Coming Soon – Teleportal: Damage Control

The wait is almost over. Teleportal: Damage Control will soon be available on Amazon. Barring unforeseen circumstances, the launch announcement will be on the website (https://bit.ly/2DOLjea) next week. Look for it.

In the meantime, here’s a little bit of the first chapter to whet your appetite:

I’m Samantha Pederson, an analyst for the government at the Technology Reconnaissance Agency, where I’ve worked since 2014. We analyze published discoveries, theories, inventions, and the like for possible threats to our national security. I was present for our first contact with another universe. I wish the rest had been that easy.

This whole mess started when my boss, Dr. Richard Frost, found out through a highly suspect internet post that Dr. Melissa Kim, Greg Masterson, and Troy Santori had possibly developed a functioning teleportal in the Phoenix, Arizona, area. Considering that teleportals would allow instantaneous transportation to any place, they would have a devastating effect on the transportation industry all the way down to oil refineries and everything that supported them. They would also do away with national borders.

Since both effects would be viewed with grave concern by the government, Dr. Frost called an emergency meeting of our section to decide how to determine if the post was valid and, if so, what to do about it. I must have opened my mouth one too many times because he assigned me to head up a team to learn about the development, but he might have chosen me because of my combined experience as an officer in Marine Corp intelligence and in the agency.

Right away I discovered my team and I were going to be tested to our limit. Our charter was threefold: to confirm the development of teleportal technology, prevent the device from falling into the wrong hands, and keep the developers out of trouble. Unfortunately they were already in trouble before we landed in Phoenix, and it got worse after we arrived.

We nicknamed Melissa—Dr. Kim—, Troy, and Greg the “Wormhole Trio” because they had used what they called wormhole technology to develop the teleportal. Our original plan had been for my team to stay in the background, but we were all green at surveillance operations. The Trio almost immediately found out we were watching them, and they literally headed for the hills—specifically, the Mogollon Rim. The upshot was that Troy, Greg, and Greg’s family were taken hostage by Russian mobsters who had been hired to stop American development of the device and erase any trace of it. By working with other federal agents, state police, and Melissa, who had avoided being captured, we were able to free the hostages but not without hair raising complications, including the first use of teleportals with live subjects.

Once the dust settled, the Trio and Greg’s family became guests of the US government at a safe house in western Colorado, so they could continue teleportal development in safety—and so the government could keep an eye on them. Since I was one of the few people outside the Trio who had some idea of how teleportals functioned, my work partner, Jack Kirton, and I were called away from our duties in DC and assigned to work with the Trio at the safe house. I suspect it was Dr. Frost’s way of keeping the NSA from bundling them up and taking them somewhere they’d never be heard from again. It didn’t hurt my feelings any. During our surveillance of the Trio, I had met and fallen in love with Troy. (https://bit.ly/2TqhplV)

Satan’s Minions

For some reason, yesterday’s shooting in Ottawa made me angrier than 9/11 did. Whatever the reason, it got me to thinking. I’m going to step out of my reminiscing for this post and write about something that disturbs me deeply. The ideas I express here are my own and are admittedly based more on supposition than direct knowledge.

I was taught to respect other people’s religions, but lately I’ve been forced to reconsider that. I find it very hard to respect a religion where the religious leaders condone outright evil or at least look the other way. I can’t see how killing innocent people can be anything else but evil. A new group of extremists has moved to the forefront of Muslim Terrorists and they are killing people who don’t believe exactly as they do. Yet as far as I can tell none of Islam’s religious leaders have spoken out against them.

I’ve heard that the Qur’an has passages that can be interpreted to rationalize what ISIS is doing, but the keyword there is “interpreted.” Perhaps it should be “twisted.” Their actions are outright evil. Surely, the Qur’an doesn’t justify that.

I suspect that the religious leaders who should know better are succumbing to fear of being reprimanded by higher ups if they speak out. Or they fear becoming targets themselves, and perhaps that’s warranted. But they’re the ones who should be stepping in to end the violence by providing more knowledge based guidance. As far as I can tell, Islam is an authoritarian religion, so that guidance should start from the top. Where is it?

