Pain is one of the hardest things in life, and thus the prevalence of "pain killers." entertainments and self forgetfullnesses which are so dominant in our culture. When I was taking physical risks to deal with libido and perhaps boredom, I also took on some abrasions, concussions, etc. (luckily never broke a bone) and the like. And at that time, especially the fifties, these were referred to as phantom pain when they came back later as "memory" in the bones and muscles. It was only later that I found out that this popular culture term was really to be thought of in terms of amputations, and undoubtedly my dear Uncle Joe, who lost a leg in Leyte in the Second World War, probably had phantom pain for the rest of his life (although we never spoke about it).
Denial is as prevalent as pain, and they are very often intertwined. Fear is also a driver in this venue, and part of the risks I took in surfing, car and motorcycle racing were undoubtedly driven by these crazy mixtures. I liked to be "on the edge," and my favorite color, orange, is, in part because of the caution light, neither stop or go, but ... The only traffic ticket I have ever gone to court to beat was because of a ticket given to me for running the caution light. I lost, but the judge did not fine me because of the philosophical discussion we had. Just a warning,
It was strange to feel sometimes in the past a dull pain in the side of my face where I took a punch from an unknown assailant in a Bremerhaven bar. Or a pain in the femur where another hit occurred at one time or another, and others too. And I can well remember ship mates and others recalling events in their lives because a pain had returned in their bodies and brought back a memory that they had thought was forgotten. Most of these pains are gone for me at this age, but once in awhile something shows up and as age progresses it is harder and harder to have an "a ha" about it.
I have asked a couple of doctor acquaintances to let me know if there is a proper word for this phenomena ... as opposed to the improper phantom pain or just plain pain. Why? Because it is something different than just a memory of pain, deeper & a little more mysterious. The other day my arthritic (right) hand took on another pain, deeper, and I had to look way into the past and see if that might be the phantom of a punch I had thrown way back then.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Regrets
Age seems to bring with it regrets. Reading an astonishing book by Diane Aphill on her aging experience, it was fascinating to read her thoughts on the subject. Her two main regrets were: a tough central core of her character ("a nub of coldness at the center"), and laziness (cowardice). I think I share her regret about the coldness, my second would be impatience (which brought about some indecision and procrastination). Regrets are largely futile, but important none-the-less. I highly recommend her "Somewhere Towards the End' a memoir," a very deep and pervasive book.
Japanese-Americans
My first encounter with an American of Japanese ancestry was at the local Silvermart as a child. Sent to the store to pickup things for my Mother, I noticed the beauty of the fruits and vegetables in the produce dept. The man who arranged and maintained this was Japanese-American, called a "greengrocer" at that time, as I recall. Unfortunately he would vanish at the same time as the Japanese orphans who lived over the hill and attended the local elementary school.
One traumatic event that happened when all these children were taken to an interment camp was that one of the children had to leave his dog behind, and this became one of the dramatic happenings of my youth. My family couldn't take the animal for him, and thus we became part of the search group to place him. Meanwhile I was able to get to know the boy through his grief. We did find someone and my hope is that the dog was reunited with the boy after the war (but that would be highly unlikely).
The last time I had the pleasure of knowing someone of Japanese ancestry was at sea. Turns out that one of my shipmates had been in an internment camp and was willing to share stories with me about this (stories which, for the most part, had not been told here-to-fore in the media.) And so we would sit in mess hall late at night and he would open up to me, the unbelievable heat and cold in the desert barracks they lived in, how barren and uncomfortable it was, how exceedingly difficult for his parents, siblings and neighbors.
After I got back to L.A. I looked him up. We had talked about small boats earlier and he was interested in a sail. I was crewing on a double ender which had a smaller version available to me for day sailing. We went down to Yacht Haven in San Pedro, hoisted the sails and made our way toward the main channel. Problem was that I didn't notice that storm flags were flying and when we sailed out beyond the shelter of a wharf we took a knock down ... very close to one of the California Bear freighters which was coming down the channel. It was embarrassing to have to accept a tow by a stinkpot Chris Craft in order to get back to the slip. Unfortunately the ill fated sail concluded our communication with each other. Too bad. I hope he and my schoolmate from earlier on have had a better time of their lives.
