Showing Up & Reaping the Benefits
Song of the Open Road - Walt Whitman
Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, and the world before me.
Henceforth I ask and not good fortune --
I myself am good-fortune;
Strong and content, I travel the open road.
I inhale great draughts of space;
The east and the west are mine,
And the north and the south are mine.
All seems beautiful to me,
I can repeat over to men and women,
You have done such good to me,
I would do the same to you.
Whoever you are, come travel with me!
However sweet these laid-up
stores - however convenient
This dwelling, we cannot remain here;
However sheltered this port,
And however calm these
Waters, we must not anchor here;
Together! The inducements shall be greater;
We will sail pathless ad wild seas;
We will go where winds blow,
Waves dash, and the Yankee
Clipper speeds by under full sail.
Forward! After the great Companions!
And to belong to them!
They too are on the road!
Onward! To that which is endless,
As it was beginningless,
To undergo much, tramps of
Days, rests of nights,
To see nothing anywhere but
What you may reach it and pass it.
To look up or down no road but it
Stretches and waits for you --
To know the universe itself as a road --
As many roads --
As roads for traveling souls.
“Oh, the wayward wind is a restless wind
A restless wind that yearns to wander
And he was born the next of kin
The next of kin to the wayward wind.......”
Any autobiographical narrative is ultimately a story with a personal and arguable slant. This is my story, my restless quest for meaning and relevance, originating in a humble, rural Midwest setting, to an end having not yet gained. The underlying intent of this narrative is about leaving a tapestry of my life, noting the people, places and doings which gave me my voice, while revealing lessons learned and insights gained for next generations(s) in my ever expanding circle of family and friends. This story line chronicles my relentless quest to attain a sense of union, or belonging in my ever-changing world, while creating meaningful links with my sometimes mythical, historical past.
The journey from an isolated rural community in Iowa, steeped in resolute religious dogma, to present day retirement in South Mississippi, and a culture replicating these same qualities, is viewed as an irregular, unpredictable path, holding themes, tactics and strategies employed, and potential ‘callings’ for the reader. So much of what has unfolded throughout the years seems to have emanating from a pattern of simply putting myself into unfamiliar and even foreign settings, or as I like to say ‘by showing up!’ While some who shared pieces of my life journey may dispute factual data listed herein, remember the story is MY map of reality!
I have chosen a topical format, capturing the various venues in which I lived, worked and played in my eternal quest for belonging.
My gene pool is 100% German, comprising paternal Bender-Knief lines and maternal Langrehr-Wilde lines. Save for grandmother Bender all were born in Germany and immigrated to the U.S., either as children or as young adults.
Apart from ethnicity, religion was also a common and defining denominator – Lutheran, ulta-conservative Missouri Synod type, no less. My sense is both Grandfathers were less than devout church goers, and maybe even ‘non-believers,’ though I have no way of validating that. Certainly, both grandmothers emulated religious faith and devotion. Both of my parents were card-carrying followers of ‘the faith,’ viewing spiritual truth through very narrow religious lenses. More than any experience surrounding my formative religious indoctrinations, the singing of hymns ignited the fires transcendence in my soul, both in school, and during worship services!
Another common family characteristic, derived from collective immigrant identities, was an indomitable spirit for surviving even the harshest of times and circumstances. While lacking formal education, they possessed a resolve to find ways to sustain their bodies, minds and spirits and family ties. They were survivors, a characteristic fully resident in my psyche.
Apart from my genetic ties, forays into competitive athletic endeavors have held an important place throughout most of my life. The sports section of the newspaper is still the first section to be perused! Being tall, and physically robust made for early and comprehensive entry into competitive sports, through which enduring learnings from the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat were derived.
A Look at the Langrehr (lang-where) side of my family
(via 1972 letter from my maternal Aunt Anna Milke to cousin Luther Runge)
“Your Grandfather -- Henry Friedrich Langrehr was born on June 10, 1878 in Province Hanover, Germany. His mother died when he was 8 years old. A year later he lost his father leaving him an orphan at 9 years of age. He then lived with his grandmother, where he had to work for his keep before and after school and during vacation. Shortly after he was confirmed at age 14 -- his Uncle Louie (Rabe) insisted on taking him along to America. So he came to America with a whole nickel in his pocket. When he got to New York he bought a loaf of bread to go with the sausage that his grandmother had sent along with them. As they traveled by train from New York to Chicago he ate his lunch (sausage and bread).
He went with his Uncle Louie to the Buckley, Illinois area, which is south of Chicago. Here he worked on farms, first one then another. He was learning the American way to plant corn and other crops. Anything that came his way-- he did and work they did till the work was done. There was no 40 hour weeks way back then, nor 5 days a week. On the farm it was always 6 days at least and chores on Sunday. During the winter months he worked for his board and keep without additional pay.
After several years of this he went to Chicago where he had a half sister. There he worked for a time on the ice wagon-- delivering cubes of 50 lb. or larger to steady customers. There was no electricity way back then, so ice was cut in the middle of winter from lakes and rivers in huge cakes and packed in a special way in special houses for summertime use. He started work delivering ice at 3 A.M. He used horse drawn wagons. It was hard work --both to cut it in the coldest part of winter and to deliver it on hot summer days. He worked for a long time at a meat packing house. Here he had wet feet all day long -- wet with salt brine which created problems.
About 1900 his cousin -- George Poppe-- who was farming in the Marion Area (next town west of Parker) came to visit. It was then that your Grandfather decided to go still farther west to South Dakota. Or it may be that his cousin George encouraged him to come back with him. So then with the money he saved in Illinois ($1,000) he came to South Dakota. After some months of working in the Marion Area, he set up farming for himself. A very humble beginning to be sure-compared to today’s standards. It was there that he met his future wife who was visiting her aunt and uncle and grandmother. While your grandfather was picking corn there (Uncle Carl Wilde, Aunt Wilhelmena Wilde and Uncle Carl’s mother-- Grandma Wilde lived there.) Grandma Wilde was my great grandmother. I do remember her -- though I never knew my grandparents. My great grandmother was quite a match maker and so the romance blossomed. They were married on March 7, 1902.
Maria Wilde, your grandmother, was born in Mecklenburg, Germany Aug. 31, 1882. She came to the United States, with her parents, when she was 13 or 14 months old. They came as far as Milwaukee, Wis. with other kin folk. In those days there was much talk of cheap land out west. So a whole bunch of relatives went. No doubt by excursion train. The railroad ran excursions frequently with low fare, to encourage people to go west and settle.
Here they lived for six years and experienced 6 successive crop failure. This was at White Lake, South Dakota, which is 100 miles west of Parker. One year many of the crops were very good. Grain was being cut ready and ripe. While grandpa was cutting the grain a very bad hail storm hit them there and pounded the crop into the ground. Another year everything looked so promising, then lo and behold, the grasshoppers. After six years of crop failure (one year they were hailed out, and most of the time they were dried out). Most of the kin folk decided to go to Kentucky. I don’t know if the name “Kentucky” intrigued them or why they decided on Kentucky. Anyway, they started out in the Fall of the year 1890, by covered wagon -- horse drawn-- with the families. Each family had their own covered wagon. They traveled with tiny children and some were born on the way. They got as far as Yankton, South Dakota when cold weather set in. My mothers father, Ernst Wilde, your maternal great grandfather, found work in Yankton that winter.
