A Trip To Florida

Paul with his big catch

When I was fourteen I got the opportunity to fly to Florida with my friend Paul and his dad. We visited Paul’s Aunt Elsie and Uncle Walter in Pompano Beach.
I emailed Paul that I was writing a blog about our 1962 Florida trip and he sent me some pictures.

 His Aunt and Uncle's house looked like a normal suburban house from the front, but around back it was an entirely different world. A large screened porch looked out onto a perfectly green lawn and a few tropical fruit trees. At the lawn’s edge was a dock with steps going down to a canal where Uncle Walter’s private boat waited. These canals went everywhere. Paul's Aunt Elsie told us that she and Uncle Walt could hop in the boat and go shopping or out to dinner on these waterways. How cool is that?
As soon as we arrived, Aunt Elsie cautioned us about being out in the sun too long.  "The sun is a lot more intense here. You need to take it in small doses at first and build up your tolerance." So Paul and I rubbed sun tan lotion on ourselves and sat out in the sun in short intervals. Paul accurately timed each interval on his watch. We commented to each other how we could feel the superior intensity of the Florida sun on our skin.

Aunt Elsie out back by the canal

At night we slept on two army cots that Uncle Walt set up on the back screened porch. After Paul went to sleep, I lay still on my cot trying to remain awake for as long as possible. I wanted to savor the feeling of the cool breeze that rustled the palm leaves and blew across my face carrying the dizzying mixture of salt air and exotic flowers that smelled like the fruits we'd eaten the day before. But within a few minutes I fell under the spell of the rhythmical lapping of canal water against the sides of the boats and was lulled into a deep sleep.

Uncle Walter on the couch

During the day Paul’s aunt and uncle usually had something planned for us. One day we went to the Everglades and rode in an airboat, a light, flat boat with two huge airplane propellers on the back. When we were out on the open water, the driver gave it full throttle and the boat took off like a rocket. We skimmed over the surface of the water and through tall grass, making large circles and figure eights. It was exhilarating. The driver then slowed the craft down and we crept along the Bayou looking for alligators. We spotted a full grown alligator just as it was sliding off the bank and into the water.
When we returned to the tourist center, we watched Bayou Bob wrestle what looked like a half-dead alligator in a small fenced area. Bayou Bob had a big beer gut and quickly got out of breath as he moved the lifeless alligator around. Bob acted as if he were being viciously attacked, while the gator limply flopped from side to side. Paul and I thought the show was hysterical, but held back our laughter until we got out into the parking lot.
On another day, Paul's dad took us deep-sea fishing. The boat was small and rose and fell with the waves. The Captain showed us how to bait our hooks and cast our lines. My pole was the first to get a strike. It was a big fish and I needed help reeling it in. I had been fighting nausea from the time we’d set sail and when the crewman finally wrestled the twenty pound Kingfish up to the boat and gaffed it in the side, causing some of its guts to spill out, I had to abandon the task at hand and flee to the opposite side of the boat to throw up my breakfast. This however did not relieve the sick feeling. For the rest of the trip, I remained huddled in the corner moaning and praying for the fishing excursion to end. Amazingly when we reached shore, I stepped onto dry land and the sick feeling immediately went away. The captain informed me that I had caught the biggest fish of the day and my picture was taken as I struggled to hold up the big fish. Paul and his dad caught several Yellow tail of average size and we all were happy with the day’s take.
When we got back to Paul's aunt and uncle's house, we looked at the Polaroid pictures from the day. In the picture of me holding the fish, my legs appeared to be about half their normal size. I looked like I had two sticks for legs. “Something is obviously wrong with this photo.” I said to no one in particular. Paul's dad held out his hand, “Let me see.” He looked the picture over, then looked at my legs, and then back at the picture, "I don't see anything wrong with this picture, do you Walt?" He passed it over to Paul's