One traumatic event that happened when all these children were taken to an interment camp was that one of the children had to leave his dog behind, and this became one of the dramatic happenings of my youth. My family couldn't take the animal for him, and thus we became part of the search group to place him. Meanwhile I was able to get to know the boy through his grief. We did find someone and my hope is that the dog was reunited with the boy after the war (but that would be highly unlikely).
The last time I had the pleasure of knowing someone of Japanese ancestry was at sea. Turns out that one of my shipmates had been in an internment camp and was willing to share stories with me about this (stories which, for the most part, had not been told here-to-fore in the media.) And so we would sit in mess hall late at night and he would open up to me, the unbelievable heat and cold in the desert barracks they lived in, how barren and uncomfortable it was, how exceedingly difficult for his parents, siblings and neighbors.
After I got back to L.A. I looked him up. We had talked about small boats earlier and he was interested in a sail. I was crewing on a double ender which had a smaller version available to me for day sailing. We went down to Yacht Haven in San Pedro, hoisted the sails and made our way toward the main channel. Problem was that I didn't notice that storm flags were flying and when we sailed out beyond the shelter of a wharf we took a knock down ... very close to one of the California Bear freighters which was coming down the channel. It was embarrassing to have to accept a tow by a stinkpot Chris Craft in order to get back to the slip. Unfortunately the ill fated sail concluded our communication with each other. Too bad. I hope he and my schoolmate from earlier on have had a better time of their lives.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Story - Korean underground railroad
The earlier night we were anchored out and my M-1 seemed to weigh fifty pounds on that frozen deck. My watch was to look out for frogmen who would attach plastic explosives to the bottom and sink us in that terrible, cold harbor. But tonight was more comfortable, moving up and down the dock with that heavy piece, presumeably to prevent the theft of cargo we were unloading. The Korean winter cold was terrible, but at least you could find some minimal cover from the buildings along the dock. If the apparitions had been daunting at anchor, they were equally strange along the pier.
Some of those were the Korean police and soldiers, also patroling around; and they made me worried because we were smuggling in aid for the orphanages run by Catholic nuns. It seems that the Korean hiearchy, including the dictator/president, Sigmund Rhee, had a bad habit on confuscating aid and then sellng it as they could. We were never caught, but it was fearful, scary business bringing in drugs, blankets and clothes and some food right under their eyes and noses.
We went to the orphanages to visit a couple of times, and the nuns gave us Suntory Whisky (Japanese) and pickled radishes for our trouble. Their situation with orphans was dire and we were humbled by what little they had, and how little we were able to smuggle in. One of the "unknown" stories of the Korean War, and one that has not played well with people I've tried to share it with. One of the "inconvenient truths" of war, that the women and children are hurt the most, and are seldom mentioned.
Some of those were the Korean police and soldiers, also patroling around; and they made me worried because we were smuggling in aid for the orphanages run by Catholic nuns. It seems that the Korean hiearchy, including the dictator/president, Sigmund Rhee, had a bad habit on confuscating aid and then sellng it as they could. We were never caught, but it was fearful, scary business bringing in drugs, blankets and clothes and some food right under their eyes and noses.
We went to the orphanages to visit a couple of times, and the nuns gave us Suntory Whisky (Japanese) and pickled radishes for our trouble. Their situation with orphans was dire and we were humbled by what little they had, and how little we were able to smuggle in. One of the "unknown" stories of the Korean War, and one that has not played well with people I've tried to share it with. One of the "inconvenient truths" of war, that the women and children are hurt the most, and are seldom mentioned.
Story - "Superstition"
I don't know why I was called to watch in the Wheelhouse, I didn't have the experience to handle the wheel in the storm we were in. It had been a tough afternoon, mostly trying to keep things from being destroyed (eg. lifeboats) and we were all dog tired. The bridge was tense, even the so-called "old salts" seemed apprehensive, scared. The Captain paced around, getting on his own and everyone else's nerves. The waves, huge grey-green water were certainly the highest I had ever seen, and some of the older crew said they hadn't seen anything bigger.
You looked out toward the bow and then this enormous wall of water came luming up, and up, and up some more, and then it passed over us, the wheelhouse, the stacks, everything, and the shudder was truly frightening in itself. Everything was tied down, and the Executive Office stayed below in his cabin; we thought it just as well with the Captain roaming around and giving orders some of which seemed to us to be meaningless.