In the spring they started out again and settled south and east of Parker. Unfortunately, they settled on sandy soil where they experienced a poor crop, while the one uncle remained at White Lake and reaped a bumper crop. That Fall they moved to north of Parker and worked for the “butcher”. The meat market man did his own meat processing with some help of course. So my grandfather Wilde helped with the livestock the meat market man had on his farm. When spring came he also farmed the land for share rent. While they lived there they were supplied with all the meat they could use for their growing family. This was a great help. Grandfather Wilde was ambitious though and soon moved again. A few years after that he bought a farm of his very own, and immediately started to build a house for his family, and a barn. A new baby was due in early November. The barn was for his horses and whatever else they had accumulated by way of livestock during the past few years (2 horses, a cow or 2 at the most and a few chickens).
Here then on Nov. 9, 1896 a baby girl arrived, our Aunt Bertha. This was a very hard winter -- in fact, the worst one until the winter of 1968-1969-- with over 100 inches of snow. But the little family survived in spite of it all. Two years later, my grandmother Wilde passed away at the age of 38, shortly after giving birth to another daughter. The oldest-- your grandmother (16 years old then) kept the house until her father remarried a year later. The Aunt and Uncle in White Lake took two-year old Bertha, while the new baby stayed at Freeman.
World War 1. I will never forget the wakeful nights, when there was so much talk about the war. Yes, there were problems. German speaking people were forbidden to have German church services or even to speak their language in public. The German people were forced to buy the liberty bonds - or war bonds- even if they had to borrow the money. They were redeemed later but for many it did cause a hardship at the time of purchase. Also some foods like flour and sugar were rationed. Flour for fifty pounds of white flour we had to buy a certain amount of dark flour and oatmeal and other commodities as substitute. Sugar - there was a time then that one could only get 50c worth at a time. For people like us who didn’t go to town often - and who were richly blessed with home grown fruits which our mother canned - and with a large family. But I do know that we never went hungry. These are the minor things we remember but because they were our problems we knew nothing of terrific hardships, sorrow, fear, great fear that people in war torn countries experienced. Many had to flee from their homes, leaving all their earthly possessions behind. Countless thousands of lives lost, every home was in mourning.
The depression of the 1930’s was something else. The worst drought of the century. I could write a whole chapter on this alone. Prolonged periods of way-above normal temperatures, fanned by strong winds, ruined crops in short order and blew the dry top soil into great clouds which on at least one occasion, turned noon day into darkness, as dark as midnight without stars. The dust was that thick and so high up. Never before in recorded South Dakota history, nor since, has there ever been anything this severe. Many other times during this drought era, visibility was very poor while driving on highways - motorists had to drive with extreme caution. Many otherwise clear days were like very cloudy days due to the thick dust clouds. Dust drifted like snow in fence rows. This together with extreme low prices for farm products caused many farmers to lose their farms.
Like all good things and bad things come to an end. The 1940’s brought better crops, better prices, again an abundance of everything and another war. World War II, Uncle Ernest served in the Coast Guard (on the east coast) which is in wartime a branch of the Navy. Uncle John also served in the Navy, in the Pacific. Both were already married - so you can imagine what the young wives must have gone through. Again, much rationing - gas for cars - tires for cars - lard - meat - this time to mention a few. Of course here on the farm we were not affected so much - since we had our own. Did not have to buy much of any meat - no butter or lard and we were too busy to travel for anything but extreme necessity.
Our first car – that was something else. Our Dad or should I say - we were the last ones to get a car. And imagine going 30 miles an hour!!! This to us was the biggest thrill- just think of it!! 30 miles an hour!! There was only 1 driver tho - our father. No one else was allowed to drive until much later. No one else even attempted to drive or asked to drive. Drivers education was unheard of. It was all done for us by our Dad in times of real need - the dentist or shoe fitting or church One way to keep the family together was to park the car in the shed most of the time. I never learned to drive until my husband helped me at age 26. As near as I can figure Dad bought this car about 1920.
A typical day on the farm? Out at the crack of dawn - all that were old enough to work. - and at our house like it still is at Uncle Henrys - everyone started at a very early age. Each would grab a couple of milk pails and out to the barn - or barnyard and milk. In the early days when I was still in school- it was from 10 to 12 cows (by hand). After milking was finished, the milk was separated. The skim milk, some of it, was fed back to the young calves. While we did the separating of the milk and pail feeding the calves, Dad would feed the cows and the horses. By then breakfast was ready. This much had to be done before we could go to school.. Some times I went to school without breakfast but I never went without milking my share of cows, separating the milk and feeding the calves. In summer of course with no school, the same routine except after breakfast, horses were hitched and out to the fields to do whatever work was in season from preparing the soil for seeding oats and barley in the spring , till after the last ear of corn was hand picked and the last bundle of fodder was in the stack. The latter was usually the end of Nov. or the first of Dec. After this work was don, the cows and horses were in the barn without fail and even daytimes when the weather was very cold or stormy. This made a great deal of work - to feed and keep the barns clean. Then there was corn to shell and to haul to town by horse drawn wagon. Once in a while, Dad would go to a farm auction sale. This was always an interesting day for him. Some days he’d come home happy with a good buy. Always he was happy to relate of the interesting people, old friends and acquaintances he had seen and conversed with.
Dear Luther
I’ve been working on this biography. Grandma asked me to do it because Aunt Martha is terribly nervous on account of all the trouble they have been having there. Here it is, so nice and quiet - seldom any disturbance. I do sincerely hope that this will help you. There is so much more that could be written, to be sure.
My parents lived near Marion until 1910 where the 4 oldest in the family were born - 3 girls all in a row - then Henry. Henry was six months old when we moved to near Parker. The buildings were very poor, so the first thing Dad did was to have a new barn built. The second year the wish and intention was to replace the house. However, before they got started on the house, the well gave out, so a new well had to be drilled and a new windmill was put up. I remember well the Sunday morning I had to walk a mile to take a note to a neighbor asking them to come and help us raise the windmill. It was a beautiful summer day, the third year in the house (1912) which is still in use, and so on. In 1913 new fences were built, then a hen house - granary combination. This one was high enough to have an upstairs so this was for extra grain storage. Then there was a hog house- a machine shed - another farm - then even a garage and a car! Also in the mean time better farming equipment, and in due time, a tractor and a thrashing machine.
In 1948 - his sons had by now all left to seek their fortunes elsewhere- Dad rented out the farm had a farm auction and sold all of his livestock and equipment and moved to Parker. Nov. 1946 he bought the house in town. The following spring, in March, was the closing out auction sale. Then they moved to town in March of 1947. Dad passed away Jan 5, 1963 - spent almost 15 years in semi-retirement. Mother and Martha are still living in the same house.
I hope you will save this, Luther. I’m sure your Mother would enjoy reading this also.
Since she was the youngest in the family, much of this may be new to her, especially the
earlier history. Good luck to you Luther and write again soon. I’ll be looking forward
to hearing from you.
Aunt Anna.”