Now comes the part that I’m having a hard time expressing. As far as I know Muslims believe in Allah and Satan. To my knowledge Satan is supposed to be constantly working to turn people to evil. The evil the Islamic terrorists are doing looks a lot more like the work of Satan than the work of Allah. I believe that at some level in their leadership the extremists know that what they are telling their followers to get them to commit atrocities is untrue. Reasonable Islamic leaders should acknowledge that these extremist have crossed the line and are Minions of Satan. I think that’s important. Regardless of our religions or lack thereof everyone in the world needs to deal with the extremists in terms they understand. We need to start calling the extremists, “Satan’s followers,” and make sure that the extremists know that everyone knows they are.

Maybe, just maybe, some of them will start to think about what they’re doing.

Journal of an Underachiever –Second Summer

The summer of ’57 came and the class took a get acquainted tour. We traveled to most, if not all, the major air commands. It was a whirlwind tour, and I only remember bits and pieces. We visited Wright-Patterson AFB (Air Material Command and Air Force Research and Development Command) where I got to ride in a centrifuge. I pulled seven gees and held my left arm up the whole time. As long as you’re lying down, gee-force is overrated.

We got some off-base time. Several of us went together into Dayton. The one thing I remember was stopping at a soda shop and ordering banana splits. When the waitress asked, “Do you want strawberry, chocolate, or caramel topping?” JT answered, “Yes.” That confused the waitress because apparently at that time in Dayton you ordered banana splits with one topping.

We went to Hamilton AFB (San Rafael, CA) to learn about Air Defense Command. The one thing I remember was that we had a dance where they had arranged for us to meet local young women. My companion for the evening was rather plain looking except when she smiled. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen nearly enough.

I believe that was the year we went to Tinker AFB (Oklahoma City). Once again we had local companions arranged. My date was the daughter of the base or wing commander. She was a beauty and she had a boyfriend. Besides the dance we went swimming together at the base pool. When she came out, she was holding her top on and asked me to fasten it. Boy, was I fumble fingered.

I’m pretty sure we toured SAC headquarters. I’m not sure about TAC, because we visited Norfolk and the Navy the next summer. It was a busy two weeks, and we got really familiar with C-124s. Ben described them as something you got into which shook for a while, and you got off somewhere else.

We spent a brief summer academic period where our topics were primarily military. We even got to play a war game scenario to see how much we had learned. The one thing I remember about that session was someone came up with a new anti-aircraft missile. We had found out about the Nike Ajax and the Nike Zeus while we were in California. Our missile was named the Nike Jesus and had divine guidance (I’m pretty sure Greg dreamed that up. He was as irreverent as they come).

That summer gave us our first leave. I don’t remember a whole lot about it strangely enough. I know I went back to Delaware. I remember that we got a lot of help getting home, and I learned about space-A travel. I’m pretty sure I went to see Thoroughly Modern Millie with Carol from Wilmington. It was at an outdoor theater in the round. It was the only time I dated her, and I don’t know why I didn’t date her again.

I know this is short, but so was that summer. It was back to class as third classmen.

Journal of an Underachiever –USAFA First Year

Part of our education that first year was the social graces. Mrs. McComas led us through how to dance (with little or no sense of rhythm, not one of my better subjects), proper etiquette at the table and with a young lady, and military etiquette (The list goes on, but that was almost sixty years ago). Mrs. McComas also served as a match maker. Through her I met Betty and fell in love.

Betty had her own car, and we dated whenever we could. She was the first girl I kissed, and I was in heaven. She also contributed to my punishments. One weekend we got back to Arnold Hall with plenty of time, but we hadn’t had enough making out. I got out of her car late and ran for the barracks. Unfortunately, I got back after curfew and earned my first Class III. That got me a bunch of demerits and more tours. Our romance ended when I went on leave the following summer. Just before I left, I told her I loved her, and she said that wasn’t acceptable. It wasn’t till I met Carol that I got over feeling giddy whenever I saw Betty.

I suppose I should mention academics. I tested out of basic chemistry and was put in analytical chemistry. The first semester was qualitative – determining the chemical components of a solution. I’d take a small amount of the sample I was supposed to be testing, put in a drop or so of a chemical that would cause certain compounds to precipitate out. It was cookbook stuff, but I apparently wasn’t careful enough about not contaminating the sample. I consistently got the same wrong result. I was essentially failing the course so I was sent back to the regular course where I had no problem.

