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Post by Gene on Jan 2, 2009 15:42:50 GMT 9
i'd like to tell my fathers story... seeing it in print helps ease the pain that even after 3 years i still feel.. maybe this is a way of showing the pride i'v always had.
please feel free to tell you dads story...military or civilian, he was your Dad.
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Post by Gene on Jan 2, 2009 15:46:20 GMT 9
My Dad,
Willard Chester Johnson was born 26, Nov. 1921 in Medicine Lake, Montana. His mother was the town schoolteacher and his dad was a business college graduate from Wisconsin who came west to make his fortune. His dad Julius O. helped found the town of Medicine Lake and had a ranch, he owned the general store and the John Deere dealership. He died in a line shack on the ranch of monoxide poisoning when the flue in the stove froze over. Dad was 17 at the time. His mother, Esther Busch Johnson just left town that same year leaving dad and an older sister and younger brother to fend for them selves . A neighboring rancher took them in. Dad graduated high school and hobo’ed west to Washington finding a job in Cosmopolis in a door factory. When Pearl Harbor was attacked Dad went back to Montana and joined the army. They sent him right back to Ft. Lewis Wa. There he was selected for the army air corps. He went to Texas for training as a radio operator/gunner. He was assigned to an A 20 Havoc attack bomber outfit in north Africa. He spent the war chasing Rommel around the desert. After the surrender he was stationed in occupied Germany at an airbase near Stuttgart. There he met the woman who was to become my mother. Three years later they were allowed to marry. Upon his rotation back to the states they were assigned to Great Falls AFB, Montana. There he trained as a Mechanic on the P 51. I was born in the base hospital and he had to leave on a years tour in Iceland. When he came back we went to Dover AFB. From there it was West Palm Beach AFB, Florida. 3 years later we went to Charleston AFB,S.C. by now he was trained as a Flight engineer on C 124s. we spent 3 years at Hickam AFB and finally came to rest at McChord AFB. Wa. At McChord he went back to school one more time and brought the second C141 assigned to the base. He retired in ’72 with 30 years 9 months and 28 days of service. His service started in the 2nd world war, he was part of the Berlin Airlift, flew into Japan to support the Korean conflict and into Viet Nam from ’65 thru ’72. He retired at age 50 at the rank of senior master sergent. He never went back to work. He volunteered at the local MARS radio station at McChord He helped plan communication backups for emergency contingencies and trained wing personnel. When computers arrived on the scene he was one of the first to recognize their value in communication. His hobbies stemmed from his training as a radio operator and he loved the computer as a tool in the radio field. At 70 he started getting sick and was diagnosed with copd. He got 100% disability and the Veterans Administration took good care of him medically. He died at Madian Army Hospital 33 years after his retirement just shy of his 84th birthday. I love him very much. He was there when I needed him. When they blow retreat at the base I can hear that bugle blowing from work and at my house… I take that time to think of him and all those who have passed. God bless them all.
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Post by Mark O on Jan 2, 2009 16:13:36 GMT 9
Gene, that was a great post. I just don't know what to say.
Well, the part where you said your dad never went back to work after he retired from the USAF, well, I don't agree. It sure sounds like he did a lot, for a lot of people. That was the culture of his generation and I don't think any of us can do enough to thank them.
Thank you so much for sharing that with us.
Mark
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Post by adart on Jan 3, 2009 5:16:41 GMT 9
My Father passed away in the mid 70s. It gets easier to reminisce of past times, but there is still a big void in my heart. My Father was the reason I enlisted in the Air Force. He was and still is my main man!!! He was a great guy and is missed very much to this day
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Post by Gene on Jan 3, 2009 7:54:00 GMT 9
i can feel what you are saying.i always tried just a little harder at everything i did, just for him..i think it worked out pretty good. i didn't mean to imply that dad never worked after retirement.he put in a lot of hours promoting MARS and implimenting a secondary comm system for the wings O-plan.. i just meant that he never applied for another paying job... the way i see it, once you've put in your 20, there still a whole new career world out there . i see it all the time at work... a tsgt or msgt will retire from the a.f. w/20 and 2 weeks later he's a gs-09 or better working for another 20... but, after you put in 30, well, now your 50 plus years old, and another 20 year carrer would put you into your 70's... right now i'v got 35 years in civil service,but i didn't star til i was 24...im looking at retireing in 1 maybe 2 more years, which will put me in my 60's.. after i pull the plug, i'd like to donate time to the base museum. i like being around the a/c i grew up with, and, i'v always been interested in the way the a.f. influenced world history...thanks again for sharing!