A look at the Bender side of the family
Grandpa Bender – Ludwig (Louis) Bender – was born 9/4/1861 (died 2/5/1940) in Bierbertal, Rodheim, Hesse area of Germany. Having personally journeyed to Bierbertal, I was left with the distinct impression that grandpa found its counterpart village in Westgate! Grandpa’s father, Johann Jacob Bender died when grandpa was 5 years old. Grandpa Bender served in the German Army from 1881 to 1884. He came to America when he was 23 years old, to Illinois, where friends and family from Germany had settled. It was in Illinois he met and married Grandma Bender - Magdalena (always called Lena) Henrietta (Knief) Bender, who was born 1/22/1861 in New Roselle, Illinois. She died 11/20/1927.
Since my Bender grandparents died before I was born, I had no personal contact with them. Only minimal stories and a few pictures. I understand Grandpa Bender was a skilled blacksmith, a vocation one of his sons – Uncle Emil – pursued with him and thereafter. I have vivid memories of visiting Uncle Emil in his shop on Main Street, watching him stoke the coals of the furnace, heating plow shares and pounding them straight and anew. Hard, dirty work it was, and he did it with admirable skill and fluidity.
I understand Grandma Bender was a skilled seamstress and milliner, and spear-headed a women’s group via the church.
I was born on July 15, 1943 in Mercy Hospital, in Oelwein, Iowa, a mere eight miles from my hometown of Westgate. I was the second of three boys, born to Mother Lena Marie (Langrehr) Bender (born 10/25/1907 & died 5/22/1995), and Erwin George Wilhelm Bender (born 2/4/1904 & died 4/14/1978). Older Brother Reuben Henry Bender (born 6/4/1942 & died 4/22/2007) and younger brother Thomas Erwin Bender (born 9/27/1944) were central parts of my early socialization, where cooperative play and sharing were essential to our collective survival. Being so close in age, Reuben’s outgrown clothes become Tom’s and mine – yes, that is the price of being younger siblings, especially middle ones!
Half brother James (born 7/30/1928) and half sister Emily Augusta (Bender) Sjurseth (born 11/4/1932) lost their mother Clara Augusta (Wetzel) Bender (born 8/4/1896) on 3/16/1939 from a stroke, while visiting Nebraska. Upon my mother’s entry into this Bender family unit, estrangement developed between Emily and Mom. I have virtually no memories of Emily being in my early childhood, so the estrangement must have been rather strong. James, meanwhile, had a close relationship with my parents, and bonded well with Mom.
Regarding my mother: she was introduced to my father when working in the Chicago area, through a Chicago-based relative of my father’s, shortly after his first wife had died. I have no clue about their courtship, but I doubt the depth of its romantic side! The setting in Iowa was likely perceived to be a step up from her roots in South Dakota, but a step or two down from her cozy life in Chicago. The transition from a well-cared for live-in house-keeper to an already in tact family in rural Iowa was not a smooth undertaking, as I repeatedly heard over the years. The existing Bender family unit was closely inter-twined with a life of its own, while introverted Mom needed space to create her own family.
My formative, pre-school years in Westgate were marked by social isolation, inseparable ties to brothers Reuben and Tom, adherence to the strict practices of religious life imbedded in church dogma, and romping in the bosom of Nature amid the open spaces of our seven acre family estate.
Since television didn’t make our living room scene until I was about 11 or 12 years old, the vast majority of my/our activities were self-directed and essentially void of close supervision. We didn’t subscribe to a daily or weekly newspaper, news was transmitted via radio and word of mouth, leaving one feeling a bit detached from the rest of the world, save for news-castings pertaining to WW II and the Korean War. At one point, I discovered radio programs like Amos & Andy, Dark Shadow and Gene Autry, which became fertile venues for enriching my imagination. Activities included digging in the rich, black Iowa soil, constructing miniature villages in the sand box, climbing trees, engulfing ourselves in autumn leaves and winter’s snow falls.
With a population of around 250 citizens, down-town Westgate remained a distant place, where we feared to trod, as were the residences of near-by neighbors. Dad worked long hours, 6 days/week, as co-owner of Bender Brothers Chevrolet – his older brother Martin (sometimes referred to as Matty) was his partner. I didn’t realize this until years later, but Dad was the mechanic-guy, who was able to perform all manner of expert repair on a Chevrolet car or truck, while Uncle Martin was the office-guy who handled the books, and selling of autos. Dad seemed to reek of petroleum in grease-stained and disheveled wearing apparel, and Uncle Martin seemed to always be clean and neat.
Mom dutifully attended to all facets of domestic responsibilities, with an emphasis on cleanliness being next to godliness and food preparation, including tending to a large garden. It might be said she was an overly protective and indulging mother, keeping us away from ‘outside influences.’ Having a self-sufficiency value, we grew fruits and vegetables, and raised animals and fowl, including an ever-present cow, who birthed a calf once a year which provided wonderful veal meat servings, and whose milk was separated, consumed in the house, and excess sold to a neighbor. For years, we churned our own butter, and made our own version of ice cream.
Interspersed throughout the years, we had pigs, sheep, rabbits, geese, chickens, as well as a variety of dogs. Blacky was the first dog I remember, kind of a mongrel with strong attachments to us kids. We also had a collie we named Fanny, whose life span was shortened by a shot from Rueben’s shot-gun, after being part of ‘dog-raid’ of the sheep he was raising. A vivid memory of this scenario was waking up to a blood-stained snow cover, marked by mutilated and dead sheep the herd of dogs had pummeled. This occurred while still in grade school, and Reuben made an independent decision that Fanny had to go, and dispassionately shot her over lunch time break from school. The last dog we had was a white german shepherd we named Bullet. Bullet was a beautiful dog, emulating the Roy Rogers’ show version. He was loyal, and extremely protective of our family. Unfortunately, he contacted some poison while I was away to college and died.
While I have only vague memories of it, half-brother James and half-sister Emily lived with us for unknown periods of time, with Emily ultimately choosing to live with Dad’s older sister Selma and her husband Bill Reinking, who were farmers north of town. Some form of friction apparently developed between Emily, Mom and Selma and Bill, resulting in long-standing estrangement among the parties. My sense is Mom did not feel comfortable in the Westgate-Bender family interplay, and distanced herself from meddling relatives when she imposed step-parenting controls on Emily. To this day, Emily expresses deep pain around all of this, and is unwilling to discuss the details.
Westgate, Iowa
Thirty five miles northeast of Waterloo, four miles north of Highway 3, off an unmarked road, you can locate the little village of Westgate, Iowa, housing roughly 250 citizens.
“Join in every land, we’re from Iowa, that’s where the tall corn grows”
“Is this heaven.....no, it’s Iowa” - Field of Dreams
Westgate, Iowa Herald Newspaper, circa 1907
“Westgate far-exceeds many towns as a good town to trade in due to our excellent local stores. The farm property as trebled in value. We are fortunate to have the great Chicago & Northwestern Railroad’s freight and mail service. Many towns are too close to the stockyards, wells are contaminated and the best homes in the City are offended by the nauseating odor. Not so in Westgate. We are the heart of Iowa’s best dairy district, with prime pastures, where the best stock and thoroughbreds can be produced. We have wonderful churches and our two-room school pays its teachers the highest wages. The creamery serves 150 milk producers. We take pride in our community and over half the property owners have cement sidewalks. Our farmers and stockmen flourish, as well as artisans and business men. Our fertile acres of prairie land and rich homes and magnificent farms. This is a religious community and we would be proud to introduce you to a group of our manly young men reared in the best homes or to their sisters, a splendid body of of young womanhood worthy of all praise and respect, brought up by their fathers and mothers, pure gold in sentiments that inspire right living. Stranger, you can bring your young people here with full assurance you will be taking them into good influences of a rare old Iowa community noted for its purity of home and social life and the thriftiness and honor of its people.”
