Rack excelled in sports and soon found himself on the Freshman Baseball Team. I didn't make the team and I was mad!
With maturity, I realized in later years, I could have never kept up on the team, my legs were too short and I carried too much weight around my waist.
We both did well academically and only one bully ever called Rack a "nerd", before he even completed the word, he was laying on his back looking up!
Since we were always together, I was protected by the umbrella of Rack's knuckles and pretty much sailed through high school trouble-free.
And homework, oh my, that was another new thing. To make matters even worse, were that possible, a goodly number of the high school teachers were cousins of my mother, including Mr. English, the principal!
The bunch of us huddled together like bugs on flypaper for the first few weeks, but time passed and nobody died, soon we became experts in racing to our lockers to get the books for the next class, getting dressed out and in line before Mr. Conant, the coach, blew his whistle and still have time to slip a thumbtack on the chair of Able Garrison.
Our 7th and 8th-grade years were the last truly carefree years we would have for at least the next half-century!
Now, that is not to say that we didn't cause trouble, we had active minds and delighted in excitement, along with a healthy dose of righteous indignation! When a teacher whom we all liked, Mr. Pagels, had his new car "keyed", it wasn't long before the entire student body knew who did it.
Whenever Jerry Wells entered the classroom, a bunch of us boys would make screeching sounds like a key being drawn along a piece of metal. It wasn't a leap of intelligence before Mr. Pagels made the connection!
Our campus was not closed, so we could go off campus at lunch time. There was a hamburger stand down the street; it eventually became a McDonald's. Their hamburgers were fifteen cents, twenty cents if you wanted relish on it.
They were going to raise their prices by a nickel, so "some" boys started a rumor that Mel's Hamburgers was putting sawdust in their hamburger meat. Within a week, there was a big sign in front of the hamburger stand that hamburgers were still fifteen cents!
Everybody hated Mr. Clarke, the social studies teacher. Some boys, who shall remain nameless, cut some wooden blocks to put under the frame of Mr. Clark's brand new 1950 shiny black Volkswagen Beetle. When he went out to go to lunch, he put his car in gear and went nowhere!
Mr. English, the principal had a pretty good idea who had done the nasty deed, so he called all the boys in for an assembly. He told "them" that he was going to go in his office and close the blinds for twenty minutes, at the end of which, that Beetle had better be run able!
Nobody ever 'fessed up, but Rack and I had splinters in our fingers. Mr. Clarke resigned at the end of the first semester.
Being a farm boy in California had one advantage, you could get a driver's license at the age of 15! I had begun working at Orso Feed & Fuel for 50 cents an hour and I had $40 in my pocket and a brand new driving license.
With a little help from my Grandmother for the plates and tags, I acquired a 1936 Pontiac Business Coupe. It gulped gasoline at a frightening rate, but gas was only 19 cents a gallon and it was WHEELS! Wheels meant freedom, kind of.
I had it painted bright red, a color I love still yet, and put 'pacs on it.
I worked six days a week at the Feed & Fuel and had to be to work by 3:15 on week days. School didn't let out until 3:00, so I had to hustle.
Almost every day, the town constable, Jack Crandal would park his three-wheeler behind a pine tree next to the exit of the student parking lot. He would nab each one of us as we left, giving us the choice of a dollar or a ticket.
There was no question he was pocketing the dollar, but a ticket would have been worse.
That daily dollar was eating a big hole in all of our wages; Rack was working at the local nursery for the same amount as I was.
We got tired of paying blackmail, so one afternoon, Rack and I cut last period class and "obtained" a length of steel cable from the Auto Shop. We waited until Jack had dozed off and we crawled under that pine tree to bolt one end of the cable to the tree trunk and hooked the other end to the frame of his three-wheeler.
When the final bell rang, we went out to our cars and I revved up my old Pontiac, making the 'pacs' rumble and roar, just to make sure Jack was awake.
As we started for the exit, Jack kick-started his three-wheeler and started to head us off. When he came to the end of the cable, it wound him around the pine tree like a yo-yo string! He was wound up in tree branches and pine needles, screaming at the top of his lungs.
We all just went off to work or wherever anyone was headed. When I got home after work, Jack was in the driveway shouting angrily at Mom and Dad. One thing I learned in my life, the hard way of course, was NEVER, EVER shout at my Dad!
I got out of my car, figuring I had to "face the music". Dad started to scold me and then he broke down laughing and told me to go get a shower. Jack was left there standing in the drive, shirt torn and bandages on his face.
Shortly after that, he left town employment and went to work as a security guard for a construction company. Years later, I heard that he had run for county sheriff and won, well, the voters got what they deserved!
In the 9th grade, Rack joined the Cadet Corps (California Cadet Corps) and talked me into joining with him. I must admit, I was not too enthusiastic at first, but I took to it like a duck to water. By the 10th grade, I was a Cadet Sergeant and was appointed Cadet 2nd Lieutenant at the end of that year.
