Author: babychristian55

Reflections – Train

After discussing this blog section with my wife; of course after I published it, because far be it from me to have her proof it first.  She said that she didn’t recall hearing this story before.  As I retold it she heard me share new material and what’s more, I think she heard the anguish and shame, and utter self loathing for what I had done, and what I hadn’t done.  Speaking of which, I realized that I had never asked for God’s forgiveness for this and upon that self-realization – I immediately did so.  My only rationale for such a lapse in memory is that day was a record low in my life.  Low enough that I had suppressed that memory for some time and unfortunately it had to rise again because its another piece of the puzzle of me (hmm…..me a puzzle…that opens a whole new door).  What’s important to note is that  sorry day was an object lesson, but not the kind you’d normally define.  It was a lesson in how ‘men’ so easily look and use a woman as an object. That poor lady needed our help, and all she got was abuse. Yes, she was asking for ‘it’ in a sad way, but should you always give someone what they ask for? Isn’t better to give them what they desperately need?  I didn’t mention that she passed out during their repeated assaults, but that didn’t stop them.  When they were done and she regained consciousness, she was a bit more sober and a lot more angry.  She wanted help again of a different sort; i.e., money for bus fare home.  The boys laughed at her and kicked her out of the room. I think and I hope, that I’m accurately remembering that I gave her what money I had left in my pocket, but I didn’t give her an apology or acknowledgement of what she had suffered.

On to Deployment.

Or back to the previous blog Blue Water Train.

Blue Water Train

Blue water…why blue water?  Toilet bowl cleaner?  Nope, and Train – you’ll see at the end.

As a newbie sailor a.k.a “boot camp” which is what you’ll be called for a while after you first set foot on “your ship.” Ships go to sea and that’s where you can come from a land locked state and then scant months later be looking out at water all around you; blue water.

But I’m waxing semi-poetic, back to the story…

After a brief leave period (post-school) it was time to leave home again and  transition to my permanent duty station – almost.  My ship was not in port, in fact it was a ways down south and going around in circles off the coast of Cuba.  It was undergoing a form of sea trials to certify the ship’s crew. So I was on hold and waiting for other sailors like myself to show up so we could be taken to Cuba to meet our new sea going home away from home. In true sailor want-to-be fashion, time was well spent shooting pool and trying to drain the beer machines (just like a pop machine – only beer) of it contents. After 2-3 weeks of land-sailor training (hurry up and wait), we all boarded a plane bound for “Gitmo,” military slang for Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.  Got my first helicopter ride from the base to the ship and learned quickly to step-hop over ‘knee knockers’ as we were hurried from the flight deck and upper levels to the bowels of the carrier.

Being assigned to the engine room while the crew was neck deep in engineering casualty control drills made boot camp look & feel like a preschooler’s tea party.  Surprisingly, I adapted quickly and gained acceptance from my new shipmates, ‘the snipes.’  For a kid from the middle of nowhere that had very few close friends and did not participate in team sports, it was very flattering in a macho-ego sort of way to be accepted by a bunch of manly fellows – my shipmates.  After playing navy games we returned to home port and was told by the high command that all engineering spaces passed their qualifications, however the engine rooms were a mess and we had to work ‘port & starboard’ until they were deemed acceptable.  In layman’s terms, we required to be on the ship and working all day & part of the night without being allowed to leave. On the next day – our day off – we had to work from 0700-1800 (7am-6pm); needless to say we we’re not happy with the new edict. Our logic being: how did we pass our quals if our spaces were that messed up?  So in typical lemming fashion I followed the lead of my newfound friends and walked off ship for a bout of continuous drinking.

Bar hopping along the coast brought the five of us to a hotel bar that was known to always have cheap booze and an open pool table.  It was in the morning and we were already 3 sheets to the wind. Since I was the newest addition to the motley crew, I was tasked to help ‘Jack’ get the drinks while the others set up the pool tables.  A very drunk middle-aged lady was sitting at the bar.  As we approached she sized us up and thought we’d be likely to buy her drinks if she flirted suggestively.  The hick from the sticks (aka me) had never experienced such a thing before; must have been evident from the stupid grin on my face.  Little did I know that my cohorts had hatched a plot; i.e., they got a hotel room and Jack & I were tasked to convince her to party with us upstairs – she had no clue about the others. To get to the sordid point, she came upstairs and the ‘gang’ systematically had sex with her. I was literally amazed that she was in favor of it at first, but her enthusiasm couldn’t match the debauchery in the room.  I declined participation. I was already ashamed that I had contributed to her predicament and (falsely) declared my noble commitment to my pre-engagement girl friend as an excuse not to partake.  Honestly, I was just disgusted with it all but I did nothing to stop it and watched the house burn like an arsonist. Thus my introduction to the concept of ‘pulling a train.’