When I think of my home town, I think of the various characters whose unique profiles had an impact on my formative years. Let’s start with Martin “Moose” Stewart, proprietor of a difficult-to-describe business, encompassing everything from feed to bullets and candy. Kind of a general store, with a hardware flare, I guess. ‘Moose’ was a man of few words and much action, despite an infirmity with one of his legs, which required his use of a can. He was a large man, always clothed in a bib-overalls and donned with a cap. Kind of a shorter version of my dad, with a limp! His residence was ajacent the store, and included an old lady, whose last name was Reuber, and I believe the mother of a number of same-named men in the area.
Another character was Bill Adrian, owner of a grain and feed store, and also had a business transporting hogs and steers to market, when the need occurred. One common feature of Westgate businessmen was their multi-faceted undertakings. They did whatever it took to provide goods and services without ever getting rich and famous. Anyway, Bill Adrian was the self-appointed Sheriff of Westgate, who prowled the streets when mischievous youth assembled and conjured up acts of vandalism, like throwing eggs at passing cars, or tipping over ‘out-houses’ during Halloween or whenever the mood directed. Nothing official or legal was ever done to curtail these outbursts, after all, boys will be boys! Bill Adrian’s store was a destination on most Saturday evenings, when we would accompany Dad with a case of eggs, collected from our free-ranging chickens, to be candled and sold. Watching Bill’s old-maid sister do the candling, one egg at a time, seemed to mesmerize me, as she did the repetitive process with such diligence.
Augie and Millie Potratz, had one child, Sandy, two years my senior, and athletically engaged with us town-boys. They owned a DX gas station and simple repair shop, with an adjoining soda pop machine and assorted snack/treats. During the colder months, when we congregated on main street to toss around a football, or to play tackle football (without pads!) at the park, or the Opera House to play basketball, the store was always open for post-activity refreshments and social bonding. Millie was much younger than Augie, and was a avid supporter of all form of athletic activity, from whom I felt enthusiastic support in my undertakings.
Werner Poock became an important person in my ‘launch’ from childhood to young adulthood. Upon graduating eight grade, just before turning fourteen, Werner showed up at dinner time to offer me my first full-time job, helping to maintain his farm while wife Verna was with child. For a grand total of $75.00/month, I rode my bike, six days/week to my ten hour/day job. I was entrusted with many different, and often solitary jobs, resulting in a real exposure to being responsible and developing physical endurance and strength. I helped castrate piglets, clean out chicken houses, pig-styes, calf-pens, and corn-bins. I mixed and wheel-barreled cement in laying a concrete field-lot floor. I climbed silos, 30 or more feet high, assisting in the filling process. Pounded fence posts, demolished a brick storage building, spread manure, bailed hay and fed the cows, pigs and chickens. The $75 was the most money I had ever earned and boosted my feeling of independence. Man, did I ever sleep well at night!
Like many Westgate characters, Ted Reuber was a multi-functional entrepreneur, operating a junk yard, feed-grinding business, and general truck-hauling service. His wife, Bernetha, as an award winning flower gardener, who could be found virtually every day, tending to the maintenance of her expansive flora arrangement, covering their entire yard. Ted, was a bit of a curmudgeon and a chronic worrier. While diminutive in stature, he was most free in criticizing and confronting adolescent behavior. I admired Ted’s persistent pursuit of making a sustainable living, willing to take on whatever job needed to be done, a quality that seems to exist in my core makeup.
Carl
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Johnny Nash
“I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
Its gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.
I think I can make it now, the pain is gone
All of the bad feelings have disappeared
Here is the rainbow I’ve been praying for
Its gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.
Look all around, theres nothing but blue skies
Look straight ahead, nothing but blue skies……..”
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The Bender Boys Three - circa 1947
by Nate Bender – April 26, 2007
“Dressed in miniature Navy suits alike,
To church they scampered, a unit defined.
Reflector stripes marking their every move.
Pride bubbling from their innocent faces,
Knowing older-brother James wore the
Full-sized version in ‘the war’ far-removed.
Seasonal forays hold memories quite divine,
Three of God’s little creatures with energy most rare.
Romping in the buff during Summers’ heat;
Tilling and planting in Iowa’s rich black soil;
Absorbed by the sights, smells and sounds of Autumn droppings;
Winters’ arrival bringing thick frost to the kitchen windows all,
Making chances for sledding down country roads and fields.
Inseparable they were, The Bender Boys Three,
Bonded by gender, genes and proximity.
Held captive by endless doings in nature’s bosom.
Feeling safe and secure in the boundaries of home;
Cleanliness and godliness linked to parental intonations,
Accompanied by hearty meals and daily devotionals,
Making retreats into slumber-land a delightful excursion.
Individual differences surfaced via the passing of time,
Leaving gaps too wide to marshal connections.
Separate and divided their pathways became,
With little opportunity to share and support.
Sweet uniformity of early childhood,
Replaced with incomprehensible realities of individuation.
The Autumn of their lives find The Bender Boys now two,
No longer inseparable, yet somehow still connected.
Each distinguished by his own legacy and stories,
Some interesting, and some marked by sadness,
Secretly yearning to bond as before.”
Bender Boys three- circa January, 2005
Another piece of my families’ context has both parents as 1st generation children of immigrant parents, who also survived the Great Depression of the 1930’s, and possessed deep seated ‘survivor mentalities,’ wherein self-sufficiency offered more security than shoring up riches. With foods stuffs being grown, canned and frozen to last through the cold season, and much of the clothing hand-made, minimal purchases and money was required. Besides, End Times were near and Heaven awaited the faithful!
Part Two – Ages 5–10 (Iowa)
This five year period began my 1st separation from the insulated world of home, which generated fears and anxieties in its onset. The unstructured freedom of my pre-school years clashed with the distant (two blocks from home!) world of a structured, parochial school setting. Until this point, my life experience was essentially that of home and its surrounding acreage, with very little opportunity to socialize in the larger world. Having brother Reuben as a cohort, did little to quell the fears associated with the transition. In essence, we were not well socialized children, ultimately requiring years of struggle and effort to become more functional in social settings.
Autumn of 1948 began the first phase of this socialization process via a whole new world at St. Peter’s Lutheran School. The school was positioned adjacent to its namesake church, and consisted of a total enrollment of approximately seventy darling Lutheran children, sequestered in two separate rooms; the Lower Room, where K thru 4 grades were housed, and an Upper Room, where grades 5 thru 8 were housed. Each room had one teacher for the collective room grades, defined by five rows of desks, one for each of the five grades. The Upper Room was configured the same way, with only four rows for the four upper grades. The school building had a basement, where a large room was used for indoor activities when weather was prohibitive outside. My kindergarten teacher was Dorothy Braatz, from Widemore, Iowa, who became my sister-inlaw a year or two later, upon her marriage to half-brother James.