One of the people from the Black Gang showed up to try and fix a broken something or other, a man from the engine room, who seldom came above deck, I saw him only in waterfront bars. He was huge, tattooed all over, and was seeing something he had never seen before. This was the biggest scared man you ever want to see. He kept working, but couldn't keep his eyes off the forward port holes, and was completly distracted from his work, dropped his tools several times.
He got done what he set out to do, I guess, and fled below, probably to his bunk (in which he would have to be strapped in). The Captain came back up, cursing and wandering around. The entire trip had been beset by weird happenings, and being the Captain's last voyage before retirement, and feeling extremely superstitious about it, it seemed that this voyage created its' own problems, its' own reasons for fear and dread; the Great Northern Route icebergs (with ailing 2nd WW radar) and last the lobster pot field we found ourselves plowing through near Noval Scotia (again, no radar), the broken line in Bremerhaven, etc. Even our ultimate tying up in Staten Island had some strange problems as I recall.
As the Skipper was piped off for the last time, and we all stood and saluted him as he went down the gangplank, it was fitting and somehow predictable that he didn't look back, nor acknowledge our work in getting him through the last days of his final command. As a man who had been through the Second World War, even been an Admiral for a time, and then got stuck with the Korean "Conflict." Capt. O'Daniel had paid his dues. My hope is that he didn't have to face anything like those huge walls of grey green water again, even in nightmares driven by superstition.
I found out later that the giant mechanic who had come to the bridge was on one of his own last trips before retirement, and had shared the superstitious feelings of the Captain. He didn't have to face another storm like that and left the ship before we went through the Caribbean to the Panama Canal, and the Pacific. He was from Iowa and intended to return with his Navy pension to farm to live out his days there. Bless his huge, tattooed heart, and I hope too that he is not bothered with stormy, wintry sea tale nightmares.
You looked out toward the bow and then this enormous wall of water came luming up, and up, and up some more, and then it passed over us, the wheelhouse, the stacks, everything, and the shudder was truly frightening in itself. Everything was tied down, and the Executive Office stayed below in his cabin; we thought it just as well with the Captain roaming around and giving orders some of which seemed to us to be meaningless.
One of the people from the Black Gang showed up to try and fix a broken something or other, a man from the engine room, who seldom came above deck, I saw him only in waterfront bars. He was huge, tattooed all over, and was seeing something he had never seen before. This was the biggest scared man you ever want to see. He kept working, but couldn't keep his eyes off the forward port holes, and was completly distracted from his work, dropped his tools several times.
He got done what he set out to do, I guess, and fled below, probably to his bunk (in which he would have to be strapped in). The Captain came back up, cursing and wandering around. The entire trip had been beset by weird happenings, and being the Captain's last voyage before retirement, and feeling extremely superstitious about it, it seemed that this voyage created its' own problems, its' own reasons for fear and dread; the Great Northern Route icebergs (with ailing 2nd WW radar) and last the lobster pot field we found ourselves plowing through near Noval Scotia (again, no radar), the broken line in Bremerhaven, etc. Even our ultimate tying up in Staten Island had some strange problems as I recall.
As the Skipper was piped off for the last time, and we all stood and saluted him as he went down the gangplank, it was fitting and somehow predictable that he didn't look back, nor acknowledge our work in getting him through the last days of his final command. As a man who had been through the Second World War, even been an Admiral for a time, and then got stuck with the Korean "Conflict." Capt. O'Daniel had paid his dues. My hope is that he didn't have to face anything like those huge walls of grey green water again, even in nightmares driven by superstition.
I found out later that the giant mechanic who had come to the bridge was on one of his own last trips before retirement, and had shared the superstitious feelings of the Captain. He didn't have to face another storm like that and left the ship before we went through the Caribbean to the Panama Canal, and the Pacific. He was from Iowa and intended to return with his Navy pension to farm to live out his days there. Bless his huge, tattooed heart, and I hope too that he is not bothered with stormy, wintry sea tale nightmares.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Fiction
Stories and more stories, some of them mixed with fact, most completely contrived. I have known consumate liars who could remember their lies in such detail that it would take a mastermind (Sherlock Holmes?) to catch them up on their stories (and I think of a man I sailed with, who knew he was lying, but created stories which jibed with each other, seemingly without contradiction (?). He was an imposter, and the only way I knew was that he trusted me to let me into (some of) his mazes of lies. I thought of turning him in a few times, but ended up being an accomplice (unwittingly) until he suddently left the ship.
