding it for the first time. Chunks of wood began falling as a roller coaster passed overhead. On closer inspection, I found that its wooden structure was rotting away and that maintenance personnel had been hammering it back together with ten penny nails for decades. The ends of cross bracing were splitting from all the nails driven into them. What the hell, it made the ride all the more exciting when you knew that it might collapse under you at any time. The place may have been going to seed but the food was still excellent. The funnel cakes were memorable although the fryers looked as though they may have been using the same oil that Annie Oakley had sampled there decades before. On my last visit there when I was boatswain, about 1960, we ended the day by bowling a game of duckpins in an open air pavilion. Duckpins are like ten pins only much smaller, and the balls weigh only three pounds. The game was invented to be played on smaller alleys than ten pin alleys, that bar owners in Baltimore and Washington had installed. Pin boys sat above the pit where the pins collected when they were knocked over. They would jump down and clear away any pins that remained on the alley after you bowled – you played three balls in duck pins. Then they would launch your ball on a track that carried it back to you behind the foul line. After your bowling three balls in each frame, the pin boys would set up the pins for the next player. At the end of the game, you rolled a quarter down the gutter to pay the pin boys for their service. Unfortunately, we had spent our last money to play the game and had nothing left to pay them. We shrugged our apologies and began to run when we saw that they weren't in a forgiving mood. We grabbed the stern lines and cast off as soon as we jumped aboard the Gig. Two boys on the foredeck began hauling in on the anchor line as I started the engine, and the pin boys gave us a hearty farewell by heaving loose boards from the dock at us. Those who could not afford the price of a ticket on the steamship rode the trolley from Baltimore to Pleasure Island where a less elegant amusement park waited. The trollies sped along Sparrows Point where the British had marched to attack the city while their ships bombarded Fort McHenry. They rolled past the Bethlehem Steel Works and Sparrows Point Ship Yards, crossed a narrow wooden trestle bridge and discharged their passengers on the island. I only visited there once when I was about five or six years old. I still remember standing beside my mother, hanging onto her skirt, as the trolley rocked from side to side. There were no seats for us until the workmen disembarked at stations along the way. These were the old-fashioned trollies with a pantograph at each end that connected to the overhead wire. They also had couplers like railroad cars. The one we road that day was joined to another for the trip to Hart Island. I don't remember anything about the park itself – just the trip there and back.
The amusement park was closed and abandoned in 1960 after storms washed away the bridge and damaged the park beyond repair. I passed the island many times but we never stopped. After 1960, there was no reason. 2/23/2012 4 Comments Journalism as FictionOpinionMARK TWAIN, in his recently published autobiography, relates how he once attempted to start a magazine dedicated solely to reprints of old newspaper and magazine articles. He opined that people would rather read stories of historical interest that were written when the events were still fresh and foremost in peoples' minds rather than dusty tomes of academic studies. I think he may have been correct. I have had a fascination with history (actually, our story) almost my entire life, and have preferred reading historical fiction for much the same reason, so long as the author is true to the milieu of the story and uses fictional characters to gain insight that academicians cannot provide. Well-written historical fiction has the same timber and presence as well-written journalism, if the author of historical fiction relates to the story with the same sense of immediacy as a journalist reporting a current event.