My chemistry instructor was Lieutenant Lamb. He introduced me to TLAR – That Looks About Right. He used the rule of thumb for mixing chemicals. To get the proper amount of the reactants he would eyeball the amounts and say, “That looks about right.” He made chemistry class fun.

That first year (it may have been the second) I went skiing for the first time. My group was bussed to Arapahoe Basin. After I was fitted with boots and skis, I hit the slopes – almost literally. I had absolutely no training or experience, so I spent a lot of time sitting in the snow. The beginners’ slope rope tow challenged me before I could even take on the slope. It pulled me up a hundred or so feet of hill. Fortunately I was able to stay in the well-worn tracks along the lift, so I could make it to the top. Then I pointed my skis downhill, and I was off – for maybe fifteen feet. I kept speeding up, and the only way I could come up with to stop was to fall down. I spent the whole time I was up there riding the rope to the top of the bunny slope and skiing down stopping every twenty feet or so by sitting or falling down. That wasn’t particularly fun so I didn’t go skiing again while I was at the Academy.

We got to relax a little at Christmas but we still had to be satisfied with Off Base Privileges (We had to be back in our rooms for Taps each day). Dad came out to visit so I spent a lot of time with him and our friends from Guam, the Cooks, as long as he was there. Strangely enough, the one thing that soured that Christmas for me had almost nothing to do with me. One of the members of the Class of ’59, Richert, had been a real hard-nose during the preceding semester. He had academic troubles and stayed at the Academy to try for a passing grade in a class he had failed. He turned out to be a fairly nice guy over the Christmas holidays. I talked to him and commiserated with him but couldn’t help him pass. When he got the news that he had failed his last chance, he told me about it, and that was the first time I ever said, “Damn,” at least out loud.

Back in those days we had summer and winter uniforms. Come mid-April we switched over from winter uniforms to summer uniforms. We put our winter uniforms in our footlockers and stored them away. That night, before we even got a chance to wear our summer uniforms, it snowed eighteen inches. Before we did anything else we had to dig out our winter uniforms.

There were other things I remember from that first year: Saturday Morning Inspections (SAMI) both in our rooms and in ranks, football games at DU stadium (they had one back then), a Harry Belafonte concert at DU, etc. An event I wasn’t involved with – but heard about – sticks in my memory. One of the Air Training Officers had a Ford Thunderbird (red if I recall correctly). Several cadets sneaked out one night and somehow moved that car up the front steps of one of the buildings (headquarters, I think) and left it in the lobby.

Eventually that year passed, and we were “recognized” as true cadets: no more eating at attention or double timing wherever we went outside.

Journal of an Underachiever – More Early USAFA

I’m back. I’ve unloaded some of the activities that were eating up my time so, hopefully, I’ll be able to do a better job keeping up with this in the future. Now back to my first summer at the Academy.

In order to properly use guns of all sorts, we had a class in gun safety. We learned how to clear various weapons. We learned how to disassemble and reassemble a rifle, a .45 pistol, and a .38 revolver. Fifty or so of us assembled in a large open building. Our practice weapons sat on tables in front of us. The instructors demonstrated what we were supposed to do and talked us through our practice while monitors looked over our shoulders to make sure we were doing it right. Then we got to practice on our own.

We were practicing with the .45s when a gun went off. One of the cadets fell to the floor. The monitors rushed to converge on the downed cadet. The rest of us sat in stunned silence while the monitors ministered to him. After what seemed like an eternity, he jumped to his feet, grinning. It had all been staged. The gun had a blank in it, and the cadet was in on it. I have to admit it was one of the most effective safety trainings I ever attended.

These were the days before AR-15s so we were issued M-1 rifles. They were a part of our lives for the next four years. We marched and paraded with them. We practiced manual of arms. We practiced marksmanship with them. We cleaned them until they were spotless or tried – somehow the inspectors frequently found something we had missed, a speck of lint, the glint of oil. I became extra familiar with mine because I spent a lot of time with one on my shoulder, marching tours.

We got demerits for numerous things: dust, a “dirty” weapon, late for anything, poor judgment (It seemed that way), … When we accumulated enough demerits or committed a heinous crime like being late for curfew by a few minutes (a Class 3 offense), we had to march tours as our punishment. That first year I spent most of my Saturdays, rain or shine, going back and forth across the quadrangle with my rifle.

