Contributor Posts

I had joined the Naval Reserve
while in High School.
Went to meetings at night,
learned much and to do drills
and about all the rules in
the UCJ or Uniform Code of Justice,
as I recall.
Too much partying in College,
I needed to go on Active Duty.
It wasn't long and I had travel
authorized chits.
Over to Seattle, I went on the train,
out to the Naval pier by bus.
We were instructed to remove our clothes,
but keep on your socks and shoes.
Gave us a clipboard, with papers attached.
I was in line, we were going to get shots,
in each arm. Walked down the line,
with the clipboard in hand,
the only thing covering the sign of a Man.
But there is more to come.
I'll tell you soon.
More to tell you about
the shot over the Moon.

Playing soccer, many years ago.
I received a pass and off I'd go.
Dribbling the ball, I planted my foot;
Turning my body, my right foot in the air,
going to pass the ball downfield to my
mate, when I was hit in the back
by a defender, who was late.
My right foot was coming down,
the toe hit the ground; I heard a "SNAP",
fell to the ground and probably said "Crap".
I hobbled off the field to the sidelines again,
sat down with a number of friends.
My right foot was hurting, I unlaced my shoe
and the sock on that foot started to swell.
It puffed up and hurt real bad,
so some of the boys, helped me to my car.
An automatic, helped me a lot
and I drove home, staying in the car.
I honked the horn, my wife came to see
why I was honking. I said I think I broke
my leg. Our neighbor was an Orthopedic Doc.
My wife went and talked to Dr Bill. He came
to the car. He drove me to his office
and put me in a U shaped cast to allow
room for the swelling. He gave me a prescription;
we went to the drugstore and got some crutches.
There is more to tell about this adventure of mine
but I will wait until another time.

Playing with my Cousins,
in our Grandfather's yard.
Running fast, on bare feet,
for it was our thing,
Then I stepped on something.
Ouch! A Bee sting.
Down to the creek; mix up some mud.
Put it on the sting in a big gob.
Laying in the Sun, the mud baking hard.
That was just another day in the yard.
Go back to the creek, wash off the dirt,
test out your foot, it no longer hurt.

It was back in the day,
many years ago,
in a place called Riverton Heights.
The Seattle Times held a contest
at local schools.
I attended Showalter then,
atop the hill above Foster.
The contest was called
"Old Woody".
Old woody was a frame of wood,
in the shape of a Baseball strike zone,
in the center. A distance was set.
Each contestant would go to the mound
and throw balls. The rule was
to throw strikes until such time
that you threw 4 balls.
The winner was determined by the
one with the total number of three
strike outs.
Surprise it was to me,
when I beat all the others
and won the contest.
The Seattle Times took my picture
and was in the sport pages the next day.
So my claim to fame at a very young age.
Many years have passed
since that time in my life.
It was my first competition in baseball.

As a young boy,
I liked to climb
up on things.
Climbing fence
or up a tree,
was how I played
and it was free.
Fun to do,
not scary at all,
until that fateful day,
I soon did fall
out of the tree,
on to my head.
I think my Cousins
thought I was dead.
I went to bed,
which I shouldn't
have done.
But I arose later
to have more fun.

Across the fields of golden grain,
among the rolling hills in view,
I feel the warmth on my back
as the Sun comes into view.
On this late Fall day,
I am in my truck, a 39 Ford,
ready to move close to the Combine,
that will soon be harvesting
the heads of golden wheat.
Driving along side, with grain filling
the truck bed, while the Combine
discharges the wheat stalks or chaff
out its back.
We stop just ahead, as I have
a full load. Drive out from the
field, over rutted ground to the
Main road, then back to town
where the Grain Elevator is.
I get in line, waiting my turn,
then on the scale to weigh my load.
Up to the elevator, where I use
my levers to raise up the bed
and dump out the wheat. It goes
down through the grate and into
storage to await processing.
The truck bed now empty,
I've dumped my whole load.
Back to the highway, then to the field,
as I repeat this task once more with ease.
Happy am I at the age of sixteen.

I was in a restaurant the other day
when some Christmas music started to play.
It was Bing Crosby singing,
"I'll be home for Christmas."
I had a flash back to my years before
when I was alone on Christmas, first time.
I had just turned twenty in
San Diego, a U.S. Navy, enlisted man.
I had gone to dinner, alone
and did find a phone to call
my parents and wish them a Merry Christmas.
We celebrated the event of Christmas Eve
and would open presents, then off to
church for a Midnight Service.
I was alone, lonely and missing my family.
Not old enough, by law, to have
a drink. There was a feeling that
I still recall, when Bing Crosby started
to croon, "I'll be home for Christmas."
When ever I hear that song it takes
me back to that lonely time
in San Diego.

My friend from so long ago
The World has changed so.
We were young, you and I
But years have now passed us by.

Maria Popova shares the most important things her all-consuming daily endeavor taught her about writing and living. Read More