Some of my stories are so old at this point that I'm not completely sure of the details. & yet I want to share some of them, and will in this blog. They will be labelled fiction, if and when I can figure out a way to do that. Part of this is identity concern, perhaps, wanting not to use exact circumstances, names and dates (etc.) in order to "protect" some of the people involved. On the other hand, at times I will use the names, in part because I feel these individuals are either passed along, or wouldn't care one way or another.
My Grandfather Roberts told me legends, stories with meanings, sometimes (like LaFontaine) with animals as the characters. He did not, as far as I know, tell these stories to my siblings, but passed them along to me as the first born grandson. Unfortunately I did not inherit his memory for these tales, and now would have to visit some of the books which he had seemingly memorized to share these. He was a reader, but came from a time where aural memory was much more important. His memory worked well for songs too, and would sing to my Grandmother at times. I have gone back to some of the books and found them disappointing, it was better to me to get them live, from Grandfather's memory (eg. the tales that warned you about dangerous behavior, Cautionary Tales, or the Fables of LaFontaine).
Some of my stories are so old at this point that I'm not completely sure of the details. & yet I want to share some of them, and will in this blog. They will be labelled fiction, if and when I can figure out a way to do that. Part of this is identity concern, perhaps, wanting not to use exact circumstances, names and dates (etc.) in order to "protect" some of the people involved. On the other hand, at times I will use the names, in part because I feel these individuals are either passed along, or wouldn't care one way or another.
My Grandfather Roberts told me legends, stories with meanings, sometimes (like LaFontaine) with animals as the characters. He did not, as far as I know, tell these stories to my siblings, but passed them along to me as the first born grandson. Unfortunately I did not inherit his memory for these tales, and now would have to visit some of the books which he had seemingly memorized to share these. He was a reader, but came from a time where aural memory was much more important. His memory worked well for songs too, and would sing to my Grandmother at times. I have gone back to some of the books and found them disappointing, it was better to me to get them live, from Grandfather's memory (eg. the tales that warned you about dangerous behavior, Cautionary Tales, or the Fables of LaFontaine).
Carelessness
It seems we are in an era of carelessness, lots of mistakes being made. Is it because of self and mass preoccupation? No sure. When I was racing automobiles many years ago (or was it motorcycles?) I told my Mother that my middle name was Careful, so she wouldn't worry & be preoccupied with my safety. Julia did not think it funny, but did seem to backoff on being upset and critical.
Reading the amazing book by Bell Hooks on love ("All about Love; New Visions") she makes a valuable distinction about the differences between care and love. Seems that a lot of caregiving is called loving, but does not really go there; eg. cared for but not loved. I think part of my problem is that I am a much easier caregiver than a lover. Too bad. I do like to care for people, and be cared for. Love goes another way, and I have been uneasy there.
Carelessness is indicative of neglect, of a lack of attention to details, which the "devil is in..." Carelessness is the turning away at the crucial moment, when something might be saved, or healed. To be careful may be too cautious to apply care when it is timely needed, "timing is everything." My hope is to love and be loved more in the years I have left. But it may take some work, OK? & caregiving will continue too.
Reading the amazing book by Bell Hooks on love ("All about Love; New Visions") she makes a valuable distinction about the differences between care and love. Seems that a lot of caregiving is called loving, but does not really go there; eg. cared for but not loved. I think part of my problem is that I am a much easier caregiver than a lover. Too bad. I do like to care for people, and be cared for. Love goes another way, and I have been uneasy there.
Carelessness is indicative of neglect, of a lack of attention to details, which the "devil is in..." Carelessness is the turning away at the crucial moment, when something might be saved, or healed. To be careful may be too cautious to apply care when it is timely needed, "timing is everything." My hope is to love and be loved more in the years I have left. But it may take some work, OK? & caregiving will continue too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)