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Post by Bullhunter on Jan 3, 2009 10:23:54 GMT 9
Gene, you and your Dad were very bless that you had eachother until he was 84 years old. I was not as blessed. My Dad's life was cut short at the age of 70 years old. It's a long tragic story and won't take the time now to type it all out. I will tell you that one day in 1988 while on active duty at McChord AFB I was ordered to report to my first Sgt & CO. I was sure that I was introuble for some reason. I reported and learned the trouble was much worse than I could have ever thought. I was given the details of a RED CROSS message that stated that my Dad was requesting my assistance ASAP as my younger brother was abusing him and threating his life. I quickly flew home and observed my brother and it was clear that he was abusing drugs as my cousin and Uncle made me privy to disturbing details. My brother had verbally threatened his life, hit him in the head with a coffee cup, and terrorised him and my Uncle and his wife who live accross the road on the farm property. This had been going on for months. One night while I was there my brother busted into the house by breaking in the door. My Dad and I had called the PA State Police for help about 8 times, between the breakin and about 4:30AM. The one state police car was stuck at a fatality traffic accident and we were on our own. During them weeeee early morning hours my Dad and I received verbal and physical abuse by a mad person under the influnce of drugs including I'm sure PCP. At one point my brother was yelling and screaming in my face while I was sitting in a chair. I got sick of it and gently pushed him back with the palm of my hand not wanting to trigger any violence. I was shocked when my brother stumbled backwards and fell. My brother filled with rage started to get up and verbally threatened me with physical injuries. My Dad who had also been sitting got up and stepped between us. In a flash of a second my younger brother got him in a headlock. As I got up to assist my Dad my brother released him. My Dad took a few steps back and then is jaw shook and he fell to the floor with a massive heart attack. I called the emergany number again for medical help and police response and was infored both were inroute. I got my uncle and did CPR but he was gone to be with our Lord. The ambulance took my Dad away and my Uncle and I were left alone again with my brother. My brother picked up a double-bladed axe and said it was time to take us out. I figured at that moment my uncle and I would shortly be join my Dad and the Lord. Just then the PA State Police patrol cruiser pulled into the yard with its spotlight on. They jumped out and ordered my brother to drop the axe. After getting statements from my uncle and I the police arrested my brother for involuntary manslaughter. It went to trial with dozens of people testofing against my brother about threats my brother made. One state police office even testofied my brother made threats against him and his family. A year later he was busted for drug used, sale, and trafficing and spent a year in the State Pen. I'm in the process of writting a book about my growing up on the farm, 24 years in the USAF, and retirement. This story is one chapter complete with newspaper reports and court transcripts. I've said to much now and it has an effect me reliving this tragic incident. My Dad survived WWII and 30 plus years working railroad communications. Only to loose his life in a domestic incident in his kitchen. Salute for my Dad who never had a negative word about anyone. Next post will be about his military service.
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Post by Jim Scanlon (deceased) on Jan 3, 2009 10:37:05 GMT 9
Thank you, Bullhunter, for sharing that sad part of your life. It must have been very difficult for you to put it on the forum. I pray the Lord will give you His peace and that as you finish your book all the feelings you have will be able to be put on the printed page. Looking forward to the story of your dad's time of service.
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Post by Gene on Jan 3, 2009 12:59:04 GMT 9
bullhunter, "SALUTE" to your dad!! drugs and alcohol have done more to hurt the family than all the wars...your right, i was lucky to have my dad for as long i did... thank you for sharing...i hope to hear more. , Gene
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Post by lindel on Jan 3, 2009 13:37:12 GMT 9
bullhunter, I don't have words to describe what I feel for your loss and the tradgedy surrounding it.
I was blessed with a father that loved his family very much. He never served, tho he tried many times during WWII. He was medically unable, because his blood pressure was too low.
He spent the war working for the defense department, and help build the plant in Washington that built the first A-bombs.
Dad was a carpenter, welder, bricklayer, tile contractor (owned his own tile setting business for many years), electrician, etc. There wasn't anything in the construction business that he didn't do and do well. I only wish I'd gotten some of those abilities. He was a wizard when it came to his hands.