The end of stupidity came when I ran out of money and went back to the ship while they continued to go on tour.  Upon returning I received a royal butt chewing and was written up for “Unauthorized Absence;” supposedly I was lucky because our supervisor wanted to write us up for mutiny.  However I was the only one that received formal punishment – $50 fine and restricted to the ship for a week.

On to Deployment or intermediate Reflections – Train.

Or back to the previous blog Anchors Aweigh.

Anchors Aweigh

Before leaving the land of enchantment,  I mentioned a run-in with Johnny Law.  The trial was closed and it was the common opinion that justice for one and all would best be served if this incident was not an impediment to me leaving town to join the navy. As such I was awarded probation for six months for the assault charge and misdemeanor.  The ex-military reading this will no doubt recall that recruiters are insidious liars and mine was no different. He told me not to say a word about the little encounter, and all would be well.

In the meantime I succeeded in losing my driver’s license for six months due to accumulating three times the required points for suspension.  And to top it off, my buddy and I got royally trashed my last weekend home which resulted in a glorious hangover.  In my mind, the best cure for that was to help myself to my mother’s prescription pain killers to make Snow White and her buddies knock it off with the head hammers.

What’s the most important first test that you get to take when you join the navy?  Swimming?  Nope, the whiz quiz and I failed with flying colors with a substance that I wasn’t legally allowed to take.  Add that to some very angry acting people in uniform yelling at you that if anything had changed in your legal status, that you had better confess – so I confessed.  Kind of like sports – not much of a fan unless its soccer, but I do know that in baseball it is 3 strikes and your out.  I found out in short order that for the program I had enlisted for, the Navy had no interest in someone with a bad driving record, failed urinalysis, and probation – NOPE, NO WAY.  In military terms that is defined as Fraudulent Enlistment, because while the recruiter was telling me not to say anything at boot camp, he was having  me sign a paper that said my legal status was unchanged.  In hindsight, this is another moment where God nudged things I think.  After letters, phone calls and such with my mother, a lawyer and naval legal personnel, my probation was changed to a fine which I cheerfully paid and I was allowed to stay in the navy. The other marvelous thing was the navy left me as an E3 and only four years required (was originally six) and I should have been reduced to an E1, which is lower than whale dung.

Boot camp is the military’s garden of mind games combined with copious amounts of physical exercise to keep your yin in line with your yang and a formal education of naval history & terminology; e.g., a wall is a bulkhead, a bathroom is the head, etc. Other than that, there’s not really much to be said about except that I survived it without further incident.

After boot camp , I got to go home on leave and be reminded that I had made the right choice by enlisting. Seeing a lot of my old high school buddies locked in the same mindless spiral provided justification. Even after all of the legal entanglement and spit spewing drill instructor (called company commander in naval parlance).   In that brief 10 days or so of leave and in combination with obligatory drunkenness; I fell in love, or at least I thought I did. The young lady and I were very enamored with one another, and considered ourselves ‘pre-engaged’ in very short order.  This relationship was not consummated (not that I didn’t try), and the plan was to become fully engaged – if not marry; upon my final duty assignment.

The next naval chapter was formal schooling in the machinist’s mate trade which was held in the great white north.  I completed my training without complications – the navy did have a way of keeping me busy.  Then it was another brief trip home before I had to report to my final duty station which happened to be an aircraft carrier based out of Florida.  While home time was also spent romancing my new love that I had met during last leave period. Needless to say my mother was none too happy that I spent minimal time with her and disproportionate time getting drunk and trying “to try on my new pair of shoes,” otherwise known as deflowering the bride to be.

On to Blue Water Train.

Or back to the previous blog High School – Land of Enchantment

High School – Land of Enchantment

Ah high school…the final four (years) and an enchanting land of cheerleaders, pom-pom girls, and well…just girls (older).  Evidently the interest in the opposite sex from 1st grade was just smoldering during the middle ages, but came into full bloom as a lowly freshman.

I was weird in school, no big surprise there.  I loved math and science and took every class that my little farm town school had to offer.  This put me in the classroom with the honor rollers and the prep-college types, which translated into kids that came from families with money so they dressed accordingly (keeping in vogue with what the current style was).  Style translated into mini-skirts and tight sweaters; I can’t even pretend to remember how many pencils “I dropped.” I was Jekyll & Hyde in high school, scholar by day and obnoxious teenage drunk at night.  In honesty, the drinking didn’t start until I was 15, reefer madness occurred a year later.  I ran with the boys that dressed in jean jackets, engineer boots, and bell-bottomed jeans with the leg hems frayed.