Not all my experiences that summer were unpleasant. We trained at a variety of things: physical training, bayonet fighting, an obstacle course, and as I mentioned before marching. The obstacle course was my biggest challenge. It was tough, and my practice times were poor at best. For the final exam Jim Lorrigan, an ATO, trotted alongside shouting encouragement. When I crawled under the barbed wire, I could hear him, “You can do it! Keep it up!” As I zigzagged across the elevated planks, his “You’re doing great!” urged me on. As I clung to the top of the wall, straining to climb it, he was there. “Climb! You’re going to make it.” And I did. Panting and wheezing I pulled myself up and over the wall, dropped to the ground on the other side, and trudged for the finish line. I made it with my best time, but I wouldn’t have without Jim’s help. I owe him a debt of thanks.

As a grand finale for that summer we got to see what it was like to be a ground pounder. We marched down what is now 6^th Avenue (It turned into a dirt road before we got off it). We turned into Lowry Bombing Range (I think we went through Buckley Naval Air Station, but I can’t imagine it being on a dirt road) and marched to a camp site. Since it was late summer in Eastern Colorado, they were somewhat redundant, but we had pup tents to sleep in.

I don’t remember a great deal about the bivouac, but it was both taxing and intriguing. It had a final exam of sorts. There were a number of scored activities. The two I remember were a compass course which I didn’t do well on and a marksmanship test.

The marksmanship test was to burst a balloon with a .45. The reason it was so difficult is that the .45 bullet moves slower than the speed of sound so it has a bow wave. If it is slightly off dead center of a balloon suspended by one end, the bow wave pushes the balloon aside. We were given five shells to do it. I was one of the few who got it on the first shot.

With that my first summer at the Academy came to a close. I’m sure I’ve left out some things that would be interesting to someone, but as I remember them, I’ll add them to my list and eventually mention them.

Next, the academic year starts.

Journal of an Underachiever – Early Days USAFA

On the third of June this year I had back surgery. I had a piece of bone removed from the bottom three of my lumbar vertebrae to make more room for my spinal nerve. The procedure is called a laminectomy and is probably the least invasive of backbone surgery. I’ve just about returned to normal now, but the recovery period slowed me down mentally. I’m told the residual effect of anesthesia can last for several days, and that may have had something to do with it. Whatever the reason, I used that as an excuse to not work on my blog or my next book. Now I’m functioning mentally like I was before the operation, so I still have that excuse, but I’m getting back to work anyway.

Checking in at the Academy was a whirlwind of activity, but frankly, it was almost sixty years ago, and I only have vague recollections. To sign in we had to show who we were. I think that was primarily by birth certificate. We were issued fatigues, combat boots, and a bunch of other items. We also got individual copies of Contrails and started memorizing its contents. We got our hair cut. We learned the acceptable responses: “Yes sir. No sir. No excuse sir. Sir, I do not know.” And we met our Air Training Officers (ATOs), First and Second Lieutenants who served as our upperclassmen for the first summer.

One of the few funny things that day happened during our introduction to marching. I was so uptight that I couldn’t remember which arm went forward with which leg. I actually had to ask, and on that day and many more a question had to start with “Sir, may I ask a question?” I know, it’s sort of an oxymoron, but it was the only acceptable unbidden question.

What made it funny (no one laughed) was that the ATO I asked couldn’t answer it. He, as we all do, walked by habit and didn’t think about which hand went with which leg – until asked. Fortunately, I kept a straight face through the incident – I was too scared to do otherwise, and eventually I was marching.

We were immediately introduced to how our rooms were supposed to be kept: beds made with perfect forty five degree corners, clothing in our drawers neatly folded and in the specified locations, shoes shined till they reflected our image (spit shines), everything in the room dust free, including the top of the door frame. We had reveille at “Oh Dark Thirty” as it was, but to get our clothes and room ready for the morning inspection we were advised unofficially to get up at four and go to work. It was unofficial because we were supposed to be in bed, and couldn’t be told to get up before reveille. In fact, if we were caught out of bed before reveille, we earned demerits, which I had a special talent for.