James Mitchner fairly leaps to mind. I first became acquainted with him while reading Hawaii as I relaxed on Waikiki Beach during R&R from the Vietnam War. The insights that I gained from that novel helped me more abundantly enjoy the almost five years I lived in Hawaii following my tour of duty in Vietnam. However, I believe that The Source was Mitchner's greatest work. It provided even greater insights into the nature of the people living in the Middle East; insights that are invaluable in deciphering current events there. Some may not agree that the Camolud series by Jack Whyte is historical fiction. Although they may argue that his interpretation of the legend of King Arthur is pure fiction, I believe that he is true to the milieu of time and place; Britain at the time the Roman Empire is contracting and the legions quit the nascent island nation. I cannot imagine anyone more accurately nor more interestingly portraying this period of history, than to imagine Roman equestrians who remain behind to attempt to build a unified nation on the ruins of a crumbling empire. Unfortunately, there is a flaw in Twain's concept; it only works if there are good journalists to record history as it unfolds. There may be some out there today, but I haven't seen them. Some argue that a bad thing happened during the Vietnam War; journalists became performers vying for popularity ratings on television screens as news became a profit center in the broadcast industry, and political correctness drew larger audiences than factual correctness. The degradation of the journalistic profession continued as this philosophy found its way into universities. Whereas journalists had traditionally worked their way up the ranks of the newspaper business learning their craft along the way, modern journalists graduated from institutions that shielded their students from reality and exposed them to the progressive philosophy. Indeed, journalism professors became ring leaders using their students to bully anyone who dared stray from their chosen views of society and social order. Thus, the product of modern journalism may seem well-crafted, but it is hardly to be trusted as the foundation for understanding the milieu or the characters of any stories that are their subjects. All things considered, I will continue reading historical fiction (and writing it). Hopefully, I will remain true to my story and people will find it insightful as well as entertaining. 2/21/2012 6 Comments What is an antique?Oh Dark ThirtyI AM NOT an antique! Seriously, today is my 69th birthday and I may feel a little worn around the edges and in need of a valve job, but that doesn't mean I'm an antique. Oh, and don't give me any of that “Well, 69 is the new 59,” or whatever. I'm 69 and proud of it. So, you may ask what's my problem? Here's my problem: Everything I grew up with is now classified as an antique. This point was brought how to me when I went looking for a photo of a 24' Chris Craft Express Cruiser to accompany my blog posting “Rescuing the Buttercup,” and found that it was classified as an antique boat. Really? The Buttercup was a new boat when my Sea Scout Ship rescued it from the teeth of a hurricane. I looked high and low for a definition of what constitutes “an antique boat.” There doesn't appear to be one however, it appears that any wooden hulled boat is considered an antique. But, I grew up with wooden hulled boats. I spent many hours scraping barnacles, cleaning and re-caulking seams, and painting them. How about this? It's a photo of my first new car: A 1964 Mercury Comet Caliente. Oh, it was hot! Black exterior and a solid red leather interior. Both the Antique Automobile Club and the Classic Car Association categorize it as an antique. Seriously? Of course, older cars – the ones I remember seeing at the Auto Show before I was able to buy one – are all antiques. Okay, the Antique Automobile Club (shouldn't they be an “Association” instead of a “Club”) and the Classic Car Association (shouldn't they be a “Club” instead of an “Association) – think about it – can't be the official arbiters of what is an antique. With this hopeful thought, I checked my state Department of Motor vehicles for an official ruling. California says it's anything built at least 39 years ago. Hell, that's worse. In desperation, I began looking at other states (What does California know – they can't get anything right):
Come on everybody, these are antiques. Just look at them. The cars below can't be antiques. They're all the ones I owned that would qualify as antiques today in California. If this isn't depressing enough, I began to look at antique furniture and recognized many of the things I grew up with. Of course, I grew up in Baltimore where the lamp lighter still came around each evening and lit the gas street lights. He returned each morning with a ladder over his shoulder so he could clean the globes and replace the mantles that needed it. I also remember the iceman coming three times a week with block ice until my parents bought their first electric refrigerator. And there were cobble stone streets, cars with running boards... oh Lord, I am an antique.