He was also a pilot, both prop and sailplane, and he also built several sailplanes. Google the EPB-1 (aka Flying Plank), and you'll learn about some of his handiwork. He was usually the test pilot too. In large part, he is what gave me my love of airplanes.
We lost him to Alzhiemers in 99. Like most that have lost a loved one, there's a big empty spot there now. I was never able to tell him how much he meant to me, mainly because the shell that held Dad was empty long before the body realized there wasn't anyone there anymore.
I remember the good times more than the illness, and there were a lot of good times. Those of you that still have your parents, let em know how you feel before it's too late. I can't stress that enough.
bullhunter, you'll be in my prayers tonight. God Bless.
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Post by Bullhunter on Jan 3, 2009 16:15:42 GMT 9
Thank-you Gene, Jim, & Lindel. For those kind works.
I have about 180 pages of my book done so it will be fairly easy for me to copy and past a few pieces from it into this thread.
Following is a very brief section out of one of the chapters. Now that Christmas has just passed its fitting that I share this part. And it's far from depressing like my last post.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The experiences I went through as a youngster on the farm are just priceless. The freedoms, responsibilities, and trusts given to me at such a young age surely matured me quicker. I believe that is one reason I have done so well going through life.
As I mentioned, my Dad would allow me to miss school the first two days of deer hunting season each year in Pennsylvania. I always knew I would hunt with my relatives. A few years before my first hunting trip, my Dad took me out exploring the several sections of property. The farm had 320 acres, my Dad’s old homestead had 57 acres, and there was a 32 acre patch on the River Hill Forest. My Uncle Clarence’s farm had maybe 300 plus acres, and my Cousin Marvin’s farm had more. I also had permission from all our neighbors to explore, hunt, & fish their lands.
Down on my Dad’s homestead we discovered 4 deer that had died during the winter months. Starvation is an awful way to die, and the sight brought tears to my eyes. My Dad explained that some winters can be very hard on wildlife, and that the deer will eat all the browse as high up as they can reach. This prevents the smaller deer from reaching food, and they die a very slow and awful death. During extreme winters my Dad would take his old Homelite chainsaw out into the farms forest and fall a few trees to create browsing food for the deer population. In the fall these trees were cut-up for firewood to heat our farmhouse. Nothing was ever wasted. Those outings are still fresh in my memory. The sound of that old chainsaw cutting into the tree trunks, and that cracking sound as they fell remains with me. The sight of the snow that sparkled and drifted on the winter’s cold breeze from the falling trees was a wonderful sight to witness
As the forest became still and quiet, we could look around through the woods and see deer moving toward the fallen trees. They were accustomed to this chainsaw sound and it was like a dinner bell to them. I admired my Dad not only as a great Father, and Sportsman, but as a good steward of the land and wildlife God had put on this earth. “Be thou diligent to know the state of thy flocks, and look well to thy herds. For riches are not for ever: and doth the crown endure to every generation?” Proverbs 27: 23-24
He went on to explain that in earlier times when he was a kid there were plenty of predators that kept the deer populations in balance. He explained that now it was the hunting seasons and sportsmen that helped balance out the deer populations. I knew I was always going to be a hunter, just as my Dad, Uncles, Cousins, and my Grandpa had been. Seeing those dead deer and hearing my Dad explain what had happened to them just reinforced my choice to hunt.
I hunted whitetail deer at a very young age. Used my grandpa’s old Winchester Rifle model 1894 which was a 32-40 caliber. It was a fairly heavy rifle so it did not have the kick or recoil of other rifles.
It was the first sporting rifle to sell over 7,000,000 units. The millionth Model 1894 was given to President Calvin Coolidge in 1927, the 1½ millionth rifle to President Harry S. Truman on May 8, 1948 and the two millionth unit was given to President Dwight Eisenhower in 1953.
Clearly, I remember harvesting my first deer. I was very young, too young to hunt by myself, but my Dad had trained me very well on guns, and gun safety. I was hunting alone on our farm in what people commonly refer to as a back forty. Stone ledges stretched along for about 100 yards in that area of our forest and I was below the ledges. I was a few miles from the house and barn. I’d just sat down to take a short rest when I heard a noise to my right. At about a range of 50 yards a very large whitetail deer trotted along in the crisp leaves and stopped. The deer looked behind at other deer following and they also stopped. The forest became silent. Slowly and quietly I spun around to my right and dropped down onto one knee as it rustled the dry leaves. The deer then turned my direction and we were looking at each other.