The meals were something else. As “doolies” we were required to eat at attention, back straight, chin tucked in (that was one of the interesting things about being at attention. I think it was primarily to teach us to keep our heads up straight but it was a de facto deliberate annoyance), arms at our sides when we weren’t using our hands, and feet flat on the floor. While we were eating, we were subject to questioning by the ATOs, stuff out of Contrails that we were supposed to learn by rote and answer with immediately. The one good thing about mealtime was that if we hadn’t finished eating by the time the meals were dismissed, we got to stay and finish – still at attention, but undisturbed.

Toward the end of summer we had a surprise event. One of the hard-ass ATO’s, Lt. Pedjoe, headed up an after-hours pizza party for all of us in the squadron who had gotten that far. We actually got to relax with the men who had been harassing us for weeks – knowing, of course that everything went back to normal in the morning. I assume that all the squadrons did the same. It gave me a different point of view about the ATO’s. I had known it was their job to keep us on our toes, but after that I knew their attitudes were part of the act (It didn’t mean we could cross the line, but we could view them as fellow humans).

I think that’s enough for now. It doesn’t quite cover all of that first summer, but there’s enough to make another entry for next time.

On another note, I’m trying to collect meaningful and/or ridiculous quotations by people who would not normally be quoted. If you see, hear, or say anything profound, self-contradictory, or on after thought just plain funny, send it to me along with whom to attribute it to ­– that can be that world famous sage, Anonymous, or his cohort, Author Unknown.

Journal of an Underachiever – Getting to USAFA

We didn’t have a lot of money to spare, but I expected to go to college. I new vaguely that I was destined to become an engineer, but that was about it. I started looking for where I wanted to go. There was always the University of Delaware, a good, small school that didn’t cost all that much. That was my backup plan. The only other university I remember paying any attention to was Purdue.

Something brought the Air Force Academy to my attention. I recognized that somewhere along the line I needed to put in military service. After all, Dad had served in the big war as had my uncle Pat. It was in the family. One thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to be in a foxhole if I ever had to face an enemy, and I figured it was better to be an officer than an enlisted man. Besides, the Academy wouldn’t charge me any tuition. In fact, I’d be paid to attend. In addition, my experiences in the CAP had convinced me that I wanted to fly, and at that time physically qualified graduates of the Academy were expected to go to pilot training.

I looked into the application process and sent off a letter to one our senators, J. Allen Frear. Before I knew it, I received a notification to go to a written test in Dover. We filled a whole classroom. I think we were Frear’s candidates for all the academies. My test taking ability took over, and I breezed through the test, which was extensive. I don’t remember if we ever saw scores from the test, but I did well enough to move on to the next level.

Somewhen in there I also went to Wilmington to take the College Board exams. Again, my test taking ability took over. I don’t remember how long each test was, but I do remember finishing each of them before the required time and going out to walk around the campus till it was time to go back for the next test.

It reminded me of taking the standardized biology test when I was in the tenth grade. I had carried a C through the entire year because I didn’t put any work into the class projects. When the scores came back on the standardized test, mine was in the 99 plus percentile. That brought my final grade up to a B. I don’t remember any specific grades from the College Board, but I do know that none of the tests was hard. As I mentioned earlier I never had a problem with tests. You’ll note that I’m not claiming to be exceptionally smart, just to have a phenomenal test taking ability.

The next step was going to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, to the Air Force Base there (I can’t think of the name at the moment). We spent a whole day of testing, both written and physical. To no surprise to me most of the other candidates were better athletes than I. The one significant test was pull ups. I had never before in my life done ten consecutive pull ups, but I did then. I found out later that ten was the minimum passing. I had barely made it.

Sometime before our class trip to DC I was notified that I had been selected to attend the Academy. While we were in DC, I got to meet and personally thank Senator Frear.

Finally the day before the big day came. We drove to Washington and what is now Reagan International. After saying goodbye to Mom, Dad, Richard, and Susan, I boarded a Lockheed Constellation for the flight to Denver. I don’t remember anything about the flight other than the airplane type. I spent the night in the Oxford Hotel, and the next morning I carried my suitcase down to Union Station.

Once again my shyness kicked in. The Academy was supplying transportation from the station. I saw the NCO who was driving, but I didn’t know what kind of transportation I was supposed to be looking for and couldn’t work up the courage to approach him to see if he was picking up incoming newbies. After he left, I realized I had missed the bus (or car) literally, and I had no idea when or if more transportation would show.

