Every now and then, life lets you know that not all is corporeal. This supernatural event compelled me to note every step of it.
Featured photo by Lynda Yost, his other mother next door.
“Zodiac, Amy’s and my plump, flame-tipped Siamese cat, left us a message today, Tuesday morning. Odd, because it was written, and odder because he died early last Saturday afternoon.”
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I intended to become a writer upon entering the service. It was even part of my motivation to enlist. So, when I came across interesting people and conversations, I wrote them down. This memoir is about my earliest days in the Navy squadron that was my first assignment, and the changes I went through after meeting my militant roommate. The only fictionalized name is Janaszek because I didn’t remember it at the time.
What you see here is a bit of a rewrite. The original was published in the 2018 edition of Ageless Authors Anthology.
The photo of me was taken near my barracks at NAS Atsugi in the Fall of 1969 using my camera. I don’t remember which one of my new friends snapped the picture.
“Hill spoke: “Smitty, come the revolution, you’re gonna have to go up against the wall.”
I looked at him askance before inspecting an empty locker. “Well, you wake up cheery,” I said.”
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This memoir is about my attempts at political activism while in the service.
The drawing is my version of the G.I.’s Against Fascism logo.
“A lot of history went down between the day I enlisted in the Navy Air Reserve in March of 1968 and when I arrived in San Diego in September of 1969 to find out where on Earth I would be stationed for active duty: personally, the worldview gained from finishing high school and spending a year in college; globally, an urgent need to resist retrogressive elements in society arose among young adults.”
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Published in the 2019 edition of Ageless Authors Anthology. This memoir is all about transit; from civilian to sailor, from teenager to man, and from voiceless cog to celebrant of attainable freedom.
Photograph of the USS Sanctuary off the coast of Da Nang, 1969, by William P Jones, MD.
“Half asleep and half just-couldn’t-care, the petty officer never looked up while calling roster. It didn’t matter; he didn’t know any of the young sailors standing in front of him or feel their eager apprehension as they awaited the next step in their naval adventure.”
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This memoir focuses on the feeling of close calls in a combat zone. They were relatively rare for me as I was in a situation where I did not go looking for trouble; I just waited for it to come to me. It did, of course. However, I was in no way a combat soldier and did not live the physical misery and constant terror that was part of doing sweeps and patrols—compassion and respect for those who did.
The photo at the left is the scene looking west from my barracks at Da Nang Air Base. Rockets came at us just beyond the nearby hills. Photo by Scooter Smith.
“During the Vietnam War, the nickname for Da Nang Air Base was “Rocket City.” I flew into it on one of my squadron’s C-130s during Tet, 1970.”
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I like birds and birding. My wife and I maintain a lot of feeders in the back yard which allows us to observe each species’ different ways. We are also able to develop relationships with family units that make our yard their home. This is important to me. I have always felt a deep but respectful connection with creatures in the wild. In this short story, I experiment with magical realism via a small gray bird.
The photograph is of a Brown Shrike. It was taken by Dr. Callyn Yorke at the Son Tran Mountain wildlife preserve on a rainy day in Da Nang, 2017. (http://avconline.avc.edu/cyorke/Vietnam2017.html)
“Taking a sip of coffee, my gaze lands on a bird feeder hanging in the smoky shadows of an Ashe juniper. A chickadee swoops in, grabs a sunflower seed, and hustles back into the foliage. There’s no telling how often I have seen that little ritual, but this time it brings a blurry, long-ago memory into focus.”
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This memoir is about the most awe-inspiring thing I have ever seen. I have described it to dozens of people over the last 50 years—no pictures of it. My pocket-sized Minox camera used 8mm film. It would not have done this scene justice even if I could have found the presence of mind to get it.
I hope this memoir serves as a reminder about how nature can surprise us with incredible beauty and majesty, and sometimes take us to a place of peace.
The photo is by James Smeaton via Pexels.com. (https://www.pexels.com/photo/awe-beautiful-eyes-beautiful-girl-big-eyes-2709127/)
“Look at this,” I said, trying to speak loudly enough for the entire shop to hear. What came out was a reverent whisper.
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Published in the 2019 edition of Ageless Authors Anthology. This memoir is about fulfilling the trust a broken veteran put in me, and how I needed to trust someone as well. The photo is of a certificate I received after undergoing the Order of Neptune ritual while crossing the equator between Singapore and the Sunda Strait aboard the USS Ticonderoga (CVS-14).
“Welcome back,” I said.
His eyes reddened, and he gave me a strained smile. “Thanks, I guess.”
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In this memoir, I recount the tumultuous end of my tour of active duty in the Navy and the conflict of emotions that can accompany a significant transition in one’s life.
My friend, Petty Officer Third Class Doug Honspberger, took the photo on the left as we went ashore at Yokosuka Naval Base, Japan.
“My seabag sat packed at my feet, a newly issued pink military ID rested safely in my wallet, and my heart ached for freedom.”
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I wrote this essay to express the depth of gratitude I feel for my alma mater creating a course of study for something so new that there was no degree plan, and the decade or so I lived and learned in Little D.
“A woman I had never met knocked on my front door. She gave me the name of a young bass player and asked if I knew where he was. I did. He happened to be taking a nap in my spare bedroom.
That moment would prove to be the fateful coincidence completing the long arc of my tertiary education”
Image courtesy University of North Texas.
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An amusing memoir from my high school years. Those who know me as a citified new media artist, or more recently as a soft, old, bald guy may not recognize the Scooter revealed here. And yet, sometimes the improbable is true. To keep the story moving, I had to trim a few anecdotes and some fascinating history about the families mentioned in the story who settled this area. Maybe later.
The photo of the dime comes courtesy NCG Coin Explorer. The Yampa valley photo in the background courtesy The Unknown Real Estate Agent of Maybell, Colorado. Compositing by yours truly.
“Dave stood still as a tombstone in the middle of Moffat County 10, a graded dirt road traversing far northwestern Colorado north of the Yampa River. At fifty or so yards away, the weirdness of his body language didn’t immediately register. So for a couple of seconds, I remained immersed in the smell of sagebrush and sun-baked, cream-colored clay while searching the roadside skirting the broad, high desert valley.”
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This memoir is about when I helped ensure that a man was able to maintain his dignity in a time of crisis and how it unexpectedly enriched my life. Some names and locations have been changed to shield an identity. The image at left is a poster for The Thin Man from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios.
‘”Were you a friend of Rick Hansen on Bell Street?” he asked.
“Still am,” I replied.
“I thought I recognized you.” He paused. “You ever . . . ?”
He let the question hang. In that lull, I recalled who he was.”
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This short story is fiction but contains many actual events. Retelling this story with a “gauze over the lens” helps me process the death of a dear friend. The featured image is a cartoon I drew in the 1970s.
“Big Tony radiated excitement when blue-skying. “Band management,” he said. “We both like music and musicians; it’ll be fun.” “
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This essay/memoir is about the memories my sister’s painting evoked. To see “Beginnings” and more of her work, visit https://www.juliewileman.com/
Many of Julie Wileman’s works are for sale (hint hint), and she sometimes takes commissions.
“One of my comrades says something about how times like this make our efforts and separation from loved ones worth it. Transfixed, I can only nod in agreement.”
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A longing thirty years on from the death of my father. Photo by Gloria Smith.
“I am looking at a photograph of my dad taken around 1991, give or take three years. He would have been in his late 60’s, maybe 70 years old. There wasn’t much after that. Pancreatic cancer got him and killed him quick a few months after his 71st birthday. He died in February of 1994.”
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