My heart was pounding and racing, but I remained still. I raised the rifle slowly and put the sights on the deer. Everything my Dad had taught me seemed to just fall into place, control my breathing, pick the spot to aim at, hold my breath, and slowly and gently squeeze the trigger.
Bang, cracked the rifle, and it echoed throughout the forest. I could smell the gun power and see just a tiny bit of gun smoke. The deer staggered slightly, then ran off, followed by maybe six or eight other deer. I started to walk toward where the deer was, disgusted with myself, because I did not get the deer. Suddenly our neighbor Mr. Adams who owned the farm next to us came walking the same way the deer had just come. He asked me if I had shot, and at what. I explained to him what had happened and that I was heading back to the house. He asked which way the deer went, and as I left for the house, he went off in the direction the deer fled.
Back at the house and my Dad asked how my hunting trip went. I explained it all to him and he then asked, “Did you followed the deer tracks.” I answered, “no,” he then suggested I get warmed up and something to eat and drink, as we would need to investigate the shooting and look for the deer.
It wasn’t too long afterwards that Mr. Adams knocked on our door. My Grandma opened the door and greeted him, he put his rifle on the porch, and came inside the kitchen. He backed up against the big wood stove to warm himself and informed my Dad that I had shot a very large deer, and it had only run maybe fifty yards and expired. My Dad look at me and said, “Good job” as I smiled with pride, but then he said, “You should have followed the deer’s tracks and found that deer.”
My Dad and I got one of the John Deere tractors and drove it out into the woods and we located the deer. My Dad remarked that it surely was a big deer and would fill a big section of our freezer. Then my Dad said, “You shot the deer – you gut and clean the deer.” I remember saying, “Me, I don’t know how.” He replied, “It’s time you got blood on your hands and learned.” He talked me through the whole task.
My Dad, Uncle, Cousins and I hunted the farm’s fields, hills, and forests for many years. I learned every rock, tree, and bend in the streams as a youngster. They are forever etched in my mind along with many of our hunting trips.
Some winters my Dad and I would work together pruning hemlock tree limbs. He would tie the limbs into bunches with bailing twine until we had a pick-up truck load. We then trucked them over across the Delaware River to a gentleman in Sullivan County NY who made Christmas wreaths out of them. I believe my Dad was well paid for them.
While we unloaded the hemlock bundles from the pick-up truck the gentleman would take the first bundle and use it to make us a wreath. This wreath always hung on the door of our farmhouse.
Snow was often on the trees, and when you pruned the branch, snow would fall on you from other branches. I always wore a hooded coat to prevent snow from going down the back of my neck. Cold snow down your back was not a pleasant thing to experience and I only learned that lesson once.
When ever I was walking in a store and saw Christmas wreaths for sale I’d think to myself, “Are those wreaths made from tree limbs from our farm, and did I cut them?” It gave me a very warm feeling inside that I just can’t explain.
In the winter months were snowy and cold. But when not deer hunting, working in the woods, or doing farm chores, my cousins and I often ride snowmobiles. There were hundreds of miles of dirt roads, lanes, and deer trails to travel. One day my cousin Robert went out to start his snowmobile. He turned it on and pulled the starter cord. As soon as the motor started the snowmobile took off without him. It crossed the yard and went through a bob-wired fence, continued across a harvested corn field, then vanished into the woods. This section of woods was a ravine and creek.
The snowmobile was severely damaged and later repaired. The cause of the crash was that the evening before while riding the throttle became frozen in the open position. When my cousin drove it into the yard he just turned it off while he was moving. Had he tried to stop before switching it off he would have discovered the frozen throttle. Well, that was an expensive lesson, but nobody got hurt over it.
Every time I hear the Christmas song “White Christmas” I think of the winters spent on the farm. That certainly fits my life as a young lad.
At a very young age I was driving John Deere farm tractors, milking cows, and helping my Grandma with her garden. I became accustom to hard work and long hours at an early age because of the farms and their demands. My grandmother was a very strong woman. She was also very religious and made sure I went to Church and Sunday School. She was a Sunday School Teacher for many years along with my Uncle Ralph. At an early age I was educated in the values of a good Christian belief system and foundation. As it is stated in Proverbs 22:6 , “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart.