Me with my abnormally skinny legs and fish 

Uncle Walter who went through the same slow deliberate process of looking at the picture and then at my legs. “Nope, it looks fine to me.” Paul laughed so hard I thought he was going to wet his pants. Of course the more I protested, the more Paul's dad and uncle, denied that there was anything wrong with it. I didn’t really mind being the butt of the joke. I was in Florida with my best friend and we were having a great time. 
Paul's Aunt cleaned and cooked our fish and served them for dinner that evening. I never realized how much I enjoyed fish until then. For dessert she peeled and cut up fresh mangoes from the tree in the backyard. It was a heavenly meal.
The best part of that Florida trip was when no activities were planned by the adults and Paul and I went off on our own to explore and wander up and down the beach, along the canals, and in and out of the local stores. At fourteen, life ahead looked exciting and promising. We talked about comic book characters and TV shows and about girls. We were both extremely nervous about whether we would know what to do if the opportunity to kiss a girl presented itself. We swore an allegiance to each other that whoever entered this intimate realm first, would share all the details with the other.
I've been to Florida many times over the years, but none of them compare to that first trip with my best friend and his dad.

Hawaiian Vacation

Katie and I recently spent thirteen days in Hawaii. The trip was a

combination vacation/child care, which meant a chance to spend time with our grandson Christopher. We've been vacationing in Hawaii together since the 1980s. On this trip, Chris's dad was in Germany on business most of the time, so we were able to stay in his condo in Honolulu.
Katie was born and grew up in Honolulu, so when we go, we spend a lot of time visiting various family members. As we've gotten older the family has dwindled down to a precious few.

View from condo patio looking downtown.




View from patio looking toward Pearl Harbor

Honolulu is a big crowded city, but the people still have the aloha spirit. We drove our grandson back and forth to school, his choir practice and Aikido and all these activities happened during rush hour. When driving in the horrendous traffic though, there was no road rage, horn honking or problems merging lanes.
There were plenty of activities we liked doing right in the city, like walking over to Chinatown in the morning for breakfast noodle soup .



Or visiting the Honolulu Museum of Art.





 

Having a Latte at a coffee shop at Hawaii Kai Marina

We had plenty of opportunities to get out of the city and enjoy the island of Oahu.



One day we crossed to the other side of the Island on the Pali and visited Kailua.





                                                                     

We swam at one of the many beautiful beaches.




 Just outside of the north shore town of Haleiwa we ate garlic shrimp from a local funky graffitied food trunk. It was delicious.



Walking back to town from the garlic shrimp feast.





Katie had a chance to get together with old friends from junior high and high school. They met at a Chinese restaurant with spouses and we had a many course meal while the five friends reminisced.  Since we were the only couple from the mainland, we were the guests of honor and donned with leis.


On the second to the last day we hiked up the old tram tracks on Koko Head.



It was a grueling hike, but the view from the top was worth it.

I'm always in awe of the plants in Hawaii. Little spindly plants that we nurture in our homes on the mainland are growing wild in Hawaii and are the size of houses. Katie and I toured Foster Gardens near the the condo, where we saw numerous specimens from all over the world.  

Christopher's dad, Peter, finally returned from Germany and we had a great meal at his favorite Vietnamese restaurant.

Our time in Hawaii was wonderful, but the trip home was on a par with one of Dante's levels of hell. We took the red-eye flight home from Honolulu to Phoenix and  then drove two more hours to Green Valley. 

An Independent E-Book Author

I finally put the finishing touches on the book I’ve been writing for the past two plus years and it’s published, well, sort of published. It’s published as an e-book only at this point.  In my old way of thinking, a truly successful author is one who is published by a publishing company, but I decided to self-publish.  I had read numerous articles and attended a lecture called “to self-publish or not to self-publish”. The choices seemed to be: a)I could hire an agent and start the long uphill battle of trying to convince a publisher to take a chance on a first time author with no guarantee of any results, and when and if I did get picked up by a publisher, I could sign away my rights to my book and agree on a small percentage of its sales or b)I could publish my book for free after getting it formatted at a low cost, people around the world could download it on any device and I could retain all rights to my book and receive 60-80% of the sales. It was an easy decision.

