The sheik is Mike. He went by Rat but I never called him that because I thought it was mocking. Well, of course it was. Plus, that was his nick name! He had certain features. Yet there he is, a sheik.
The sheik is Mike. He went by Rat but I never called him that because I thought it was mocking. Well, of course it was. He had certain features. Yet there he is, a sheik. Girls loved him but none ever wanted to become his. He was really big. I miss him. He gave me a ride to school so many mornings in his '66 Mustang; beige with blue interior. Some years later that car rotted away in his back yard. Mike never did though. Rot away, I mean. He became a snack merchant and vending machine mogul. He was a pretty big guy into his 60's. I was amazed he could pull it off so long. Loved hockey to his core.
I'll never forget you Mike.
The sheik is Mike. He went by Rat but I never called him that because I thought it was mocking. Well, of course it was. He had certain features. Yet there he is, a sheik. Girls loved him but none ever wanted to become his. He was really big. I miss him. He gave me a ride to school so many mornings in his '66 Mustang; beige with blue interior. Some years later that car rotted away in his back yard. Mike never did though. Rot away, I mean. He became a snack merchant and vending machine mogul. He was a pretty big guy into his 60's. I was amazed he could pull it off so long. Loved hockey to his core. Died alone and days before he was discovered dead. Love you boy!
And since I'm telling tales, I was here, I mean in Oakland Coliseum, 80,000 souls. By far the largest crowd I've ever been in. On the field at the front to see and hear UFO, Gary Wright, Fleetwood Mac, and Peter Frampton. This music is from that tour. '75-'76. Somewhere in there. What a thing to have thinged. Now I'm old enough to look back on these things I tell and wonder, "was that really me? Was I really there?" We all have our "things". I hear many of them here at Radio Paradise and tell many of mine and feel connected to all my "things" because of it. There seems to be music associations all around me. They help keep me sane. Now, if I can just hone in on some focus.
Around this very time 46 years ago in Germany I was wearing olive drab and black boots when an event happened during a delightful snowball fight with a few of the fellers I served with during the portion of war when it was called "cold". Cold it was. Taking cover behind a dumpster I prepared a nice morsel of ammunition and peered out to locate a potential victim, and with no reaction time was plastered literally between the eyes with a perfect shot. Damn it hit me hard! Ice? I staggered back and put my hand to my face as blood spurted onto the snow covered ground around me. I kept consciousness and yelled out "what the hell was that!, and as I staggered someone grabbed me. The guys were laughing and crazy like we were, not yet knowing what had happened. In the excitement the fight was continuing as there must have been a dozen taking part, but two grabbed me and put me in a jeep and off to the infirmary a couple of miles away.17 stiches closed the cross-shaped hole between my eyes. Quite the sight two weeks later as both my eyes were black blue and purple. After returning I went to the place where I was hit to investigate, and found the bloody area in the snow and remnants of the grenade that exploded my face. It was packed around a chunk of concrete that weighs in the neighborhood of 2 pounds. Yes, it's large. It had blood on the striking edge so there was no doubt. Also there was no doubt who threw it. I confronted him and he admitted it was a stupid thing and begged forgiveness. I granted it and never told even though, being a military culture, there was a short investigation. That chunk of concrete sits on my desk painted gold. Little did I realize at the time that I would have a scar between my eyes just like my Father's that he received when he was a boy from the end of a bicycle handlebar, except his looked like a clock and mine a cross. Time has faded the scar somewhat, but not the memories. My Father. Clocks. Crosses. Blood. Cold wars.
wowser
Gives "lines on my face" a whole other dimension, doesn't it? Rowdy get ya every time.
Around this very time 46 years ago in Germany I was wearing olive drab and black boots when an event happened during a delightful
snowball fight with a few of the fellers I served with during the portion of war when it was called "cold".
Cold it was. Taking cover behind a dumpster I prepared a nice morsel of ammunition and peered out to
locate a potential victim, and with no reaction time was plastered literally between the eyes with a perfect shot.
Damn it hit me hard! Ice? I staggered back and put my hand to my face as blood spurted onto the snow covered ground around me. I kept consciousness and yelled out "what the hell was that!, and as I staggered someone grabbed me. The guys were laughing and crazy like we were, not yet knowing what had happened.