Year-older brother Reuben was held back from starting school and began his education with me, ultimately graduating grade school together. While I don’t have a clear explanation as to why Reuben was held back, I sense he was resistant to entering the confining space of school, and besides, he was more interested in physical activities than in cerebral study and accompanying extra-curricular activities. I also suspect he had a learning disability, wherein attention-deficits were notable. However, the Lower Room grades seemed to work fairly well for him, making the later, Upper Room phase more challenging.
St. Peter’s Lutheran School
by Nate Bender - circa 2007
“Little, red-brick, two-room, school-house, K thru 8, housing 70 kids in all;
Holding a proud tradition of raising future valedictorians in near-by high school;
Formidably nestled in a rural Iowa community, adjacent to its namesake church;
Created by 1st generation German immigrants so fearful, faithful and enduring,
Bent on protecting their progeny from perceived threats of the secular world,
While instilling threatening biblical - Lutheran version - interpretations most strict.
Two teachers, nine grades, desks all orderly positioned in rows;
Space and structure for grade-level as well as collective teaching;
Hymn sings and biblical recitations held daily routines.
Mastering the 3-R’s, and little more, dominated a curriculum quite Spartan.
Questioning of linear, authoritarian thinking was scorned upon,
Making blind obedience or overt rebellion predictable outcomes.
Ample time for pre-school, recess and lunch-time self-organized play,
Necessitated resourcefulness in supplying sporting equipment so sparse.
With adult supervision and medical resources an unneeded requirement,
Broken bones, contusions and concussions were handled with home remedies.
Annual ‘field days’ allowed competitive interplay with other Lutheran schools,
While exposing naïve students to a broader playing field of life.
Scampering home for lunch, while others ate from home-packed pails,
Our parental directives held home-prepared servings the better fare.
Mother served large helpings of home-raised delicacies to her growing boys.
Winter-time offerings of whole cherry pies, fresh from the oven, were special.
Then scurrying back to school so as not to miss out on lunch-time play,
We siblings competed to get there first, on a near-by, quarter-mile roadway.
Confirmation marked a solemn rite of passage into a more mature stage,
In preparation for greater responsibilities and impending teen years.
Recitations from Catechism became unchallenged dogma, effortlessly embraced.
Acknowledgments and money added special meaning to a process quite refined,
Authorization came to partake in ritual of drinking wine from the communal cup.
Central to the rite was purchase of first dress suit, navy blue, with white shirt and tie!
Graduation held equally solemn markings, with harsh reminders to stay the course.
The message was clear….follow the straight and narrow path of life, or else,
While holding steadfast to underpinnings of Lutheranism, Missouri Synod type.
Anxiety surfaced about facing the high school years so far from the protective nest,
In anticipation of encountering others vastly different than Lutherans!
Furthermore, the coming of age offered membership on an adult softball team!
Rich and eventful tho the school years at St. Peters may have been on the surface,
Internal stirrings were left to fester without the awareness of adult authorities.
Entering a less sheltered arena in high school and beyond, required skills yet to develop,
As hell-fire and brimstone themes discombobulated psyches of children so vulnerable.
Corporal punishments had their own harsh reminders of the consequences of ‘sin,’
Leaving residual emotional material to process later, when detachment was developed.”
One noteworthy event occurred during this five-year period. When in the fourth grade, a fall from a play ground swing occurred on a cold, icy pre-school morning. While I have no memory of the actual fall, I have vivid memories of becoming conscious several hours later on the sofa in our home living room, with a pounding headache. With little or no concerns from Mom, I simply slept most of the day and went back to school the next day, only to be met with a good amount embarrassing (for me!) concern from my classmates. I think of this event as being my first of many sports injuries!
SINGING WITH THE LUTHERANS: by Garrison Keillor
I have made fun of Lutherans for years - who wouldn't, if you lived in Minnesota? But I have also sung with Lutherans and that is one of the main joys of life, along with hot baths and fresh sweet corn.
We make fun of Lutherans for their blandness, their excessive calm, their fear of giving offense, their lack of speed and also for their secret fondness for macaroni and cheese. But nobody sings like they do.
If you ask an audience in New York City, a relatively Lutheranless place, to sing along on the chorus of "Michael Row the Boat Ashore", they will look daggers at you as if you had asked them to strip to their under-wear. But if you do this among Lutherans they'll smile and row that boat ashore and up on the beach! And down the road!
Lutherans are bred from childhood to sing in four-part harmony. It's a talent that comes from sitting on the lap of someone singing alto or tenor or bass and hearing the harmonic intervals by putting your little head against that person's rib cage. It's natural for Lutherans to sing in harmony. We're too modest to be soloists, too worldly to sing in unison. When you're singing in the key of C and you slide into the A7th and D7th chords, all two hundred of you, it's an emotionally fulfilling moment.
I once sang the bass line of Children of the Heavenly Father in a room with about three thousand Lutherans in it; and when we finished, we all had tears in our eyes, partly from the promise that God will not forsake us, partly from the proximity of all those lovely voices.
By our joining in harmony, we somehow promise that we will not forsake each other. I do believe this: These Lutherans are the sort of people you could call up when you're in deep distress. If you're dying, they'll comfort you. If you're lonely, they'll talk to you. And if you're hungry, they'll give you tuna salad! The following list was compiled by a 20th century Lutheran who, observing other Lutherans, wrote down exactly what he saw or heard:
1. Lutherans believe in prayer, but would practically die if asked to pray out loud.
2. Lutherans like to sing, except when confronted with a new hymn or a hymn with more than four stanzas.
3. Lutherans believe their pastors will visit them in the hospital, even if they don't notify them that they are there.
4. Lutherans usually follow the official liturgy and will feel it is their way of suffering for their sins.
5. Lutherans believe in miracles and even expect miracles, especially during their stewardship visitation programs or when passing the plate.
6. Lutherans feel that applauding for their children's choirs would make the kids too proud and conceited.
7. Lutherans think that the Bible forbids them from crossing the aisle while passing the peace.
8. Lutherans drink coffee as if it were the Third Sacrament.
9. Some Lutherans still believe that an ELCS bride and an LCMS groom make for a mixed marriage. (For those of you who are not Lutherans, ELCS is Evangelical Lutheran Church Synod and LCMS is Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, two different divisions of the same Protestant religion. And when and where I grew up in Minnesota,
intermarriage between the two was about as popular as Lutherans and Catholics marrying.)
10. Lutherans feel guilty for not staying to clean up after their own wedding reception in the Fellowship Hall.
11. Lutherans are willing to pay up to one dollar for a meal at church.
12. Lutherans think that Garrison Keillor stories are totally factual.
13. Lutherans still serve Jell-O in the proper liturgical color of the season and think that peas in a tuna noodle casserole add too much color.