2/20/2012 1 Comment Ship's CookSea ScoutMY MOM WENT to work at the telephone company when I was about eleven years old. She would call and have me begin preparing for dinner so she could begin cooking as soon as she got home. Pretty soon, I was cooking for the family. Inasmuch as she was an operator and worked shifts, it wasn't a daily chore, and I enjoyed it. I've been cooking all my life now. When I became a Sea Scout, I discovered that the Ship was in need of a cook and it was the fastest way to get some sort of rank to get me out of some of the drudge work, at least when we were cruising. It didn't help on ordinary work details when we weren't cruising. In all modesty, my meals became legendary. I could work miracles on a two burner propane stove in a four by four galley, while cooking for as many as fifteen teenagers and accompanying adults. There were times when I inadvertently cooked for a significant part of the yacht club. I made French Toast one Sunday morning and sent a plate to the Eblings who were among the best friends the Sea Scouts had at the yacht club. We were tied up dockside in a small town on the Eastern Shore. The boy I had sent returned with an empty plate and a woebegone look. “It didn't make it.” Another member had intercepted him and eaten it. I made another and it too was intercepted. [Note: Incidentally, my secret to making decadent French Toast is to soak the bread until it is thoroughly saturated in egg mixture so that it becomes like a custard in the frying pan. Too many people merely swipe the bread through the eggs and the middle is dry and nasty.] A spaghetti dinner once got me into trouble with one of the yacht club wives. I had made too much and the boy on galley police (think KP – Kitchen Police – in the Army) who was supposed to toss the left overs into the trash was intercepted by a yacht club member who had grown impatient waiting for his wife to get ready for dinner at a dockside restaurant. By the time she left the boat, he had consumed the equivalent of three or four servings. I happened to emerge from the boat just as she confronted him. “Have some,” he offered extending the pot and ladle to her. “It's really delicious.” She attempted to murder both of us with a look. [Note: My secret to making an authentic marinara sauce is to saute the tomato paste and herbs and spices to intensify their flavors. A little wine is needed to dissolve herbs and spices that are not water soluble. Lastly, for some reason known only to the great chef in the sky, marinara sauce improves in flavor each time it is cooled and reheated.] The only downside to having been the ship's cook is that I know better than most, the effects of inflation. Remember, I was purchasing provisions for as many as fifteen for a nine day cruise. For a hundred dollars, I would fill several shopping carts with my staples. Think about that. These days, you can carry a hundred dollars worth of groceries in one hand. My pancakes (made from scratch) were very popular and we used real maple syrup – around $.30 for a bottle then, around $10.00 today if you want the real thing. [Note: I don't know why people use pancake mixes. Sift together the “dry” ingredients – 240 grams of AP flour, 50 grams of cake flour, 3 tsps of baking powder, 1 tsp of baking soda, and 1 tsp salt. Blend the “wet” ingredients – 2 cups buttermilk, 1 whole egg or 2 egg whites (save on the cholesterol) 1/3 cup of vegetable oil, ¼ cup sugar, and 1 tsp vanilla. Mix the wet and dry, and stir for about 30 seconds (don't over stir – it should be lumpy and a little dry flour is okay). Cook on a cured griddle wiped clean of any excess shortening or oil.] I replenished our ice at the stops we made during our cruise, and I bought perishables as I needed them. Ground beef cost $.30 per pound – around $4.09 today. We used butter, $.75 per pound – around $4.00 today. Milk was less than $1.00 per gallon – around $5.00 today (and you can imagine how much milk fifteen teenage boys would drink!). I was overly ambitious one Sunday and made fried chicken and candied sweet potatoes for everyone. The yacht club members got wind of it but the boys kept them off the boat. They were extremely disappointed when they discovered that there would be no leftovers. [Note: The secret to great fried chicken is, of course, marinating the chicken in buttermilk overnight. The dredge can be your favorite blend of herbs and spices in flour. However, you must not skip the buttermilk.]