In the excitement the fight was continuing as there must have been a dozen taking part, but two grabbed me and put me in a jeep and off to the infirmary a couple of miles away.17 stiches closed the cross-shaped hole between my eyes. Quite the sight two weeks later as both my eyes were black blue and purple.
After returning I went to the place where I was hit to investigate, and found the bloody area in the snow and remnants of the grenade that exploded my face. It was packed around a chunk of concrete that weighs in the neighborhood of 2 pounds. Yes, it's large. It had blood on the striking edge so there was no doubt.
Also there was no doubt who threw it. I confronted him and he admitted it was a stupid thing and begged forgiveness. I granted it and never told even though, being a military culture, there was a short investigation.
That chunk of concrete sits on my desk painted gold. Little did I realize at the time that I would have a scar between my eyes just like my Father's that he received when he was a boy from the end of a bicycle handlebar, except his looked like a clock and mine a cross.
Time has faded the scar somewhat, but not the memories. My Father. Clocks. Crosses. Blood. Cold wars.
Around this very time 46 years ago in Germany I was wearing olive drab and black boots when an event happened during a delightful snowball fight with a few of the fellers I served with during the portion of war when it was called "cold". Cold it was. Taking cover behind a dumpster I prepared a nice morsel of ammunition and peered out to locate a potential victim, and with no reaction time was plastered literally between the eyes with a perfect shot. Damn it hit me hard! Ice? I staggered back and put my hand to my face as blood spurted onto the snow covered ground around me. I kept consciousness and yelled out "what the hell was that!, and as I staggered someone grabbed me. The guys were laughing and crazy like we were, not yet knowing what had happened.
In the excitement the fight was continuing as there must have been a dozen taking part, but two grabbed me and put me in a jeep and off to the infirmary a couple of miles away.17 stiches closed the cross-shaped hole between my eyes. Quite the sight two weeks later as both my eyes were black blue and purple.
After returning I went to the place where I was hit to investigate, and found the bloody area in the snow and remnants of the grenade that exploded my face. It was packed around a chunk of concrete that weighs in the neighborhood of 2 pounds. Yes, it's large. It had blood on the striking edge so there was no doubt. Also there was no doubt who threw it. I confronted him and he admitted it was a stupid thing and begged forgiveness. I granted it and never told even though, being a military culture, there was a short investigation.
That chunk of concrete sits on my desk painted gold. Little did I realize at the time that I would have a scar between my eyes just like my Father's that he received when he was a boy from the end of a bicycle handlebar, except his looked like a clock and mine a cross.
Time has faded the scar somewhat, but not the memories. My Father. Clocks. Crosses. Blood. Cold wars.
...continued... Even the vehicles I borrowed, apparently. David's van was a green 1970 Chevy cargo with a big Afro sticker on the side; black, red and green. (Right On Right On. Power To The People). I was going to Germany in a week or so and he was going to Ft Bragg a month later. That's Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I was going to stop at my lovely P&M's in Greensboro for a week first, but I didn't know how to get my motorcycle and records, etc. relocated with me. Renting something was out of an E-4's budget. (about $380 mo. before taxes) Enter David with the idea that I should drive his van if I put new tires on and got a tune up. That way he could fly to Greensboro and pick up the van and drive down to Bragg. Made sense to me.
I loaded it up with my belongings and a friends cat I was to drop off in Tennessee. The cat had been transferred earlier with Oscar and family but it ran away on moving day so his wife begged me to find her and bring along. How the heck did we do things back then with just landlines? Anyhow I hit the late November road, almost 46 years ago now, adventures abounding. Dangling modifiers in range. Whew. First I drove down to Anaheim to see old Mick with his crazy self and Honorable Discharge. Then east the next morning, sun rising. I listened to lots of radio and my KFAT / KLRB cassettes for the next 3 days. It's 1976 and I'm 21 years old. Not sure how old the kitty was.
By December 23rd I was in Butzbach FRG, going with my new Battery Commander, Captain Booterbaugh, to a tree farm to cut a Christmas tree for the orderly room. The unit was down in Grafenwöhr. Booterbaugh was days away from retiring from this man's army. I had whiplash.
In 1978 I stood before the ovens at Dachau and sensed an overwhelming deep sadness that I couldn't process. I did not take any photographs. I was profoundly moved...
I don't even know who you are anymore. 