I did have to change my definition of what I thought a “successful author” was. My friend and neighbor, Roger, has several books published by Oxford Press. I can’t help being impressed. A big publishing company like that has always been the “holy grail” to authors. But the internet has changed everything. I am part of a growing number of independent authors that collectively say to hell with the big publishers. That’s the way I’m currently spinning it in my mind anyway. Of course if I ever do get picked up by a big publishing company, I’ll probably change my tune and become a snob.

Writing a book is a monumental task. This is the second one I’ve written, but the first one that is in publishable form. My first book chronicles my experiences from high school through Vietnam. I wrote it as a member of a writing group in Bellingham, Washington. It was a cathartic experience, and I was proud of myself for having completed it, but it is not a very good book. When I retired in 2009, I figured I now had more time to spend writing, but didn't know what to write about. Just over two years ago, my life-long friend, Paul, told me our high school buddy was living in Phoenix. My wife and I live in southern Arizona so I called him and we agreed to get together. The last time I’d seen him was when I took part in his 1969 wedding.

Petie was a pilot already when I knew him in high school. He was more of a risk taker than my other friends. If he was along when a group of guys was going out on a weekend night, it was a sure thing that something exciting was going to happen.  We stayed in touch after high school for a while. I went into the Army and he went to college. When I was home on leave once, he fixed me up with a blind date and flew us in his private plane from St. Louis to Chicago for dinner.  I think I impressed the hell out of my date that night (or at least he did).

Petie is now in his 60s.  He had written down many of his life experiences and tried to get someone to transform them into readable form. He had made some friends in Hollywood and one of the DreamWorks screenwriters wrote a screen play about his early life. I have a copy of it and it’s terrible. It reads like Harold and Kumar go to Vietnam, very Hollywoodized. Petie immediately rejected it. When I was with him in Phoenix, he told me he had been reading my blog and liked the way I wrote. He asked if I'd like to take a crack at writing his stories. His offer was like a gift from heaven.

I don't think I'm a natural story teller, but I do have experience writing other people's stories, so I said “yes” and started writing the book. I had a real advantage writing Petie’s stories because I knew him so well. We grew up in the same small Missouri town and I knew his parents, his brother and sister. In 1966 we drove in his Corvair convertible to Florida for a wild spring break get away, but that’s another story for another book.  I've always liked and been fascinated by Petie.  He is a great story teller and has lived an exciting life. He likes talking about his exploits, but isn't braggadocios. In fact, he always seems  baffled by how he gets into and out of touchy situations. He’s able to laugh at himself, his good luck, and his stupidity. He has been hunted down and nearly killed by the Hawaiian mafia, he was jailed in Iran as a spy and witnessed an execution, thinking that he would be next. His stories go on and on. My old friend is a gold mine of exciting stories and he and I both enjoy our collaboration. 

I was most fascinated by his earlier exploits. Shortly after his wedding in ‘69, he, like so many of us young men at the time, was forced into doing something about the military draft that was breathing down his neck. He didn’t want to end up as a “ground-pounder” so he joined Air America and flew covert operations for the CIA in Vietnam. Traumatized by his war experiences, he found he could no longer fit into domestic life, so he accepted a job flying for an island hopping airline company in the Caribbean islands.

We agreed that I would write a fictionalized book about his early life. I was able to draw on my own experiences as well, especially for the Vietnam part. So we developed this character, PT Davis, not unlike Petie himself, with a little of me in the mix and I wrote, with his help and guidance, our first novel, Above the Labyrinth.

Here's the link to my book on Amazon.com.

http://www.amazon.com/Above-Labyrinth-Michael-Yeager-ebook/dp/B00I12QHMO/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1390959215&sr=1-1&keywords=above+the+labyrinth

 

Here's the link to my book on Smashwords.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/400948

                                 

Farewell to a Friend

I went to my friend Tony’s website to see what he has been up to lately. He’s a photographer in Philadelphia. His website appeared just as it was the last time I looked, probably 6 to 8 months ago. I looked at some photos from his latest project, the Harlistas Cubanos, Harley Davidson riders in Cuba. I reread his very concise biography where he mentions a number of the cars he had owned, but I noticed he didn’t mention the 1968 Opel GT that he nearly killed himself in. We were both in the Army at Fort Hood Texas when the accident happened. I decided I would mention this fact in the email I was about to write him. I knew his email address, but for some reason I clicked on the contact information section of the website. Instead of finding contact information, I found a eulogy. Tony had passed away December 13, 2012. I couldn’t believe he was gone and that it had been almost a year since he died. I thought we were keeping in touch. I'd had a plan that I hadn’t told him about yet. After our buddy Phil retired, Phil and I would drive to Philadelphia to see him. We’d bring our guitars and play music together just like we did in 1970 when he was convalescing in Dallas after the car accident.