Although I rose in rank to ship's boatswain and only served as ship's cook for two years, I was required to supervise my replacement. 2/20/2012 3 Comments CharismaOpinionCHARISMA IS A CONCEPT that has long perplexed me. I just don't get it. I watch others enamored of politicians and celebrities and wondered at their reaction. I just don't get it. Is it a failing in me or a weakness in others? Or, is it something else entirely? As I wrote Rebels on the Mountain, I decided that I could not avoid the issue any longer. I had to come to grips with the seemingly magical thrall that people like Fidel Castro and Che Guevara cast over others. Some people use the terms caudillo and charisma interchangeably. However, a person may be a caudillo and have charisma. Fidel Castro must certainly fit that bill. The caudillo is a military dictator. The term came into use in the 18th century when the Spanish began losing control of their American colonies and strong men replaced colonial governments. Fidel Castro is a modern example of a military dictator; a reluctant dictator he would have us believe, using military force to rule his people at their behest. Those who disagreed invaded Miami to escape his execution squads. They should have invaded Havana instead and deposed him saving us all a lot of trouble. Deciding whether a person has charisma is far more difficult. People may reasonably disagree that one has it if they are not affected by it. Honestly, I have rarely followed anyone blindly. As is evident in other postings in this blog, I have an inherent distrust of all authority figures regardless of how that authority is derived. Indeed, I can remember just one person in my 68 years who has had a charismatic effect on me. Our company commander in Basic Combat Training at Fort Gordon, Georgia, was an Airborne Ranger, Green Beret (Special Forces) officer, Captain John Sevcik. (I am not certain of the spelling but will never forget the man.) He must have deserved a rest to be given command of a BCT company at the height of the Vietnam buildup. I am not quite certain how he accomplished it, but we all stretched ourselves well beyond our limits to please him. Was that charisma? One incident in particular serves to illustrate what the source of my quandry. Every soldier who completes 20 years or more active duty is rewarded with a retirement parade. An officer reads a summary of the honorees service record. A commanding officer salutes him. A massed battalion passes in review while a band plays a stirring martial accompaniment. Canons may be fired, the number determined by the retiree's rank. On this occasion, our BCT company was chosen to form the battalion together with a WAC company (women were not yet integrated with the men), and an airborne company waiting deployment. Our three units stood side-by-side at parade rest while the ceremony played out on the reviewing stand, and it began to rain. Our ponchos were neatly rolled and strapped to our web utility belts and left untouched. Drops falling from our helmets grazed the tips of our noses and most of us tilted our heads this way and that trying to avoid them. There was general unrest in the ranks except for one man. Captain John Sevcik stood at the head of our company without moving. He didn't look back; he didn't have to. Somehow, we became aware of him. Every man, including the ones farthest back in our ranks responded to his example. We wanted him to be proud of us, and soon we too stood at parade rest without the least movement, while the other two companies squirmed on either side of us. When the order came to pass in review, we came to attention with alacrity and marched in perfect unison as we never marched before. I know this because a letter came from the post commanding general complimenting us on our achievement. I believe I would have followed that man to the gates of hell. Now, when people speak of charisma, I am never in agreement. When Presidents Bill Clinton and Barack Obama are held out as exemplars of charisma, I disagree, not for political reasons, but for the simple fact that I would not follow them anywhere. Indeed, no president other than, perhaps, Lincoln or Washington, could have led me as well as Captain John Sevcik. Not surprisingly, charisma is highly prized. People try to sell it. Google charisma and you will be treated to books, seminars, and training academies that promise to infuse you with a natural charm and authority that will make you irresistible to the opposite sex and a natural leader among all. I would ask for a money-back guarantee if you chose to avail yourself of their services. As I researched Fidel Castro for my novel, Rebels on the Mountain, I struggled with his charisma. Obviously, he had some quality that caused a large segment of Cuba's population to follow him – and to continue following him through years of travails. I have yet to discover it. Castro was no great military leader. His abortive attack on the Cuban army barracks at Moncada near Santiago de Cuba clearly demonstrates that he had no instinct for war. His plan of attack was ill-conceived and foundered even before the first shots were fired. He was easily captured, tried, and convicted. During his exile in Mexico where he assembled his core revolutionary army, he was rarely free to train with them. I believe that an honest evaluation of the conduct of the insurrection that caused the dictator, Fulgencio Batista, to flee the island, clearly shows that Fidel contributed little to the tactical and