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Post by Jim on Jan 4, 2009 0:59:21 GMT 9
Although my dad and I never had a real association like you guys have described.........................But, that is not to say that he didn't exert a very profound influence on me.......Things like- you want to get paid 40 cents an hour?- Then produce 45 cents an hour worth of work.......I worked at the Kazoo factory in my home town of Eden, NY and started at 35 cents ph....A year later I was being paid 1.15 an hour!!!!!!!, He would never tolerate "Good Enough" either.......I had trimmed out the crawl hole access in the hallway and was having a time getting his perfect miters and finally said"good enough".....Next thing I know, I am on the floor looking up and he says "good enough for who?" I already knew enough not say "I can't" ..... Long story short- he checked the miters and said "did you flip the stock or move the miter?" (back in the days of the big back saw and miter box- hand operated) Moved the saw was the reply.....Back up on the ladder and followed his instructions putting the trim back up- virtually a perfect fit and he said the painter would finish it..... Every time I have a hard time with miters on my clocks, this episode comes to mind........His definition of "Can't"- either too damned dumb or too damned lazy.......Another of his philosophies- never call a man an SOB behind his back til you have told him to his face - this made me a couple of friends....... and perhaps the best of all-----Son, if you don't have integrity, no matter what else you might have, you are the poorest person in the world.........Dad was always working to make ends meet for a family of six, and during WWII there wasn't time do go fishing.......But, I feel that Dad gave me the best that he had to give, and I tried to instill these ideas in the young airmen came that under my charge...And stressed these ideas in the base NCO Academy and the NCO prep school .........So I figure Dad left me some pretty good tools to work with... The Old Sarge
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Post by Bullhunter on Jan 6, 2009 7:13:04 GMT 9
Gene, this thread is a good idea of yours. Only a few days into it and 10 post with 82 viewing. Not bad at all. I think I'll give it a bump here: Another short section out of my book...... Dad’s B-17 Flight I remember, and can recall, much about my growing up years. One thing I regret is not asking or questioning my Dad about his past more. After my Dad’s death in 1988 I had plenty of questions for my Uncle. My Uncle Ralph was like a second farther to me. We worked the farm together and he shared his interest in rifle ballistics and aircraft. My Dad, after serving as a flight instructor during WWII did not return to work the farm. Instead he spent time working for Western Union and the New York Central Railroad, which later became the Penn Central Railroad. He retired from the railroad sometime around 1980 or earlier. Dad was quiet about his military service, but once talked with me about a flight on a B-17 Flying Fortress across the United States from California. He was on a military leave heading home for a visit and caught a ride on that B-17 bomber. Passing over Pikes Peak in Colorado several of the oxygen masks had failures. The deicer functions failed and several of the crewmembers were unable to receive oxygen. After the B-17 passed over Pikes Peak and cleared the mountains the pilot dove the bomber down to a lower altitude where oxygen was not needed. After my fathers untimely death in 1988 I was able to trace his military service through letters and cards he had sent home during his service during WWII. I filed a request with the Department Of Defense for a copy of my Dad’s military service during WWII but was informed that those records were lost during an arson fire set by Vietnam War protesters. I discover that these letters and cards placed my Dad at Thunderbird Field in Arizona, Lancaster Field in California, Sheppard Field in Texas. At the end of the war my Dad was discharged at Chanute Field, Illinois. I also have possession of my Dad’s photo album he put together during his service during the war which helped me confirm his assignments and travels. Some of the photos have locations and dates written on the back in pencil. This I’ve found all very interesting, because in 1971 I went to Chanute Air Force Base, Illinois for Jet Engine Propulsion School. In 1999 my daughter attended Jet Engine Propulsion School at Sheppard Air Force Base, Texas. After my daughter completed her training she started her career at McChord Air Force Base where I spent many years working on fighter jets and transport jets.
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Post by Gene on Jan 6, 2009 10:19:15 GMT 9
well, bullhunter, I'll tell you, i liked that excerpt from your book very much. i will buy a copy for sure.. and reading about your dads helps me put my dads life into a perspective i can understand... all the resposibilities that the service put on him at a young age,(directing fire on 8 50 cal guns on his A-20, and maintaining radio comm), helped him throughout the rest of his career... i read those same things in the story you related here. and also in jims post... i hope to hear more from you and jim. also i hope others will contribute..ibelieve thats in the spirit of this website. gene,
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Post by Jeff Shannon on Jan 9, 2009 3:09:31 GMT 9
Dad was from Drift, KY... Coal mine country and always said there were only 3 things to do there. 1. work the mines, 2. go to college, or 3. join the military. Dad chose option 3 and joined the Army Air Force and went in to the Air Force in 47' He started off in communications and even ended up at the Pentagon where he met my mother. Later in his career he became a 1st Sgt, which he did until he retired after 27 years. Dad joined a couple years after the end of WW II, where he went to Africa to do some clean up work, he also did time for Korea, Vietnam and of course the Cold War. I have sooo many stories of the time he was a 1st Sgt, I remember the days of the 7 ring alert, long before pagers and cell phones, dad had to answer the phone within 7 rings, he also had to call the command post before he could leave the base and tell them where we would be and an approximate time we would return, then he had to call he he got home. He was very proud of his country and service to her. As I go through his papers and think of things I will write more.