Motor pool inspection of files

Tony, Phil and I were stationed in Texas together in 1968-69. Our entire unit consisted of former Intelligence personnel who were back from Vietnam, but still had more time to do in the Army. We were not dedicated soldiers by this time, most of us had a severe attitude problem concerning the war and the Army. Stateside there was no Intelligence work to be done, so they had us doing paperwork in offices or working in supply or maintenance. I worked in the motor pool, keeping the files in order. The Army really didn’t know what to do with us, we were just biding our time. They should have let us all out early, it would have saved the government a lot of money. But then I never would have met Tony.

The first time I noticed him was in the mess hall. You’ve probably heard about army food. You can eat all you want, but it’s a far cry from gourmet fare. I noticed this guy at the other end of the table pull a small cloth bag from his pocket that contained a pepper grinder. He proceeded to grind fresh pepper all over his pile of bland army food. I knew I had to get to know him.

When I met him, Tony was already an accomplished musician. In 1967 he was playing guitar and singing with some of the rising stars of our generation, on his way to a career as a folk singer/song writer. Then Uncle Sam forced him into service.

We lived on the second floor of an old army barracks, in a big open bay with rows of bunks, one wall locker and one foot locker per bunk. Phil also played guitar and in the evenings after work, he and Tony would sit on the edge of one of their bunks and play and sing. I desperately wanted in. I liked to sing, but didn’t play an instrument. They advised me to buy a guitar, so I bought a Yamaha for $110. They assured me it was a good guitar for the money. I can’t remember what kind of guitar Tony played, maybe a Gibson or a Guild. Phil had an old Martin D-28 that Tony and I coveted. Having performed professionally, Tony knew a lot of songs . He had a beautiful voice, high and sweet and could make it crack at the right moment. Phil could finger pick like Mississippi John Hurt. I had two excellent guitar teachers at my disposal and both were more than willing to guide me along.

One of the first songs Tony taught me was the Jackson Browne song “These Days”. Jackson taught it to him when they were both playing at one of the clubs in LA. Jackson didn’t come out with the song until his first album in 1972 and by then he had significantly changed it, influenced by Greg Allman. The way Tony taught it to me was the original way Jackson played it at the clubs. 

Tony was from Oklahoma City. A few times we drove up to his parents’ house, a day’s drive from Fort Hood. His parents were  always gracious and welcoming. Tony had a girlfriend from Tulsa. I met her once and she seemed nice and was pretty, but the relationship didn’t last. Late one night he returned to the barracks and I knew something was troubling him. I asked him what was wrong and he said his girlfriend had dumped him. He was distraught, but in typical Tony style, instead of telling me all about it, he invited me out onto the fire escape landing where he sang a very sad song written by a friend of his. It was about a guy who lost his girl to another man. We were both in tears by the end of the song.

Just a few months  before being released from the Army, Tony had a bad accident in his Opel GT. His leg was shattered and his jaw was broken and had to be wired shut. He couldn’t eat solid food, but sucked liquid through a straw. He lay in traction, confined to an army hospital bed. Phil and I visited him every chance we could. His hospital room became a music studio. The hospital personnel fell for Tony’s charm and against regulations, allowed us to bring our guitars to his room. Phil and I would sing and play for him and this cheered him up. When his jaw healed enough, the doctors unwired it and he could eat solid food and join us making music. I still play many of the songs we sang when we were young and anxious to get on with our lives

Not long after we were released from the Army, Phil and I visited Tony in Dallas, where his parents now lived. Tony was still recuperating form the accident . We stayed with his family for about a week playing music, eating his parents’ excellent food and laughing a lot. At the time I thought we would be getting together like this from time to time throughout our lives, but it didn’t happen. Phil and I left Dallas in my MG.  I dropped him off in Orange County and continued up the coast to the Northwest where I would remain for most of my life. I never saw Tony again.  We talked on the phone a few times and stayed in touch by email. 