strategic successes. Anyone who reads my novel will find that I ascribe most of these to his men whose will and determination was superior to Batista's demoralized troops. Batista, like most dictators, discouraged competence and initiative among his military leaders for fear that they might mount a coup d'etat if they became too strong and independent. What then was the source of Castro's charisma? Most of his loyalest followers then and now are among the mulatos, the poor and illiterate, many descended of Indian and slaves. He was a Galatian with no black or Indian forebearers. He was well educated, an attorney, his father a wealthy landowner. There is no apparent cultural or ethnic connection. The only factor I can find that seemed to mesmerize his people is his voice; not his words, just his voice. It is as though he became the voice of his people, giving vent to their discontent and frustrations. Since his vocabulary exceeded theirs, it must have been something else. I remember listening to his rants on television when he first came to power. I was studying Spanish at the time and tried to listen past the translators to catch the fire in his speech. A Spaniard listening to him would have had as much trouble as someone from Boston listening to a speaker from Appalachia. I had even more difficulty. As I researched Fidel Castro for my novel, Rebels on the Mountain, I struggled with his charisma. Obviously, he had some quality that caused a large segment of Cuba's population to follow him – and to continue following him through years of travails. I have yet to discover it. Castro was no great military leader. His abortive attack on the Cuban army barracks at Moncada near Santiago de Cuba clearly demonstrates that he had no instinct for war. His plan of attack was ill-conceived and foundered even before the first shots were fired. He was easily captured, tried, and convicted. During his exile in Mexico where he assembled his core revolutionary army, he was rarely free to train with them. I believe that an honest evaluation of the conduct of the insurrection that caused the dictator, Fulgencio Batista, to flee the island, clearly shows that Fidel contributed little to the tactical and strategic successes. Anyone who reads my novel will find that I ascribe most of these to his men whose will and determination was superior to Batista's demoralized troops. Batista, like most dictators, discouraged competence and initiative among his military leaders for fear that they might mount a coup d'etat if they became too strong and independent. What then was the source of Castro's charisma? Most of his loyalest followers then and now are among the mulatos, the poor and illiterate, many descended of Indian and slaves. He was a Galatian with no black or Indian forebearers. He was well educated, an attorney, his father a wealthy landowner. There is no apparent cultural or ethnic connection. The only factor I can find that seemed to mesmerize his people is his voice; not his words, just his voice. It is as though he became the voice of his people, giving vent to their discontent and frustrations. Since his vocabulary exceeded theirs, it must have been something else. I remember listening to his rants on television when he first came to power. I was studying Spanish at the time and tried to listen past the translators to catch the fire in his speech. A Spaniard listening to him would have had as much trouble as someone from Boston listening to a speaker from Appalachia. I had even more difficulty. In my novel, I speculate that there was a more visceral connection between Fidel and his people. I speculate that the tone and pacing of his speech may have connected to their innermost hopes, fears, and expectations. I have sensed something of the kind in the great orators who I listened to as I was growing up. Those who simply read teleprompters today cannot hold a candle to speakers such as Martin Luther King, Everett Dirksen, Winston Churchill, and John Kennedy. I remember listening to George Wallace when he ran for President. He was speaking to an audience in Maryland. Despite the fact that his positions, especially as regards segregation, were extremely polarizing, he mesmerized them all, even the blacks. There was some quality of intonation and pacing that resonated with everyone. Sitting at the back of the auditorium, I could see the audience moving in unison with him. He could draw them towards him by leaning towards them. He could make them sway from side to side by swaying at the dias. It was like watching a dance. He could elicit emotions of all kinds, even from hecklers. I have never seen another performance like it except Fidel Castro. The only difference was that Castro spoke longer, much longer.
Castro regularly spoke for hours on end without losing his audience. What American could equal that performance. Would any American tolerate it? In the final analysis, I would have to say that both Fidel Castro and George Wallace had charisma, although neither had any affect on me. Likewise, I will have to concede that Bill Clinton and Barack Obama have charisma, but, again, neither move me. I cannot help but note that no Republican President in my lifetime had charisma; they had to lead using other qualities. Charisma seems to be a Democratic quality in this country as it is a necessary quality of leadership in most other countries of the world. It seems to me to be a poor substitute for competence. |
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