I lugged my baggage to the nearest bus stop and found out how to get to Lowry. The number 13 bus dropped me off at the old Base Exchange. I can’t recall for sure how I got to the Academy part of the base, but I think there was a base bus.

That’s where the fun began.

Journal of an Underachiever – Clayton , Pt. 2

When I started writing this journal, I planned to put out a post every Thursday. It hasn’t worked out. I admit I’ve done better with a deadline, but I’ve gotten so far behind that I’ve decided to restart. If I get a chance to do some catching up, great. But for now let’s call today the new baseline.

During the summer between junior and senior year I had my first real job. Somewhere I still have my beat up social security card that I got that summer. I worked with dad at a housing development. Dad was the surveyor and I was the surveyor’s assistant, which meant mostly holding the rod and driving stakes. Interestingly, Carol from the Van Buren Avenue era had moved out to that development, and I reconnected with her (nothing serious, just friends).

Then there was Ellen. I hesitate to talk about her because eventually I hurt her. Her father worked in the political arena – Washington, I think. They returned to Smyrna during Ellen’s junior year of high school. Because we were both “outsiders,” we had a common bond of sorts. For some reason Ellen seemed to take a shine to me. Unfortunately – or fortunately for me considering the long term outcome, I was too shy to take advantage of her interest. I suspect that if I had, I would have gone to the Naval Academy instead of the Air Force Academy and would have had a completely different future from that point on. That would have meant no Carol, no Keith, no Kathy, no Shannon, nor any of the grandchildren. Carol turned out to be keystone of the rest of my life. I consider myself to be the luckiest person alive for having met and married her. But Ellen might have been a good choice otherwise.

I remember tiny bits of trivia about those final years of high school. I remember Spanish class and Mrs. Getty. I thoroughly enjoyed the class, and there was only one person in it who did better than I. She was the daughter of an Air Force member, and she came from Puerto Rico. I remember the Treble Clef (a soda shop — or was it technically a drug store?), especially the jukebox.

One thing I remember vividly was a softball game during phys ed class. I was on the third base side of the field. Rodney was sliding into second, and the right fielder threw a high ball to the second baseman. The second baseman went up for the ball and came down on Rodney’s leg. The bone snapped much like Joe Theismann’s did later. It was clearly visible from where I stood. Because of that broken leg, Rodney was still recuperating when we went on our class trip to DC and he was unable to go.

I mentioned that I was working on overcoming my shyness. I worked on it during our senior class trip to DC. I still have the group photo that was taken on that trip. I don’t remember a whole lot about the trip, but I do remember Glen Echo amusement park, and I do remember meeting a girl from another school that I took up with whenever our classes bumped into each other. For some strange reason it was as if my class wasn’t there and I had moved into a new environment where I could shed some of my shyness. However, and I’m not sure of this, I seem to remember Ellen being annoyed by the attention I paid to that girl.

More about Ellen later.

One other thing about that visit to Washington, I got to meet Senator J. Allen Frear who had nominated me for the Air Force Academy. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll save that for the next post.

Journal of an Underachiever – Clayton

After trying door to door sales and I don’t know what else, Dad finally found a job that suited him well, working as a surveyor for a small construction firm. I’m not sure why we moved but the new job prompted a new home. We collected all our worldly goods and moved down state to a farm outside of Clayton.

The place was originally a log cabin that had been added onto. The kitchen and dining area were in the log cabin. Richard and I slept in the attic bedroom over the kitchen. Susan’s bedroom was upstairs in the addition. The living room was downstairs in the addition. The rest, who knows?

Carol and I drove by the place and took pictures while we were in Delaware for my class reunion in 2006. Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I’ve included one of the house. It hadn’t changed much in the 50 years since we lived there. The trailer and RV and the other buildings were new. It appears that since then the house has been torn down. I can’t find a trace of it in Google Earth.

Clayton had a grade school but wasn’t big enough to warrant a high school, so I went to John Bassett Moore Secondary School in Smyrna. My class doubled in size from the one in Blue Eye. JBM has since become an intermediate school, and the new high school was built on the edge of town. I’m sure that the new classes are bigger than 76 students.