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Post by Gene on Jan 9, 2009 8:38:45 GMT 9
hey jeff, Thanks for your contribution, i was thinking of you when i started this thread...hearing about your dads passing brought back all the memories of what my mom and i went thru with my dads last days...when they blow retreat out at the base at 4:30pm, i can hear it coming thru the "giant voice" as far away as my house.. I've got a list of names imprinted in my head.. when retreat starts i give a roll call...first the names of those who have already passed. then i have a list of those who i know are ill and i say a prayer for their recovery...well your dad has changed from the second list to the first... i think hearing their names out loud is a way of keeping them alive in my heart... hope to hear more about your dad soon gene
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Post by Jeff Shannon on Jan 9, 2009 8:49:34 GMT 9
All of the stories here have inspired me to write down what I remember about my dad, and our travels. Thanks everybody, this has been another way the forum has helped! I have always said you all are the best!!!
Good luck with the book Bullhunter, guaranteed at least 1 sale here in Missouri when it's published.
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Post by Bullhunter on Jan 9, 2009 9:56:11 GMT 9
Following is another very short incident out of my life that is in the book. Most of the book covers my military service except for a few short chapters in the beginning and the end. Keep in mind that it's all in draft form so if you see something major miss-spelled or the flow is hard to follow then please PM me and alert me to it so I can correct it in the draft. Picking this stuff out to post has been good, as it has made me recall a few other stories I might add. As the book shows I hated city life and lived for the trips to the farm in the hills of Pennsylvania along the Delaware River. Never no trouble on the farm. I had a few scrapes while growing up in the city like most kids. One incident particular involving the police comes to mind. About 1965 or 1966 a police officer put me in his patrol car and took me downtown to the police station and put me in a holding cell. Guess I should explain this. I was a young teenager on my way back from a baseball game. My young brother and another neighborhood kid were fighting and my brother was doing pretty well against him. This kid's dad let their two German Sheppard dogs out of their house and they headed for my brother as he climbed up on a parked car to take refuge. Arriving on the scene just as the dogs were trying to get to him I started swing my baseball bat. I connected with one dog's head and the dog went down. The second dog I swung at was struck in the side and took off for home yelping. My adrenalin was pumping high and I was in a very combative state. I chased after the dog and the dog went into the house, the kid’s dad slammed the door and was holding it close. I was mad and full of fight over these dogs being sent after my brother. Leaning back I thrust forward with the baseball bat with all my might and wrath shoving the head of the bat into the door. I was shocked when the bat penetrated the door. I heard someone yell Son-of-a-Bitch. I did not know it at that time, but the bat hit the kid’s dad in the groin forcing him to the floor. About that time I heard brakes squeal behind me in the street, when I turned around I saw red flashing lights, and a police officer was already getting out of the patrol car with his hand on his revolver and said, "Kid drop the bat!" I guess I was still on my adrenalin high standing there looking down the steps at the police officer holding my bat. He repeated again, "Kid, my back-up will be here in a few seconds, time to drop that dam bat and get your ass down here and in the car!", as he opened the back door of the police cruiser. I figure I better do it - as the next ass whooping would surely be mine. My visit to the police station was not a long one, as my Mom showed up with our lawyer shortly. We were out of there and back home, but the police kept my bat as evidence. After all I’d sent two dogs to the animal hospital, did property damage, and put an adult man on the floor with that baseball bat. Went to court with my Mom, Dad and our lawyer. The other guy told his story, then the police officer told his. Then I was able to tell my story. Of course the other kid’s dad forgot to mention to the court that he turned two German Sheppard dogs loose to attack my younger brother. The Judge’s wisdom was basically, a case of self-defense, I’d came to the aid and defense of my brother protecting him from two savage dogs. The judge offered a solution. That was, if my Dad would replace the broken front door all charges would be dropped. My Dad agreed to replace the front door, so a few days later we went to the local building supply and my dad said, “He was looking for a door.” The sales person asked, “Inside or outside door.” My dad quickly replied, "Inside.” That next second I said, "But Dad it’s an outside door." My Dad smiled at me and said, "Just listen and watch." So I did. My Dad picked through the doors and said, "This is the type of wood I'm looking for!” He installed that door and it was springtime. He told me to keep an eye on that door and see what it looks like after a few weeks of rain. I noticed that door about a month later and it was all warped and cracking. I reported that observation to my Dad and he gave me that little smile and said. "Had that man not let the dogs loose I would have gotten him a very nice outside door." You see, my Dad had a college degree in Forestry and knew all about wood. It was a very good lesson for me, and I realized my Dad was a very wise man. I never did get my favorite baseball bat back. There was only one other time in my life (about 1979) that I can recall I got so mad and very combative. That sent an Air Force Sergeant to the base hospital emergency room. That was deemed by the Air Force as a case of self defense as I had been touched first, was provoked, and I had just cause. But that’s another story I’ll tell in a later chapter. I've mellowed allot over the years!