So you’d think with all of that good book learning that I also became a honor roll student; not hardly.  My mom worked nights at a restaurant and was gone by the time I got out of school.  Being a small town, I could ride the entire width of our berg in a couple of hours so transportation was never an issue.  Being that Mr. Bunghole was a construction worker, he showed up on Friday evening and was gone by Sunday night – thankfully.  Obviously I had a lot of time on my hands in the evening and I had better things to do than study.  Homework did get done and I floated through high school with an occasional A, but mostly Bs & Cs. I was definitely not college bound.

Around 10th grade was my first step into the abyss. The step-father and my mom used to play cards with another couple and they had a couple/few  kids.  One was a son about a year older than I and a daughter about 2-3 years older.  One day he & I were goofing around in a pup tent in the backyard of the house and he introduced me to masturbation.  I’ll spare you the graphic description.  Needless to say at my sage age I thought it was better than sliced bread and had no problem taking matters into my own hand. Not to say that I never had a pleasurable experience in mishandling my appendage; I just naively didn’t know that it was like a loaded gun; i.e., play with it too much and it would go off in your hand.  Some weeks later after the pup tent experience, we [the kids] were playing some bizarre game of hide-n-seek.  I found myself hiding under the covers with the daughter and she had me put my hand where it didn’t belong.  I was never more glad to hear the call to come wash our hands cause it was time for dinner.

Yin & Yang does exist and as such, a good thing also happened during the 10th grade – my mother divorced the Nimrod; of course she already had a boy friend lined up on the side. He was a good guy – from my perspective anyway. He was my father figure for as long as I was home; taught me to drive, work on my car, and he always had an easy laugh. The layout of my ma’s new rental provided the setup for an embarrassing moment. I had to walk through her bedroom from the garage to my bedroom. One late night (out past curfew no doubt), I sauntered through in my normal inebriated state and caught the two of them making tricycle motors, or at least really practicing, really hard.  I think he was more embarrassed than I since my mother couldn’t resist in gleefully telling me later that his rigid member went to something less than al dente.

I can’t pin this on my new father figure, but it just seemed unnatural for my mom to have what I found one day.  Now of course, what was I doing snooping in my mother’s drawers?  I have no idea what inspired me to do so, but I did find 3 books of pornography.  Of all of things that I can’t remember, I can recall 2 of the 3 titles.  Needless to say I had read each book more than once, and had ‘favorite passages’ that I could turn to for a quick bout of self passion. The combination of ogling the senior ladies and porn just set the baseline for my addiction to come.

Dragging main street, burning rubber, being escorted out of town by the local cops, and listening to the rock music of the day – that was a glimpse of how I spent my evenings on school nights. To keep the record straight, I did work; otherwise I would have never earned enough money to buy my first car off the show room floor (around $3k – good old days). I mowed lawns, worked in restaurants, hauled garbage, pumped gas, and spent lots of hours as a farm hand. Oh, and one 8-10 hour stint as a severely hung over oil rig worker; good money, but too much like really hard work.

Music became a refuge, just as sci-fi books were an escape.  There was always a song to be played to match the moment of my mood.  Whether it be just simple head banging rock, acid rock for the chemical days, or boo-hoo nobody loves me (let’s go eat worms), I could lose myself in the lyrics as I sang along.  Just keep in mind that these were the days of the 8-track tapes, and I had 5 cases that held about 30 each – yes, I did love music and still do today.

Restaurant work had an interesting ‘side benefit,’ just depends on your personal perspective and glimpse into history.  As mentioned before, this was the era of the mini-skirts and the waitresses behaved as if the kitchen area was a ‘safe zone’ to talk raunchy and adjust their uniforms.  Replete with views of garters, pantyhose, and low cut tops with everything spilling out. Just the fuel any self-pleasuring adolescent needs in his formative years.

With the masturbation education, the genie was out of the bottle and for some reason I struck out 90% of the time when I asked girls out for a date (I’m pretty sure that hair was growing on my palms). But I lived in a target rich environment and there was no shortage of visual stimulation to fuel the imagination for ardent vegetable polishing.  After getting my driver’s license I was literally hell on wheels.  A car gave me the ability to increase my roaming range for work and play. It was also instrumental in my losing my virginity to an older woman. So if masturbation was the genie, sex was the opening of Pandora’s Box (no pun intended). Weekends were made for finding keg parties, aka ‘keggers.’ And here is where I showed no shame in preying on drunk girls for sex.  I had no remorse. The youngest was 15 and the oldest was 24. I betrayed the trust of a man that mentored me at the gas station by seducing his niece that was engaged to a guy in the air force. If you couldn’t tell it before – I like music, and after writing this certain song lyrics by Casting Crowns come to mind from the song – Does Anybody Hear Her?