Tony in Vietnam



Me in Vietnam

 When Tony and I went places together, people thought we were brothers.  We looked alike, but weren’t related in that way, so I denied it at the time. Now I realize they were right. Few people in life get into your heart and remain there.  Tony was one of those few. I’m going to miss you brother.

Fight At The Bag O Chicken(Part 2)

  I drove my parent's VW bug to school the day of the fight. When school let out, I met Rick in the parking lot and we drove over to the Bag O Chicken together. There was a sizeable group of kids already there. The high school was located right next to a major freeway and a steady stream of students was pouring over the walkway bridge that crossed the freeway from the edge of the school grounds. The Bag O Chicken restaurant was located across the street on the other side of the freeway. For years it had been a favorite lunch and after school hangout for students. The fried chicken and French fries were served in a brown paper bag that was instantly saturated with grease.           As soon as I stopped the car, Rick hopped out and walked right into the middle of the crowd, disappearing from view. I noticed a number of hoods, supporters of Chadwick. The talking suddenly died down. Everyone began backing up, opening an area in their center which defined the battleground, a familiar high school ritual. I worked my way into the inner ring where I could clearly watch the fight. I noticed Paul on the other side of the circle with some of our friends. I caught his eye and he gave me a subtle wave. The others didn’t look my way. They all assumed my friend Rick was going to be slaughtered.           From opposite ends of the circle as if choreographed, stepped Rick and Chadwick  into the open space. I expected some kind of verbal exchange, like Rick saying "I don't like the way your thugs talked to my girlfriend," and Chadwick saying "Oh yeah tough guy, what are you going to do about it?" and then maybe a little pushing and shoving, but none of that happened. Chadwick gave Rick an acknowledging almost friendly nod and said, "Let's go." Rick nodded, put up his fists, and crouched down into a fighting posture. Chadwick didn't look ready. He raised his hands only slightly, not forming them into fists, but intensely watched Rick. They both began to circle around each other.           My heart was beating fast and hard. I hadn't realized how big Chadwick was until now. Rick was six feet tall, strong and wiry, but Chadwick looked several inches taller. His rolled up shirt sleeves exposed thick forearms and bulging biceps.            Rick closed the gap between them, approaching Chadwick in a sideways walk and then lunged in throwing a fast left jab. Chadwick effortlessly bobbed his head back and away. They circled each other a few more times and then Rick threw two more left jabs followed by a right punch toward Chadwick's head. Chadwick stepped out of the way and caught Rick on the side of the face with a bone jarring punch. It looked like Rick had thrown his head against Chadwick's fist. I felt sick to my stomach and light- headed, but forced myself to keep watching. Rick staggered back, but quickly regained his composure. He approached Chadwick again in the exact same manner. The crowd murmured and I thought, Oh God, don't try that again, but instead Rick faked the left and then squatted down low punching Chadwick right in the stomach, causing him to double over gasping for air. Rick punched him again, a glancing blow off the side of his head. "All right Rick", I blurted out.           