14. Lutherans believe that it is OK to poke fun at themselves and never take themselves too seriously.
And finally, you know you're a Lutheran when: *It's 100 degrees, with 90% humidity, and you still have coffee after the service; *You hear something really funny during the sermon and smile as loudly as you can; *Donuts are a line item in the church budget, just like coffee; *The communion cabinet is open to all, but the coffee cabinet is
locked up tight; *When you watch a 'Star Wars' movie and they say, "May the Force
be with you", you respond, 'and also with you'; *And lastly, it takes 15 minutes to say, "Good-bye".
May you wake each day with His blessings, Sleep each night in His keeping, And always walk in His tender care.
Half-brother James (his birth mother died early in his life) had recently returned from WW II and a tour in the Pacific aboard a Navy ship, where he had close proximity to one of the nuclear test bombings, and was clamoring to settle down and make a family. Upon their marriage in 1950, my favorite teacher was swept away from the school! James and Dorothy lived in the upstairs suite of the Walter Potraz family, accessible via an out side stairway. I have fond memories of going to their residence, where my eight birthday was celebrated as well as at least one Holiday, before they began the procreation process and eventually moved to Minnesota. As part of aiding them in their transition North, we cared for their two oldest boys, Mark and Michael for several weeks, at least. It was such fun to have the little guys under tow, entertaining them and bathing them in the kitchen sink! When we traveled to Minnesota with the boys, we stayed in a isolated lake-side cabin, complete with access to row boats. As non-swimmers, and without life jackets, we ventured out on the lake, absorbing nature’s many sensations.
Part Three – Ages 11-14
My years in the Upper Room @ St. Peter’s provided a milieu for developing my identity as an athlete, much more than offering a setting for mastering scholastic fundamentals and achievement. Despite the lack of measurable evidence, academics seemed easy for me, and most challenging for brother Reuben.
Despite my gangly physique, related to my rapid growth in height (from 5’ 6” to 6’ 4” during this period of time) competing in football, where we played a tackle version, versus flag or touch, without protective gear/pads, held a natural inclination. Early on I developed a reputation for neutralizing the older and larger kids’ dominant stature with my ‘tackle them low’ tactics.
Basketball held an equal interest, where my superior height, and deft shooting touch made for multiple opportunities to compete and excel, both in an organized Lutheran school league and in pickup games on the outdoor court next to the church. I spent endless hours shooting, usually in isolated doings, dribbling, and fantasizing about being a star some day! Since Reuben was much more full bodied and limited in his repertoire, we frequently positioned him close to the basket and simply have him score uncontested goals, on our way to victory!
Softball play, fast pitch version, and track events became the launching forums for embracing Spring time, as we anticipated the upcoming annual Lutheran Schools Field Day in a far-away (28 miles!) town of Waverly, where we competed for bragging rights for best-of-the-best in track and field and softball. Associated with this annual event was the chartering of a real touring bus from Oelwein, complete with plush seats and all! In the sixth grade I sustained by second sport-related injury - a broken collar bone - the result of a collision from an eight grade girl, Joan Nus. Treatment of the injury did not involve an emergency room trip to the doctor. Instead, I made a make-shift sling in which to ease the excruciating pain that seemed to endure for weeks on end. I learned the art of ‘gutting it out’ and overcoming pain without medical intervention, a trait that has essentially existed throughout much of my life.
Even as a sixth grader, I was frequently one of the 1st to be chosen in a very natural and democratic group process to determine who played on which team. This simple, reoccurring, process did much to instill an enduring sense of self-confidence, not only on athletic venues, but also carried me throughout my life.
Upon graduation from 8th grade, just before turning 14, I was invited to compete on the Westgate town men’s fast-pitch softball team, where virtually all were 21 and older. A really unexpected and heady experience for a young, splindly kid! One of my early memories of this experience was getting a hit and making a saving catch in a big game against a championship team from Charles City. The applause and pats on the back were notable and spiritually uplifting! Another event occurred during a mid-summer tournament, when I hit a home run off of Westgate’s own Howard Hultman, who had defected to a rival team, and remained a premier fast-pitch pitcher in the area and State.
The summer of 1957, I experienced my first full time job. I worked six days a week, 12 hours a day, for $75.00/month for Werner Polk, to and from whose farm I rode my bicycle. The long, physical work days developed my physical stamina and strength, and allowed little time for ‘hanging our.’ Of course, I was able to fit in a full schedule of soft ball games!
This 1957 summer period, when I turned 14, began the scary anticipation of transitioning to High School in far-way (6 miles from home!) Maynard, and its position as the gathering point for a newly formed consolidated school system, named West Central, including Westgate, Maynard and Randalia respectfully. For whatever reason, the move was fraught with fears and anxiety around venturing into the unknown, after nine years of the familiar and safe haven of St. Peter’s.
Part Four - Ages 14 to 18
Part Five - Ages 18 to 20 - Iowa (Ellsworth Junior College and beyond)
“Finding My Voice; A Journey of Discovery”
Being hungry
Growing up in Westgate, filling my voracious food cravings was a no-brainer, as mother’s pantry was always filled with the bounties of home grown produce. Our dairy cow produced milk, cream for churning butter and some sort of ice-cream concoction. The cow was bred, and its offspring became our pet heifer, following us around like a puppy, before it matured sufficiently to butcher. We also had chickens for egg production and butchering, from time to time, ducks and geese and rabbits. When we accumulated sufficient quantity of eggs they would be ferried to Bill Adrian’s multi-dimesional business, and candled before a modest monetary receipt was dispensed, the proceeds of which went into a band-aid can, from which withdrawals were made for future miscellaneous grocery purchases. For whatever reason(s) I refused to eat the ‘rabbit meals,’ likely due to my strong emotional ties to their existence. Sheep could occasionally be counted members of our animal kingdom, with their primary utility being wool production and sale. The bulk of our food supply came from the rich black soil of our large garden and surrounding property. The basement food cellar was stocked with canned goods and an ample supply of potatoes and sour kraut, required staples for good German families! At one point in pre-adolescent years, a large freezer was procured, allowing more space for our growing consumption needs, and held huge quantities of meat, which was consumed at least twice a day. In addition, bags of vegetables and various deserts could be uncovered. Of special note is my parents never indulged themselves or us kids with a meal-out, which would have had to be a trip to Oelwein, as the Westgate taverns did not hold sufficient zones of social comfort!
My teen years opened new vistas for accessing more foods, like A&W chilli dogs in Oelwein, and those Sunday afternoon runs to Maynard, where an older couple operated a small diner which served the best hamburgers this side if McDonald’s coming attraction in Waterloo. Playing hookie from high school in the Spring of my junior year, found me accompanying Eldon Voelker to Waterloo, and devouring many helpings of McDonald’s 19 cent hamburgers and complementing fries and coke. After some of our high school ball games, we frequented a tavern in Maynard that served the best locally concocted chili, to which grated cheese and onion was added.
My 1st foray into emancipation brought me to Iowa Falls and Ellsworth Junior College, now named Ellsworth Community College, where a whole new experience around food took full force: Hunger! With limited food distribution forums outside of the five-day-a-week lunch meals in the cafeteria, I was left to fend for myself, via local café fares and the schools limited service snack bar. Working in the school cafeteria afforded large portions to basically suffice for the full day. As an athlete, I always looked forward to the pre-game and/or post game meals feted by local school backers, as steaks were central pieces of the menu. When traveling to out-of-town games, we were treated to all-you-can-eat smorgesboard restaurants, again gorging on the opportunities to fill the tank!