My recollections of school there are strangely limited – more the people than the school events. You might remember my description of trying to learn to drive while on Guam. When I turned sixteen I was in no hurry to start driving. I waited for driver ed class to get my time behind the wheel. Passing the class meant I got my license without taking a driver test.

Sometime after getting my license, I started going to VFW (I think) sponsored dances. I spent most of my time just standing around and listening. However, there was a girl in the class of ’57, Gayle, who had caught my eye. As far as I was concerned she was the prettiest girl in the whole school. I wanted desperately to dance with her, but I couldn’t work up the nerve to ask her.

After about six futile evenings at the dances, I used Dad to help me take action. I told him what the situation was asked him for an ultimatum: if I didn’t ask her to dance the next time I went, I couldn’t take the car any more. It worked, but it wasn’t easy and it was only one dance.

The most defining thing about living in Clayton was my introduction to the Civil Air Patrol. Reynolds Jones, the local commander, and a state police captain who lived in Clayton (I wish I could remember his name) started a cadet squadron. They recruited in the high school and met in the National Guard armory (I think – I admit that my lack of memory is frustrating). Reynolds had a farm on the east side of the highway. He had a runway and a Piper Cub, and part of cadet training was to fly with him or the captain who had a Cessna 140 or 120 (again, I think). I immediately fell in love with flying. The captain introduced me to stalls and recoveries. Reynolds introduced me to cross country flying.

Part of our training included a “TDY” to Grenier AFB in New Hampshire. We got to spend time on a real Air Force base and sample real Air Force duties. A group of CAP cadets from all over Delaware flew up to Grenier in an Air Force airplane (either a C-47 or a C-54). I spent part of my time there helping in the mess hall, more learning the ropes than KP. I also got a tour in the paint shop (where the paint fumes irritated my nose and throat) and part of supply. We took advantage of the base movie theater and watched a war movie. I believe it was To Hell and Back, Audie Murphy’s autobiography starring Audie as himself.

By the time I had reached high school, especially in Smyrna, I had learned one important thing about myself. I could overcome some of my shyness by changing my behavior each time I moved. There was something about my new acquaintances not already knowing that I had a specific behavior programmed into me that made it easier to modify that behavior. My junior year I made an attempt at a quantum leap in behavior modification by trying out for the school play. It was probably the toughest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I can still remember it.

I was standing in the wings with some other students who were also trying out. The previous student had left the stage, and it seemed as if we had been waiting forever. Then I heard the dreaded word, “Next!” I looked around. Everyone was pointing at me. I swallowed hard, squeezed my script, and walked out onto the stage. It was brightly lit, completely empty, and enormous – at least, it seemed that way at the time. Looking over the footlights I could see my audience: the director and assistant director of the play, the school’s two English teachers. Talk about feeling alone! “Mr. Savage, it says here that you’ll be reading for the part of Arthur (or whoever). Is that correct?”

I nodded my head.

“Very well, proceed.”

I read my lines fairly well – not as well as I would have liked, but fairly well. I answered some questions, and I was beginning to feel pretty good about myself. Then the director asked me for a stage whisper. A stage whisper? I didn’t have the foggiest idea what a stage whisper was. The try-out went downhill from there. By the time they got around to asking me to laugh, I was already giggling hysterically. That whole episode was embarrassing. I had known it would be, but I stepped onto the stage anyway. Unfortunately, I had gotten out of my comfort zone and into my panic zone. Needless to say, I didn’t get the part.

Journal of an Underachiever – Wilmington

The trip from Missouri to Delaware was not particularly memorable. In fact, the only thing I recall was driving through Pennsylvania on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It was my first encounter with a limited access highway and with a toll road. I think the thing that fascinated me most was the gas station/cafés in the islands in the middle of the road.

I’m not sure what Dad did at Chrysler or, for that matter, what Chrysler did in Delaware, but Delaware was our new home. We moved into a duplex in Wilmington on Van Buren Street and when summer was over I started school at P. S. Du Pont, which was a high school then. There were more kids in my class than there were in my whole school in Blue Eye.

When we left Missouri, school was already out, but it wasn’t in Wilmington. Mom and I went to P. S. Du Pont and set up my schedule for the coming year. Because Blue Eye didn’t have algebra for the ninth grade, I was a little behind. I decided it would be best for me to catch up. I signed up for algebra and geometry for the tenth grade. The counselor wasn’t optimistic, but signed me up anyway. Then I went on summer vacation.