Rick backed off allowing Chadwick to straighten up. But now Chadwick began moving with a new level of intensity. He walked right over to Rick, allowing several of Rick's punches to bounce off, grabbed one of Rick's arms in mid-flight and pulled him into a headlock. He then proceeded to punch Rick's head over and over. Rick struggled to get free. This stirred the crowd up and my sick feeling, which had left momentarily, was back.  With much effort, Rick managed to wiggle free. but the side of his face was dripping blood.  He bobbed and circled and threw several more punches at Chadwick, but none of them landed with any force. Chadwick kept his composure, waiting for his opportunity and then landed another bone thumping punch to the same side of Rick's head. Rick staggered and fell, dazed and disoriented.      Chadwick stood over him, with his fists poised ready to knock Rick back down if he tried to get up.  No one would have blamed Rick for staying down. It was obvious to everyone that Chadwick out matched him. But Rick shook his head and struggled to get back on his feet. Several guys in the crowd encouraged Rick to stay down and we all braced ourselves for the final blow, but a police siren broke the suspense.            The police car pulled into the Bag O Chicken parking lot and the crowd scattered. Chadwick and his guys began walking quickly toward the footbridge and back onto the safety of school property. The air was filled with the sound of crunching gravel, screeching tires and roaring engines. In a matter of seconds there was no one around except Rick and me. Rick was still on one knee, too stunned to get up from where Chadwick had left him.           The cops remained sitting in the squad car and watched the crowd disperse. I walked over to Rick, helped him to his feet, and we slowly made our way to my VW. As I drove out of the parking lot and onto the street, in the rear view mirror I saw the cop car pull out and head back toward town. This was routine for them, but we all knew that the officers took notice of who was there and especially who was fighting.         We went to Rick's house where we could assess the damage. He had a swollen eye and a bad cut on the side of his head by his ear. I found some iodine in the bathroom medicine chest and Rick began dabbing the cut behind his ear. I was embarrassed that Rick got beat up in front of our fellow students.      "That Chadwick is one hell of a fighter." I said trying to ease Rick's emotional pain.      "Yeah, he's tough all right." "What if his guys start to harass Cathy again?" "I guess I'd just have to fight him again."      I thought, Are you totally nuts? but said, "Man, I hope that doesn't happen."  I certainly didn't want to go through that again.          Then Rick stopped dabbing his head, looked right at me and said, "Thanks, dude, for sticking by me."      "No problem." I replied and with that the whole incident made sense. I remembered when I felt like quitting wrestling because I was losing every match and my dad telling me, "Sometimes it's not about winning or losing or what other people think".        Rick threw the iodine soaked gauze into the trash can and said, "I think I'll go lie down for a while. Maybe after school tomorrow we can hang out and listen to music."      "Sounds good, I'll see you tomorrow" and I left.