During the summer between my 1st and 2nd year @ Ellsworth, I worked for King Construction Company as a laborer, spending most of our efforts in Mason City, home of the Music Man movie production. Often sleeping between insulation materials on the work site, instead of making the long drive back to Iowa Falls, presented me with more challenges to land sustaining food sources, ultimately resulting in a 20 pound weight loss, weight I couldn’t afford to lose and still be ripe for the upcoming football season.
Ellsworth and Beyond
During my last year @ Ellsworth, I was captured by the J. F. Kennedy administration’s launching of the Peace Corps, and in light of my disappointing accomplishments in Football, Basketball & Baseball, it seemed like I was called to venture into another venue. Upon graduation, during which ceremony I was presented with my diploma and unexpectedly awarded the “E” Blanket, bestowed on ‘the athlete of the year,’ as determined by the coaches. Something about ‘giving it my all’ in each sport was the justification for the honor. Anyway, Bob Wilcinski, one of my football team-mates from a Boston, Mass suburb suggested I accompany him to Los Angeles, CA,. When I learned that our mode of travel would be hitch-hiking, something I had never done previously, I was immediately intrigued by the prospect. The plan was to return to Iowa, and ultimately Massachucets with his friend, who was a student @ California Institute of Technology (Cal-Tec). Bob’s friend, whose nick name I recall to be ‘shitty,’ owned an old 1953 Chevy, in need of an engine overhaul, as it required frequent additions of oil to keep it functional. Driving non-stop with three drivers alternating was a remarkably stimulating encounter with feelings of freedom and adventure, affording me with ample stories to regale family and friends. Home and its surrounding seemed less relevant, as I had experienced new-levels of un-sponsored freedom.
Peace Corps Foray
Upon preparing to depart for my hitch-hiking trip to California, my Peace Corps packet arrived, informing me of my acceptance and ultimate assignment to what was then called West Pakistan with training at the University of Minnesota for a three month stint, beginning in one month.
Flying out of the Waterloo Airport to Minneapolis, Minnesota produced a great surge of excitement in anticipating a whole new adventure. Dad drove me to the airport, and bid me farewell, projecting a sense of bewilderment in trying to understand what I was up to, as the Peace Corps was not part of his map of important things to do. Arriving in Minneapolis, I was met by a delightfully professional Peace Corps administrator, who escorted me to the processing-in procedure, including norm room assignment on the St. Paul part of the campus. Here I was, just about to turn 20 years of age, sequestered on a large college campus, with approximately 100 other trainees from across the country, representing a cross-section of American idealists, in search of opportunities to give, vs take, in improving the human condition. I resonated with these ideals more than with anything in my life to that point. Inter-scholastic sporting competition took a distant second place in my priority list.
The three month training experience was jammed packed with all sorts of classes, ranging from history, agricultural matters like irrigation and water distillation, equipment maintenance, and daily sessions on learning the language of Urdu (salaam alaikum!) and the cultural customs of a Moslem country. Every day, we had organized physical training, including calisthenics, sprint races, swimming, basketball and soccer. I had never been exposed to soccer, and quickly found a role as goal-tender, a position that later led to being selected as goalie for an all-star team. I was known for my aggressive play in blocking shots/kicks, frequently leading to shut-out victories!
I was one of the youngest, if not the youngest trainee, and early on defined my place in the social matrix as a valued member of group recreational pursuits, namely soccer, flag football and basketball. Since I lacked swimming skills, I made a gallant effort to learn, and even progressed to being included in water polo competition. Two significant events occurred in the sports competition milieu that resulted in my emotional self-control being called into question, ultimately resulting in my being ‘de-selected’ out of the course and assignment to Pakistan. During a heated water polo match, I became overly aggressive and ‘smacked’ one of my opponents, in full view of the referee/coach, and another event around a basketball game, where my overly aggressive responses led to a physical block on a particularly aggressive opponent, resulting in his falling to the floor and breaking his fore-arm, again in full view of the course leader.
Retrospectively, I was clearly out of my league with regard to integrating myself into a core group of vastly more mature and talented peers. The rejection was the most crushing blow I had ever experienced, resulting in uncontrollable crying and panic-like sensations. It was real hard to return home to Iowa as a failure!
Part Six - Age 21 to 23 - California - (Pepperdine University
Part Seven - Ages 23 to 25 - Post Graduation
Military Service
The 1960’s were a decade of phenomenal personal and social change and growth for me: High school graduation in 1961, followed by month-long stay in California, via a self-paid bus trip, followed by a two-year stint in Junior College, followed by an aborted three-month Peace Corps tour, followed by completing college at Pepperdine, followed by my first professional job as a Probation Officer, followed by 1st marital venture, followed by being inducted into the Army, and finally, starting my first tour of duty in Thailand to complete the momentous decade.
For me, 1968 stands out as the most tumultuous year of the decade, for in the midst of socio-political upheaval surrounding wide-spread civil unrest and overt rebellion, tied to the Viet Nam War, the Civil Rights Movement and the Human Potential Movement, I received my military service draft notice. Having the Selective Service Commission reclassify and involuntarily induct me into the Army, was mystifying and disruptive, to say the least. Being 6’ 8” tall I was deemed too tall for military service by the Draft Board, which pre-dated today’s All Volunteer Service piece, which did away with mandatory military service for all males between the ages of 18 and 25. Rendered a 1-Y (unfit), versus 1-A (fit) classification at age 18, because of my physical height, left me secure in the belief that I would never have to go to war and all. I was the oldest age in which one could be subject to the involuntarily draft.
Much to my dismay, and out of the blue, I received a notice to report for a ‘pre-induction physical,’ For those of you who have missed the experience of large group physicals, let me indulge you a bit: imagine a circle of 20 or more naked men, individually subjected to having their privates fondled, or more accurately probed for hernias in the adjacent anatomy, along with a DRI (digital rectal exam), performed while bending over and touching one’s toes, and complimented by doing a full squat to demonstrate functionality of the legs. All of this conducted with little or no compassion or regard for human dignity!
Early morning on August 28, 1968, my long-standing friend, Claude Williams, drove me to the Los Angeles induction center, near down town, with only the clothes I was wearing and a few dollars in my wallet. Saying good-by held an ominously awkward feel, as I was about to enter a whole new life experience, and Claude would continue his job as a school teacher, while attending to all the demands of ‘normal’ family life. In short order, I was sworn into the US Army, with Captain Gene Abbott, a former classmate @ Pepperdine, and now a Viet Nam War veteran, doing the honors. Eventually, I was issued a small travel bag, containing toiletries, a large envelop containing induction paper work, my physical exam results, an airplane ticket to Newark, NJ and orders to begin Basic Training at Fort Dix, NJ, clear across country. An olive drab (OD) colored military bus then drove me to LAX, where I awaited my red-eye flight toward what would become an almost four-year military odyssey. Here I sat at LAX, alone and scaled down to a minimal level of creature comforts, with a salary of $104/month awaiting my next pay-check. Quite a shift from my professional status as a Probation Officer, where I was earning more than $700/month!