“She is searching
For a hero to ride in
To ride in and save the day
And in walks her prince charming
And he knows just what to say
Momentary lapse of reason
And she gives herself away”

More times than I want to admit, I was that ‘prince’, or that ‘prince of expletive’, or let’s just call a spade, a spade. I was a garden variety asshole.

Somewhere amidst all of this drunken debauchery, I had the presence of mind to see a glimpse of my potential future if I stayed in my home town after graduation.  This glimpse came in the form of seeing my buddy’s older brothers coming to our keggers and hitting on our female classmates.  Of course my vision was not 20-20, otherwise I would have done better in school to work for that scholarship. My options were either stay in Stupidville or research the military since there was no way that my mother could have afforded to put me through a semester of college.  Luckily I still had enough active brain cells to score high enough for a critical job in the Navy. With the pre-papers signed, it was just a matter of getting through graduation and the summer following to make it to boot camp.

With the deadline looming of leaving home I felt it only fitting that I had to have sex with 10 girls before going to the navy.  Luckily I didn’t start from scratch and to make it easier, I counted previous engagements.  I used to be pretty proud of that ‘accomplishment.’  However now it remains one of the many things that I am so utterly ashamed of.  How could I treat girls or young women in such a fashion?

A prenaval adventure occurred on a fine fall night while my friend and I were out-and-about doing the usual which equated to drinking and burning rubber in front of his current girl friend’s house.  There was intermittent racial tension in our metropolis and it manifested itself that night in the form of eggs being mashed into my friend’s face while he was stopped at an intersection.  Long story short, we got my shotgun, found our ‘new friends,’ I became possessed by the spirit of John Wayne and it resulted in me shooting my friend in the foot and one of the instigators in his shoulder (but I aimed for someone else – I was drunk).  In hindsight, I’m beginning to believe that God’s hand nudged that barrel just a little that night. Enough for it to become a learning experience versus a vacation in the cross bar hotel just 2 months before going to boot camp.

As evidenced by my previous ramblings, a lot of teenage experiences have shaped my behavior as I entered adulthood. Some good, some bad, but we are all a collage of what we’ve seen, heard, and done.  Done to ourselves and done to others. Years later I  regret so deeply what I have done and although scripture tells you that there’s no condemnation in Christ, and I certainly didn’t kill anyone (came close) – I still have an issue with feeling forgiven.

On to Anchors Aweigh.

Or back to the previous blog Formative Years – Getting Schooled

Formative Years – Getting Schooled

Elementary Watson

My first year in school was 1st grade, for some reason I skipped kinder garden; it sure wasn’t because I was academically advanced.  Got my first spanking for crawling under a table to look under girls’ dresses.  Why?  I have no idea, you’d think after growing up with two women in a small house that some knowledge would have been acquired.  And yes, they spanked kids in school back in those days (and I’m still alive).

In 2nd grade there was the kissing tree located at the further most corner of the playground. It was Y-shaped and various young couples would kiss in the nook of the Y. Why?  Can’t remember what the driver was; perhaps curiosity about the opposite sex.  There sure were a bunch of us 2nd graders that were curious (maybe it was in the water).  Of course I was very knowledgeable about the opposite sex since I knew that babies came from the sewer system.

The 3rd grade brought fist fights which resulted in talks with mom & the principal; accompanied by a little time off from school. It didn’t matter if I started the fight – which I didn’t. Or if I lost – which I did, although it was a small victory to bleed all over the guy cause I had a glass nose. Also had a bout of the dreaded Black X disease courtesy the teacher’s magic marker on the back of my hands for forcing my hand to flip the bird with a pencil.  My interest in language expanded to sign language as I learned how to conjugate the F word and other words in the blue language.

Midgard

Subsequent years through middle school brought more fights, but the frequency did diminish for two reasons. I couldn’t fight to save my tail and I learned that if you were funny, you were useful.  Make them laugh and you don’t get hit.