While the other kids my age were still in school, I wandered around becoming familiar with my new environment. Wilmington was the first city I had ever lived in so it was intriguing. One of my excursions took me down Van Buren Street to Brandywine Park. Somewhere near where the zoo is I found an odd treasure, a collection of foundations where the building(s) had been demolished (or that’s what it looked like to me). All of these concrete or stone relics stood out in a kind of bowl where grass had overgrown everything. I encountered a policeman there. He asked me why I wasn’t in school, and I told him. He took me at my word. I’m not sure whether he believed me because I didn’t have a Wilmington accent or he decided my explanation was too good to be an excuse for playing hooky.

That summer I met Edwin and his cousin Michael (I think). Edwin and I became close friends for a while. They lived next door to each other on Elliott Place so they were really less than a block away. I can still vaguely recall a kind of ball game we played. Across the street from them was a multiple garage structure (still there) so we didn’t have to be concerned about breaking windows. We took turns throwing a rubber ball at Edwin’s front steps. The only objective I can remember was trying to hit the edge of the step so the ball went up like a fly ball. Because of daylight savings time we could be out playing after 9:00 o’clock. One other thing about Edwin, his family had the smallest station wagon I have ever seen, a Cushman four-seater.

Across 25th Street from Edwin on the corner of Monroe Street lived Carol Ann and her sister Nancy. Carol was as tall as I was and a little thin but good looking. I can remember seeing her (across Market Street) several years later. She was wearing a gray suit and looked like a professional model. She and I became close friends.

On the corner of Van Buren and Concord pike there was a deli (still there, although I believe they’ve changed the name). I’d save up my money and as often as I could afford it, I’d go there for goodies like apple pie a la mode and chocolate sundaes when I’d saved up enough money.

I walked to school that year. We didn’t have a lot of money because Dad got laid off and was job hunting much of the time, so when it was mildly cold I wore Dad’s sports coat to school. It didn’t cover me a much as my cold weather jacket. About half way to school an Irish setter would bark at me. I wasn’t afraid of dogs, and I would just walk on by. Then one day he changed his tactic. He sneaked up on me from behind and nipped me on the back side where Dad’s Sport coat exposed me. From then on I didn’t trust him and was careful to walk by his house on the opposite side of the street. I also kept my eye out for him.

When I got to Delaware, I joined the Boy Scout troop in our church. I worked my way up to First Class but stalled out there because I had to contact someone to be my adviser for the merit badges I needed. I was too shy to do it. The one thing I remember was in one of our meetings four of us got together and formed a quartet. To my ear we sounded good, but that was the one time we did it.

While we were in Wilmington, Richard got into some kind of beef with the pastor of the nearby Presbyterian Church. I think it started out as a disagreement with his sons. The upshot was the pastor punched Richard and broke his jaw. While he was recuperating I picked up his job as a paper boy. The route wasn’t that hard, but at one point I had to collect and my shyness got in the way again. I had a dickens of a time just knocking on his customer’s doors.

We only spent about a year in Wilmington. I want to cover one more item and move on to Clayton.

My Boy Scout troop went on a bike ride in rural northern Delaware where it’s really hilly [The highest point in the state is fifty feet above sea level]. We were riding in a wooded area on a cobblestone road that led downhill to a creek and a stone bridge. On the opposite side of the bridge the road took a sharp right, and a rock retaining wall blocked any possibility of going straight ahead. As I started down the hill, the brake locked up. Only this time it locked up the wheel to the sprocket which meant that the pedals were turning with the wheels. The pedals knocked my feet clear, and they were turning so fast I couldn’t get my feet back on them. I remembered the bike on Guam and bailed out. This time I landed without getting hurt.

The bike was one I had borrowed for the ride. Once I walked it down the hill, I was able to jump up and down and put enough weight on the back pedal to break it loose. I was able to finish the ride, but I was very careful on hills and at stop signs. An interesting sidelight of this incident is that after the ride was over, I bought the bike from my friend for two dollars, learned how to work on the brakes while I was fixing it, and used it for several years.

Next up, we move to Clayton.