Fight at the Bag O Chicken(Part 1)

In 1964 I transferred from a small private school to a huge public school in the St. Louis suburbs. McClure High School had over 3,000 students in grades ten through twelve. My childhood friend, Paul, was quite popular at the school, which helped me make friends easily. The public school had all types of students. We didn’t divide up into as many categories as the students do today, but one category of kids we called Hoods or Greasers. They hung out and supported each other similar to the gangs of today. They didn’t participate in school clubs or functions and dressed like the cast from a James Dean movie. I learned early not to mess with the Hoods because most were experienced fighters. I had never been in a fight, but my new friend Rick had.
One fall afternoon, when I was washing my parents’ car, a Studebaker Lark came screaming up the street, swerved over toward my house and came to an abrupt halt at the end of the driveway where I stood, chamois in hand.
"Hey Dude, my name's Rick. My family just moved in up the street."
The driver was thin and handsome with curly brown hair. He sat hunched over the steering wheel of the boxy little car as if daring the world to challenge him to something. He invited me to come over to his house and listen to music. I accepted and soon discovered that we were both passionate about the same music, especially the Rolling Stones.
Rick and I began riding the bus together to and from school every day. One afternoon after the final bell, I got to the bus early and was sitting waiting for Rick when I noticed a small crowd of students standing in a circle outside the classroom building. This usually meant a fight, so I got off the bus to see what was going on. In the center of the circle was one of my friends, Doug, arguing with a Greaser whom I didn’t know. The argument grew louder and the Greaser pushed Doug so hard that he stumbled backward and fell, his school books scattering on the ground. Before Doug had a chance to get up, into the circle stepped Rick. He reached down and helped Doug to his feet, then walked right up to the Greaser and said, “You want to fight somebody?”
The greaser backed up, “Hey man, this is between me and him and has nothing to do with you.”
Rick didn’t say anything more but just stood there between the Greaser and Doug. It was obvious, he wasn’t about to move out of the way. Then a big strong looking guy entered the circle. His name was Dave Chadwick and everyone knew he was the head Greaser. Chadwick put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, whispered something in his ear and they both turned around to leave. But before exiting the circle, Chadwick turned back and gave Rick an intense look. The whole thing was over in a matter of minutes. All the students dispersed and climbed into the yellow buses lined up on the roadway.When Rick slid into the seat beside me, I asked him why he got involved.
“That guy’s a jerk. He’s always asking for trouble and besides I know Doug is a friend of yours.”
We sat quietly on the bus ride home. I felt guilty.  It didn’t even occur to me to step in and defend Doug. If I would have, that Greaser would have beat the crap out of me and then finished off Doug.
My friends thought Rick was a Greaser and the Greasers thought he was one of us, but he was neither. Rick didn’t fit into any category and he didn’t seem to care what any of them thought. He was dating a girl named Cathy who was definitely from the Greaser side. She wore a lot of makeup and her skirts were slightly shorter than the rules allowed. Rumor was that Cathy used to date Chadwick and was only going out with Rick to make Chadwick jealous. I asked Rick about that and he said, “People like to talk.”
On Saturday Rick and I were at his house listening to music, he told me that Cathy had been harassed by some of Chadwick’s guys. They called her a slut and a traitor for dating Rick.
“I’m going to have to fight Chadwick,” he said.
“What are you nuts? Chadwick is the toughest guy at school.” I tried to dissuade him, but he didn’t respond. He stood up, went over the telephone and called Chadwick’s number. I heard him say, “Be sure to tell him to meet me by the Bag O Chicken tomorrow after school.”
By lunch break the next day news of the fight had spread all over school. Some of my friends made comments like "So your buddy's finally decided to commit suicide huh?" or "Which hospital are you going to take your friend to." Even kids I didn't know made negative comments to me in the hall. Paul knew Chadwick pretty well and liked him. Their lockers were right next to each other. Paul never talked badly to me about Rick. He knew he was my friend and respected that. But at lunch he told me in private. "You know Chadwick is going to annihilate Rick."
"Well don't be so sure about that." I said defensively.
Paul thought it was foolish and unnecessary for Rick to challenge him in the first place and I kind of agreed with him.
I was worried for the rest of the school day. Everyone was talking about the fight. I stopped Rick in the hall and asked him if he was still going through with it. He said he was. I tried to convince him that it wasn’t too late to pull out, but we both knew it was. I resigned myself to the inevitable. After school I’ll drive Rick over to the Bag O Chicken and hope for the best.