Being an only child you learn to amuse yourself, so I became an ardent reader of science fiction. Joined the sci-fi book of the month club and I usually had the current book read well before the next one came. While waiting for the next book installment, I whetted my appetite on good ole comic books; e.g., Silver Surfer, Thor, Fantastic Four, etc. etc. Not only did reading provide entertainment in my middle through high school years (and adult life), it also fit well with being invisible from the knuckle dragging step-father. In addition, it was a great form of escape and the genre contributed to my eventual love of science & math

Somewhere in middle school I was exposed to Roman & Greek mythology and found it interesting how closely they paralleled another. Given my interest in Thor comic books and because of my (real) last name/heritage, I expanded my quest for knowledge into Norse mythology.  Much to my delight, this parallelism was prevalent in Egyptian, as well the folk of Norsemen.  I have very faint recollections of attending Sunday school as a child; according to my mother, I had the freedom to attend or not – I chose not.  Reading about various religions I made the leap of non-faith and formed my own opinion about religion.  Specifically since “man” has an opposable thumb it makes him a “tool maker.” And just like Tim the Tool-man, you make things, so mankind has reasoned (paraphrase) “…that if I make, therefore I’ve been made…”.  Furthermore religion and drugs/alcohol are the same; just crutches for people that are weak and can’t handle life.  I now find it so absurd that my middle school rationalization was my mantra for so many years.

 

On to High School – Land of Enchantment…

Or go back to the previous blog Genesis

Genesis

I’m guessing it was sometime in January of 1955, in the steamy backseat of a Cadillac that I was conceived. Sometime later when my mother informed Mr. Sterile of my presence, he flew the coop and his Adventist mother denied that her little angel could do such a thing.

It was just my mom and her mother living in a small house in the sticks, replete with the finest outhouse and outdoor laundry.  Her father had passed away years before, and her two brothers were wrapped up in their own lives.

Don’t recall if it was before or after my birth that Mr. Second Thoughts returned and a sketchy plan of marriage began to form.  It was all for naught due to his early death in a car accident while he and his brother were out celebrating – about what, I have no idea.  As such I never knew my earthly father which – according to my first wife and her mother – bothered me greatly.

I have a very foggy memory of just beating the absolute stuffing out of a very large (in comparison to me at the time) red teddy bear.  I wasn’t being violent. I was grooving on my mother’s love of rock-n-roll; like the Drifter’s, The Big Bopper, and yes…Elvis the Pelvis.  Evidently my love for music began while I was in my crib, and I would bounce up & down to the beat one of her many 45s.

My grandmother worked as a cook at the local hospital and my mom was a waitress for a fine 35 cents an hour; plus tips.  The culture of the day strongly suggested that single mothers should give their children up for adoption. My mom wasn’t playing that game and had me anyway. Constant exposure to estrogen during my early formed the foundation of how I interacted with women.  Soft tones, lots of hugs; none of that macho crap – however – mom was a tomboy thanks to her two brothers so I wasn’t completely ‘feminized.’

Sometime before I entered school she met Mr. Fake Nice (aka “The Pig”) and they got married. My mother’s rationale was that I needed a father; undoubtedly she needed a husband because it was hard raising me given the conditions.  My only recollection of him prior to their marriage was throwing a fit because he didn’t cut my pancakes right. That should have been a clue for him to bolt, but he married my mom nonetheless – much to our later dismay.

We moved a couple of times to follow his work, then returned to the homeland before I entered school.  His life was hunting, fishing, working, and drinking in some disorder or combination. It wasn’t until I was older that I started to see his dark side in the form of a backhand or leather belt, although there was no shortage of negative praise. I had to have been a preteen when I was told that it was a good thing that I was smart cause I couldn’t do anything right, and would never amount to ___.  I was painting a picket fence white at the time; still can’t figure how much talent it takes to paint an old outside fence.

I learned very quickly the importance of ‘the quiet inner voice,’ to become, and stay as invisible as possible. I followed the doctrine that I should not be seen or heard; you can’t hit or yell at what you can’t see. He and I would go on outings to fish (which I detest to this day) and hunting (which also sucks).  I have to admit that I did enjoy skeet shooting, or what was referred to back then as ‘blue rock’ or ‘clay pigeons.’ My mother told me years later that she was afraid that I would go step-father hunting some day and that was her primary reason for her divorcing him.

I would have been happy if she would have left him before getting blistered for walking home instead of riding the bus (got home just as bus drove by).  Or before the two of them went out to celebrate New Year’s Eve which resulted in my mom getting a black eye and the car plowing into garage. Enough of him…how about some elementary romance?

Please continue to the Formative Years – Getting Schooled or intermediate Reflections – Genesis.

Or go back to the home page Who Am I.