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Post by Gene on Jan 9, 2009 10:10:35 GMT 9
glad to hear about the mellowing out part... :lol that is a good story... ...hope to hear more.. gene
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Bullhunter
Global Moderator
318th FIS Jet Shop 1975-78
Currently: Offline
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Post by Bullhunter on Jan 11, 2009 3:19:57 GMT 9
I Think Granddad's are pretty important also. As I am one now myself. Grandpa to 4 grandchildren. I lost my grandpa at a pretty young age. But he is another short incident out of my book. A photo is in this section and I'm going to try and insert it also. I it makes it click on it and it should zoom in. The Farm Growing up I spent most of my years in Pennsylvania on my grandparent’s family farm with trips to my uncle’s, and cousin’s farms only a few miles away. I hated life in the city! Life in Pennsylvania was wonderful; I greatly enjoyed my trips to the farm, only two miles from the Delaware River. Endless, hunting, fishing, hiking, camping, along with swimming and rafting the Delaware River. But of course, there were the farm chores that I didn’t mind helping with, and I got very good at them. On a nice summers day in the early 1960’s I went fishing in our farms pond. The catch was usually bullheads (small catfish), but sometimes a nice bass or perch could be caught. My Dad had two bamboo poles at the pond and I was using one of them. As I lifted the bamboo pole upward I felt resistance, so I knew I hooked something. As I lifted the pole higher, whatever I had caught was getting heavier and closer to the shore, but I could not see what it was yet. It did not thrash and fight like a fish, it felt more like dead weight. All of a sudden it broke out of the water, it had a long tail, big bumps of rough areas on its back, and I saw it’s hind legs. My hook was embedded in the tip of it’s tail. I was very young and my first thought was, “Monster or Alligator!” I dropped that bamboo fishing pole, climbed through the fence, and ran the half mile all the way back to the farm house. I likely yelled the whole way. I told my Grandpa, “There was a monster or alligator in the pond!” I recall my Grandma and Grandpa reassuring me there were no alligators in Pennsylvania because of the winters. I remember my Grandpa with his corncob pipe saying, he "hadn’t seen a monster in a good many years." He was laughing, and I guess he was enjoying this moment with his grandson. He took me by the hand and said something like, "lets go see this monster together." He looked around the farmhouse’s wood-shed and picked up an empty ax handle. We walked back over to the pond and that bamboo pole that I dropped in the grass on the ponds dam was gone. Grandpa looked around and there it was, floating out in the middle of the pond. He got the other bamboo pole and cased it out and snagged the floating pole. He pulled it in and as he lifted the pole, I hid behind him for protection. The creature surfaced up out of the ponds depths and slid up on the shore as my Grandpa said, “There is your monster.” He dropped the pole and picked up the ax handle and clubbed the creature in the head several times until it quit moving. He then took the hook out of its tail and picked it up by the tail saying "it’s a big snapping turtle." We then carried it back to the house to show Grandma, and my Dad when he got back later in the day. My Dad took the above photo of I holding that snapping turtle by it’s tail.
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Post by Gene on Jan 11, 2009 7:06:59 GMT 9
the way i see it, a granddad is somebodies dad. and those stories should be welcomed here also...
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