Passionate About Pole Vaulting

I haven’t been passionate about too many things in my life, but when I was in high school, I developed a passion for pole vaulting. I thought it was the most beautiful sport. It took both strength and finesse. In the spring of our freshman year, my friend Jim and I decided to show up after school for track practice and try out for pole vaulting. To our surprise the coach said there wasn’t anyone else interested in it, so we were shoe-ins. Both Jim and I were “day-students” at Principia, a private Christian Science school in St. Louis. Most of the students were from other parts of the country and boarded in dormitories at the school. With few exceptions, day students were not considered as “cool” as boarders. My sister Karen was one of the exceptions. She was athletic and played on many of the girls’ sports teams. When she was a senior and I was a freshman, she was a cheerleader. I became known as “Karen’s little brother”, which to me was not a bad thing. At the time I hoped that some coolness went along with the title, but I had my doubts. I weighed 89 pounds was skinny and had big ears. Jim was big and strong, had short blond hair, and played the banjo. He and his friend Dick performed bluegrass at some of our school functions. Jim turned me on to bluegrass, especially the music of Flatt and Scrugs. He didn’t seem to care whether anyone thought he was cool or not. I admired him for that but still wanted to be cool. On one end of the track field was a sawdust pit surrounded by hay bales with an asphalt runway leading up to it. The school supplied Jim and me with aluminum poles. Mine was red and silver and Jim’s was all silver. These poles had absolutely no flexibility. That first season we spent practicing running down the runway, jabbing the pole into a wedge-shaped box and just prior to becoming airborne, hoping our arms didn’t rip out of their sockets. We pulled and wrestled our way up and over the bar, not really knowing what we were doing. We had fun learning by trial and error. We were thrilled to clear the bar set at six or seven feet. During one afternoon practice I landed on a sharp piece of wood in the pit. It poked through my tennis shoe and into my foot. The next day I noticed a red line running up the side of my leg. Instead of taking me to our doctor, my parents decided to use a Christian Science Practitioner. I was skeptical and I think my parents, being new to this religion, were as well. The practitioner was a friendly old lady. Sitting across from me in her living room, she read out loud passages from the Bible and Science and Health. She told me I couldn’t be hurt or injured because God is perfect and I was God’s perfect spiritual reflection. I wanted to tell her “but my foot hurts like hell” but didn’t. The whole time I was thinking, I wish they would have taken me to the doctor. The next morning when I woke up and looked at my leg the red line had vanished and the red inflamed puncture wound was now a barely perceptible hole in my foot. I touched it. No more pain. Maybe that little old lady knew what she was doing. I was able to return and finish out the track season. Sophomore year everything changed. The sawdust pit had been replaced with big chunks of foam rubber. An older boy named Pete helped to coach Jim and me several times a week. He pole vaulted at Principia College and was knowledgeable about the sport. He brought his own fiber glass pole and wore special shoes with spikes on the front. Pete taught us the techniques of the sport, like when running down the runway, lift your knees high and build up as much speed up as possible, hold the pole close to your side and swing your elbow back and forth in the rhythm of your steps, before planting the pole in the box, lift it straight over you head. Pete was patient and supportive and his techniques helped immensely. Coach asked Jim and me if we would purchase our own fiber glass poles and spikes. We both enthusiastically said we would. We felt like we were entering the big leagues. With Pete coaching us, we didn’t just practice vaulting over and over like the year before. We ran laps with the long distance guys and did wind sprints with the sprinters. We climbed up and down the rope in the gym without using our legs and jumped on the trampoline to practice twisting and landing on our backs. We lifted weights to strengthen our upper bodies. When we finally got our fiber glass poles, we meticulously wrapped grip tape around the area where our hands would hold. We rubbed our hands with some sort of white powder before each jump so they wouldn’t slip. Vaulting with the new poles was tricky. It was all about timing your jump with the bending of the pole. Pete told us to lay back and ride the pole, allowing it to complete its bend before flinging our bodies up into the air. Jim got the hang of it before I did. I was being flung all over the place, but soon learned to let the pole shoot me up and not out. By the end of our sophomore year, Jim was clearing 10’ 6” consistently and I was clearing 9 and sometimes 9’6”. We often placed first and second at track meets with other schools. Junior year a guy named Bruce showed up for practice with a fiber glass pole. He was tall, muscular and good looking. He said he’d never pole vaulted before, but thought it might be fun. Pete was no longer there to help us, so Jim and I tried to impart some of his knowledge to Bruce, but Bruce said he wanted to do it his own way. I was now vaulting over 10’ and in only a few weeks of practice Bruce passed me by and was vaulting 10’6”. Jim was closing in on 12’ at that time. At the track meets, Jim usually got first place, Bruce got second and sometimes I got third. Bruce thought I was a loser and one day he told me so. He dated the cutest girls in school and I was still afraid to ask a girl out. He was friends with the coolest kids and I had only one school friend, Jim, whom I think Bruce thought was a loser too. Jim could have beaten the crap out of Bruce and I secretly wanted him to, but Jim had no intention of doing this and didn’t seem to care what Bruce thought. Bruce never did vault higher than Jim who by the end of our junior year was clearing 13’. He won match after match. Bruce cleared twelve feet a few times and I made it over 11’ once. I changed schools for my senior year and started attending McClure High School, which was the local public school. I loved my new school and the friends I made there, but wasn’t allowed to participate in team sports because I was a new transfer. My pole vaulting career was over. Jim went on to improve in his senior year and Bruce dropped out. I think he lost interest or maybe he was frustrated because he could never beat Jim. Thinking back on those times, I remember how much I loved pole vaulting with my friend Jim and what an asshole Bruce was.