Once arriving at Newark airport early on the 29th, another OD colored bus awaited to transport me to the Fort Dix reception station, where I was ushered to my temporary living quarters, now called a barracks, housing approximately 70 of us freshly minted recruits. During the lapse in time until being issued new Army wearing apparel, we were directed to the conveniently located barber shop, where for a mere dollar, one’s head was shorn of it hair, in a stylish ‘buzz cut,’ taking away significant marks of our individuality, as part of molding us into trained killers. At one point in all these preliminary activities, I was found to violate some unknown rule and promptly escorted to a latrine, where I was handed a tooth brush with which I was to clean the shower stall. Can you see how this discipline might have gone over in my somewhat non-conformist make-up? I was not a happy camper, and registered my disdain for this consequence!
Upon being issued a duffle bag, my new wardrobe was about to take and stuffed therein. These became my only wearing apparel for the next two months. Being ‘different’ in size to the average conscripted member of my forming family of recruits, many clothing items, particularly shirts, coats/jackets and sleeping bags, did not fit, requiring special orders to be received later in the training cycle. I was beginning to feel like I did not belong or fit in this man’s army!
Once we were outfitted with creature comforts, we were loosely formed in front of an imposing Drill Sargeant, complete with his donned ‘smokey-the-bear’ had, later to learn its correct name to be ‘campaign hat.’ His simplistic bark was to remind us of a central truism: ‘there are three things you don’t do in this man’s army….pee into the wind, mess with superman, and fuck with me.’ As you might imagine, I was not shacking in my newly minted boots
After a year of marriage, my then wife and I separated, albeit amicably, yet with little understanding of why marital coexistence was not working, nor what the next steps would be. Divorce was never seen as an option on my radar screen of life, so in my private thoughts, I expected reconciliation renewal to be possible. Certainly, we never argued or bickered, yet a harmonious state seemed to be fleeting.
Military Career Venue: Thailand, Germany, Psychologist, Delta
Part Five
Corporate Consulting Venue
Part Six
Collegiate Venue
Part Seven
Athletic Venues: Grade School, High School, College, Post graduate Years
Part Eight
Mississippi
Part Nine
Psychotherapist Venue
Part Ten
Probation Officer Venue
Part Eleven
Cleveland, Ohio Venue
Part Twelve
Marital Venues
Church in the Wildwood by William S. Pitts
There’s a church in the valley by the wildwood
No lovelier spot in the dale.
No place is so dear to my childhood,
As the little brown church in the vale.
Oh come, come, come, come
Come to the church in the wildwood,
Oh come to the church in the vale.
No spo is so dear to my childhood,
As the little brown church in the vale
Military Service
The 1960’s were a decade of phenomenal personal and social change and growth for me: High school graduation in 1961, followed by month-long stay in California, via a self-paid bus trip, followed by a two-year stint in Junior College, followed by an aborted three-month Peace Corps tour, followed by completing college at Pepperdine, followed by my first professional job as a Probation Officer, followed by 1st marital venture, followed by being inducted into the Army, and finally, starting my first tour of duty in Thailand to complete the momentous decade.
For me, 1968 stands out as the most tumultuous year of the decade, for in the midst of socio-political upheaval surrounding wide-spread civil unrest and overt rebellion, tied to the Viet Nam War, the Civil Rights Movement and the Human Potential Movement, I received my military service draft notice. Having the Selective Service Commission reclassify and involuntarily induct me into the Army, was mystifying and disruptive, to say the least. Being 6’ 8” tall I was deemed too tall for military service by the Draft Board, which pre-dated today’s All Volunteer Service piece, which did away with mandatory military service for all males between the ages of 18 and 25. Rendered a 1-Y (unfit), versus 1-A (fit) classification at age 18, because of my physical height, left me secure in the belief that I would never have to go to war and all. I was the oldest age in which one could be subject to the involuntarily draft.
Much to my dismay, and out of the blue, I received a notice to report for a ‘pre-induction physical,’ For those of you who have missed the experience of large group physicals, let me indulge you a bit: imagine a circle of 20 or more naked men, individually subjected to having their privates fondled, or more accurately probed for hernias in the adjacent anatomy, along with a DRI (digital rectal exam), performed while bending over and touching one’s toes, and complimented by doing a full squat to demonstrate functionality of the legs. All of this conducted with little or no compassion or regard for human dignity!
Early morning on August 28, 1968, my long-standing friend, Claude Williams, drove me to the Los Angeles induction center, near down town, with only the clothes I was wearing and a few dollars in my wallet. Saying good-by held an ominously awkward feel, as I was about to enter a whole new life experience, and Claude would continue his job as a school teacher, while attending to all the demands of ‘normal’ family life. In short order, I was sworn into the US Army, with Captain Gene Abbott, a former classmate @ Pepperdine, and now a Viet Nam War veteran, doing the honors. Eventually, I was issued a small travel bag, containing toiletries, a large envelop containing induction paper work, my physical exam results, an airplane ticket to Newark, NJ and orders to begin Basic Training at Fort Dix, NJ, clear across country. An olive drab (OD) colored military bus then drove me to LAX, where I awaited my red-eye flight toward what would become an almost four-year military odyssey. Here I sat at LAX, alone and scaled down to a minimal level of creature comforts, with a salary of $104/month awaiting my next pay-check. Quite a shift from my professional status as a Probation Officer, where I was earning more than $700/month!
Once arriving at Newark airport early on the 29th, another OD colored bus awaited to transport me to the Fort Dix reception station, where I was ushered to my temporary living quarters, now called a barracks, housing approximately 70 of us freshly minted recruits. During the lapse in time until being issued new Army wearing apparel, we were directed to the conveniently located barber shop, where for a mere dollar, one’s head was shorn of it hair, in a stylish ‘buzz cut,’ taking away significant marks of our individuality, as part of molding us into trained killers. At one point in all these preliminary activities, I was found to violate some unknown rule and promptly escorted to a latrine, where I was handed a tooth brush with which I was to clean the shower stall. Can you see how this discipline might have gone over in my somewhat non-conformist make-up? I was not a happy camper, and registered my disdain for this consequence!
Upon being issued a duffle bag, my new wardrobe was about to take and stuffed therein. These became my only wearing apparel for the next two months. Being ‘different’ in size to the average conscripted member of my forming family of recruits, many clothing items, particularly shirts, coats/jackets and sleeping bags, did not fit, requiring special orders to be received later in the training cycle. I was beginning to feel like I did not belong or fit in this man’s army!
Once we were outfitted with creature comforts, we were loosely formed in front of an imposing Drill Sargeant, complete with his donned ‘smokey-the-bear’ had, later to learn its correct name to be ‘campaign hat.’ His simplistic bark was to remind us of a central truism: ‘there are three things you don’t do in this man’s army….pee into the wind, mess with superman, and fuck with me.’ As you might imagine, I was not shacking in my newly minted boots
After a year of marriage, my then wife and I separated, albeit amicably, yet with little understanding of why marital coexistence was not working, nor what the next steps would be. Divorce was never seen as an option on my radar screen of life, so in my private thoughts, I expected reconciliation renewal to be possible. Certainly, we never argued or bickered, yet a harmonious state seemed to be fleeting
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