The Street Vendor

A lifetime ago I used to walk to Woolworth’s Five and Dime on Friday night and wait on my mother to finish cutting window blinds. She always stopped at the corner of Colorado and Maringo Streets to by ready-to-eat tamales from the street vendor. They were the size of today’s pound hamburger roll and cost five cents (It was 1945).

Fast forward 72 years….Barb made tamale pie for lunch today using cornmeal, chicken, brown sugar, and mustard seed. The first bite sent me back to the vendor man.

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Once Again September Has Come and Gone

This year the trees answering their DNA memories are dropping their leaves in spite of an extra warm autumn. It’s time to give up what has been cherished all summer long. Some things are not so willingly released. The presence of our dog, Mr. Black, is one case in point.

He came to us from a Texas animal shelter as a $10 dog. And he stated low maintenance for more than a decade. We were honored to be his guardians for nearly 15 years. During that time he became a full-fledged member of our family with privileges given thereof.

The gleaming things on his color are bells. He rang them to gain our attention when the need arose.

Rocking Horses

In our neighborhood is a need for children’s toys. So I’ve begun doing what little I can to bring joy to little ones using a jig saw and sand paper, paint, and patience..

I built a couple dozen while we lived in Texas, so this isn’t a shot in the dark. There are seven pieces in all. I have them cut out.  The photo is proof of progress. I should have this one ready by Wednesday and ready for deliver. More pictures coming.

It’s fun, but I’m tired.

Whatever It Took To Save Lives

From the Internet

Whatever It Took To Save Lives

My American Legion magazine arrived in my mailbox today. Though it covers many subjects the one that interested me most was the story of a Vietnam Nurse. She served in what was called MASH during Korea. Her story was not much different from a book I read many years ago. Even though her story impacted me, I I’ve long since forgotten the title. If you were to ask me, in a single sentence, what I took away from the book, it was that after Korea five years passed before she could eat beef.

I’m an air force veteran who served ten years active duty. No, I’m not a combat veteran. I don’t have any metals, ribbons, war stories, or battlefield injuries. I was an aircraft maintainer – airborne communications-navigation.

My first duty station after boot camp and then a year-long electronic education in avionics was Charleston AFB, South Carolina. My job was to maintain aircraft flying troops to and from Europe, Africa, South America, etc.. But about twice each week an air evacuation plane – a hospital flight – arrived from Germany with injured troops bound for Walter-Reed.

The aircraft commander always called ahead with his safety-of-flight problems and we were issued priority repair orders. Fix it as quickly as possible. Each patient had his own nurse and the atmosphere in the fuselage was absolute silence, with the exception of the sound of the ground power unit.

The aircraft I was most often assigned to was the C-121 – Super Connie – and some my equipment was located in the baggage area below the floor. A trapdoor gave access to this super-hot area beneath the floor we called the Hell Hole. Often I had to have the medic move a gurney wheel far enough to gain access.

Focus

I was four when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and Gabrial Heatter shared his radio news hour with FDR. Most of the words the president spoke were beyond my vocabulary. I didn’t even fully comprehend why my four uncles responded to their draft notices. But I understood rationing of food.

We had no Kix, Cheerios, Lucky Charms, or Shredded Wheat shot from Cannons (so the commercial claimed). Instead we had the un-rationed oatmeal, porridge, gruel – call it what you like. I consumed my share. When the thought of it with molasses for sweetener turned my stomach I could have crackers and milk or bread and milk.

Today, 2017, a bowl of either brings my young childhood back into sharp focus.

The Coffee Shop

Brad lives alone in a Chicago studio apartment some fourteen blocks from his favorite haunt, Tony’s 105th Street Coffee House. Many folks call it a Starbucks look alike. Brad used to call them on it, reminding them that Tony Sabatto opened here fifty years before Starbucks came along. But no one listens. Its hopeless.

He and Tony discussed a Chicago coffee house many times while in  foxholes during the big war. Of course, Brad considered it a pipe dream. It was something fot Tony to cling to. That was okay. Talking about The Loop and The El seemed to make life a little more bearable. Sometimes he even forgot about his wet socks and K-rations in that cold, muddy foxhole.

Eventually, the war ended and Tony made good on his coffee dream, opening at a 105th Street address on New Year’s Day, 1946. Folks who had stayed on the homefront and dwelt with coffee rationing poured in the door.

Though coffee was free until eleven o’clock, few took, advantage of Tony’s generous offer. Some even paid double.

More than sixty years had passed since that day. Brad’s leg, the one that was wounded in Europe in 1942 is bothering him more these days and his trips to the 105th Street Coffee House are less frequent, reduced to weekly occasions or when he could manage the fare on the El.

This morning, however, Brad awoke with a start. He’d heard Tony call his name. He stared at the dark ceiling trying to separate fact from fiction, but he couldn’t. It seemed too real. The clock indicated it was almost straight up four. Tony would open at five. He must go check on his friend.

Dressing for the frigid Lake Michigan wind, he hurried down the three flights of stairs and flagged a cab. He was rapping on the front door in ten minutes.

“I was trying to send someone to fetch you. He’s on a cot in the back room, Brad,” said Tony’s daughter, pointing and then locking the door behind him.