Both Rack and I continued on to Senior High School and continued our association with the Cadets, he eventually became a Cadet Major and I, a Cadet Captain. It was through the Cadets that I became acquainted with the California Maritime Academy and I was determined to attend there, but that is a tale for another time.
The summer of 1953 was a poor year for fruit growers; the weather was cold and rainy. The start of school was delayed because the fruit had not yet ripened, we didn't start picking our prunes until the middle of September and we never did get all the grapes picked.
School finally started about October 15th and we still had fruit on the dry yard. Rack and I had chemistry right after lunch and we were horrified to see rain splatters on the classroom windows.
We both jumped up and joined a throng of students headed for their cars, ten minutes later, the high school was empty! We all went racing out the parking lot.
Rack had ridden with me that day, so I dropped him off at his drive and headed home. Dad was already out in the dry yard with our farm help, frantically stacking trays of partially dried prunes.
In a couple hours' time, we had stacked and covered our entire crop. We sold about 640 tons of dried fruit that year and they were only half dried when we had to stack them. I would guess we handled at least 800 tons that day, and they all had to be un-stacked after the rain so they could finish drying.
Rack and I were both Honor Students and it was already determined that we would continue on to Senior High School. I had decided I wanted to go to the Maritime Academy and Dad was dead set against it, he wanted me to go to the University in Berkeley.
Hindsight is always so much better than foresight, I realize now that he wanted only what was best for me, but we butted heads over the issue for two years.
I guess we were too much alike, my Dad and I. We knew we loved each other, we just couldn't agree to disagree. My poor Mom was at her wit's end trying to keep the peace between us.
It finally came down to his saying he would not pay for my education and we ceased even speaking to each other for the better part of my senior year in high school.
Rack applied to go to the Naval Academy and was accepted but I had no prospects of claiming my "Brass Ring".
Two weeks before graduation, Mom was all smiles as she handed me a letter. It was from Perry Goodall. Perry was one of the sailors we had cared for during his recuperation from war wounds. I also had dragged him home from a crying jag in the city park more than once.
Perry was Captain of a Crowless Marine Tugboat in San Francisco Harbor and he was offering to help me get my Seaman's Papers plus a job on his tug!
Looking back, I hurt my Father, almost mortally, but right then my world had turned sunny and bright. Rack and I graduated from high school with honors and Rack left almost immediately for "Plebe Boot Camp" and I spent the next several weeks getting my papers in order before shipping out on the Percival Crowless. I would spend the next two years on Crowless Marine Tugboats before I realized my dream of going to the Maritime Academy. Rack's and my life intertwined for the next 50 years, I graduated and sailed for a short time in the Merchant Marine before joining the Navy. I married and we were the Godparents of Rack's only son, Roger. Roger lived with us off and on over the years as Rack's wife, Susan, was killed by a drunk driver. Roger had an out of wedlock child, Richard II and again, we were the Godparents. Roger was killed in Afghanistan as a Marine Lt. Colonel and Rack had retired as a Marine Colonel to Green Valley, Arizona. The news of Roger's death killed Rack; he died four weeks after we buried his son. I am the executor of their estates and the administrator of young Richie's inheritance. Richie is a spitting image of his grandfather in everyway, I broke down and cried when I first met him. He is 17 years old and could have been Rack!
This story will be continued in the High Seas Series of stories.
Wages of War
When I was a wee lad in short pants,
I watched my father march off to war.
He left as one of many soldiers amid waving flags.
When he returned, the group was small and they carried lowered flags,
for there were many left on the fields of that war.
By then I had grown to a boy in long pants.
When I was a young man learning to shave,
I walked with friends, little older than myself, as they left for war.
They left amid ceremony, their banner, our nation's flag.
When they returned, I helped cover their graves with our flag,
for there were many left in the frozen hills of that war.
By then I had learned to cry as well as shave.
When it came my turn to wear my country's uniform,
I left with my friends amid my parents fears.
We did as we swore, to give our flag honor.
When we returned, we had done as we swore, there was no dishonor,
we were fewer in number as we left our fallen comrades for their mother's tears.
I cannot yet bear "The Wall", in my heart I keep my uniform.
When I was grown and raising a family,
I saw friends, little younger than myself, as they left for war.
They left amid the boos and taunts of those who would disgrace our nation's flag.
When they returned they were despised by those who had burned our nation's flag,
though many were left behind in the jungles of that war.
By then I had learned to grieve and fear for my family.
Now I am a man grown old and gray,
I have stood in fear as my children go in harm's way.
They stand straight and tall and salute our nation's flag.
I pray it will not be some far off place they are left to lay,
I pray their mother, their wife, their husband, their children will not receive a folded flag.
I pray they will, in their turn, grow old and gray.
Charles W. Bird, 1997