Tony’s complexion was ashen. His breathing was shallow and rapid. But he managed a faint smile and then moved his lips. Brad leaned in close to listen and grabbed hold of his hand.

“We could have used a cup of this java back there in those foxholes, huh?” whispered Tony.

Before Brad could respond Tony was gone.

That Transmitter Could Have been Mine

From Internet

Not the same transmitter, but close.

Dave, was my father’s age, and a casual friend. We often met at the Braille Cafe for lunch. Dave was a Scotsman. He was forever telling me about the Scottish Clans and “slinging the haggis”. In time, the conversation always turned to radio, rehashing his experiences in the Army Signal Corps during World War II.

While we chatted another mutual friend, Pete, joined us. He, too, was a long-time ham, long enough to recall the government taking away the amateur radio bands during World War Two. And then the two of them urged me to earn my novice license.

The theory is okay, but Morse code is difficult for me,” I complained.

That’s what make Morse unique. It is difficult to learn. It’s not like someone overhearing a telephone conversation. Few understand the exchange.

Between the two of them, I caved. The following evening I dropped by Dave’s radio shack where he made a practice tape, dits and dahs at a very slow speed.

Two weeks later, the three of us gathered at Dave’s dinner table where they administered an ARRL approved test. An hour later, scoring with a passing grade on both theory and code, I was admitted to the ranks as an amateur radio operator. Of course, I enjoyed limited privileges – power output not to exceed 250 Watts, Morse only on portions of the 80-, 40-, 15-, and 10-meter bands. Actually, a very small segment of 10-meter allowed a novice to operate on single sideband. But I didn’t own a transmitter, so 10-meter or no, it made little difference to me.

Do you own a receiver?” asked Dave after we were finished.

Yes, I have a receiver.”

How about a transmitter?”

No, I don’t own a Transmitter.”

He said nothing more, but as I was leaving he followed me to the driveway and then asked me to wait. A few minutes later he reappeared pushing a hand truck bearing a transmitter the size of a foot locker.

This transmitter is from a World War II battleship and in its original condition. You will have to convert the input power over to 117 VAC. It’s still set for military frequencies. You will have to figure out how to make it work on the ham bands. It’s yours, if you want it. You’ll have to take the hand truck too. It’s heavy.

I turned him down. And now, after thirty years have passed, I realize the historical value of the transmitter Dave was offering me.

The realization came after my contact with a retired coast guard radio operator and reading experiences this man shared while he operated a powerful land based radio.

In one instance he received a distress call from a ship that was sinking. After learning his coordinates he put out a call for any ship that could come to the rescue. He found one that could be on the scene in four hours.

How long do we have?” the coast guardsmen asked.

Captain says two hours.”

There was nothing more could be done, so I stayed on frequency with him, chatting and taking personal message to family members and friends. I stayed with him until the radio room was flooded.”

I wondered if that transmitter resembled the one Dave offered me.

The only possible answer was to visit The USS Lexington which is open to the public at Corpus Christi,Texas. The Lexington manager responded to my email, informing me the radio room was not part of the tour.

Philip, the editor of K9YA Telegrah, a Chicago Radio Publication, authorised me to visit the USS Lexington on the Telegraph’s behalf. Their response was positive. They would provide an escort.

Three tall ladders stood between the hanger deck and the radio room. The only thing my escort knew about the radio room was where to find the door key and the light switch.

The room measured about eight by fourteen feet. Though the radios had long since been removed there was a panel in which about one hundred phone Jacks were mounted. Each jack was accompanied by a frequency. My escort couldn’t tell me the purpose, so I still don’t know if each jack provided a specific notch filter for that frequency, or what.

While there I searched for an exit. There was only one way out – the way I had come in. A sobering conclusion.

The radio operator is the last hope for a sinking ship. Is he obligated like the captain? I’m asking.

How I wish I’d taken Dave’s offer.

Big

This morning my subject well is empty. There is nothing that needs saying. So I went back to basics. I conducted a random word search in the first book I could lay my hands on:  Lee, the last years. I failed to note the page that fell open. I only remember the word my finger pointed to: BIG.

The year is 1956, the month is October, the day is 15. I’d just enlisted in the air force, taken my oath, and boarded a train bound to Texas. Though second thought were no longer an option I still wondered what I’d left myself get into.

I was among strangers, standing in the coach waiting for the train to leave the station when perhaps the largest man I’d ever see. suggested we should go to the last car and wave goodbye to the folks. I didn’t have any folks to wave to, but I went along just the same.

The train began moving the moment I closed the door behind us. Everyone, my fellow enlistees and people standing on the platform, were all waving and shouting farewells back and forth when the conductor joined us.

A conductor of a Kansas City Southern Passenger Train probably had to have many years in his wake. He certainly fit the image.

“Hey!” he shouted, his voice that of a very old person, “you can’t be out here.”

We all turned and we probably would have silently obeyed, but the big man was not accustomed to bending to another man’s will.

“Wadda you mean we can’t be out here?” he shouted down at the top of his head.

Without a doubt, the conductor had faced similar situations, so instead of responding, he turned on his heel and reentered the coach.

Without another word we followed, the young giant trailing behind.