Tough Times- 1969-1973

Dad returned from Viet Nam safely in the fall of 1968. We were next assigned to Eglin AFB in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. And, since school had already been in session for two or three months, I was again the new kid. But, remembering the “success” I had being a smart-aleck, I figured that it might work in school there. What a let-down! After about two weeks, a girl leaned over in class and asked me, “Where was it that you came from?” I answered that I had moved from Missouri. Without missing a beat, she said, “Why don’t you just go back?” I was crushed. New lessons learned: Nobody likes a smart-ass, and, Dad was right: just be yourself. If people only like the person you are trying to be, then how long can you BE that person? Just be yourself, and those that like you will always like you. Actually, it made things a lot easier. I didn’t have to have two “sets” of behavioral rules. I didn’t have to turn off the disrespectful clown act and turn on the good son act any more. Not that I was perfect. Remember how I said that I had gotten lazy at school? The studying (or non-studying) habits that I had developed during my 8th grade year and the first part of my 9th grade year had carried over. It was really hard to buckle down and DO my school work again. As a result, my grades plummeted. Our grade cards were given to us by each teacher for that particular course. I had a whole stack of BAD grades, and was scared to show them to my parents. Mom kept asking me when did report cards come out? All of a sudden, the NEXT report cards were coming out. I had sat on my grade cards for over a month! So, one afternoon, I slipped my (old) report cards onto Dad’s desk. He was at work, and I got out of the house ASAP to postpone the inevitable. Finally, I could stay out no longer. . .I had to go home. When I got home, I noticed Dad’s car was there. I walked in and tried to get to my room. Dad saw me, and called to me. About the time I got to the door of his study, the pounding in my ears was overridden by the sound of my mother crying hysterically in her bedroom. Dad looked at me, held up the report cards, and said very quietly and sternly, “Don’t you EVER do this to your mother again.” That was all he said, but it spoke volumes. I had to go to summer school to pass Algebra 1 so that I could get on to high school. Then, I was a sophomore. I had the same problem buckling down and doing the work. I went to summer school to get driver’s education out of the way, so I could try to get my required courses taken. In the meantime, Dad got sent to Korea. My grades continued to suffer and I think I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was worried about my Dad. I tried applying myself and doing the work, with limited success. Dad developed a heart problem and was taken off flying status, and sent home from Korea. I figured that maybe after all of his service years, he might not have to go away any more. I was wrong.
I remember one Sunday morning during my junior year in high school. I had begged off from going to church that morning, and Dad had worked the night before, so he didn’t go. We were sitting in the kitchen having a cup of coffee or something, when he started to talk. He and Mom were having some problems. I know now that he was broaching the concept to me gradually, but at the time, it was devastating to me. There existed the (remote) possibility that he might go away. Again. Only this time, it was for keeps. After what seemed to me and my siblings as an eternity filled with anxiety and pain, (and most assuredly Mom and Dad as well), they were divorced in the summer of 1971. It was only somewhere in the neighborhood of 6 —8 months, but it seemed a heck of a lot longer. During this period, Dad set out to buy Mom a car. I got to accompany him on some of his “window shopping” trips to the car dealerships. I got to sit in a Lotus on one trip. We ended up at the local Chevy dealer and I saw a 1971 Malibu 350. It was red, and had a 4-speed. Oh, how I tried to convince him that Mom NEEDED that car. He countered with the comment that it was going to be Mom’s car, and she didn’t need to be shifting gears all the time. I knew he was right, just the same. . . She ended up getting a Sunflower Yellow Malibu 350 with a white vinyl top and (sigh) an automatic transmission. It was a nice car, and I got to drive it occasionally. But, that left the ‘64 wagon for me to drive. Dad’s car-buying days weren’t done, though. He was also looking for a new car for himself. He had it narrowed down to a Datsun 240-Z or a Volvo 1800E. I secretly hoped for the Z-car, but he opted for the Volvo. One of the most beautiful cars ever made, and at the same time, one of the ugliest cars ever made. Until you slid into the leather seats and turned on the Blaupunkt FM radio and cranked the air conditioner to full blast. Add to that a 4-speed, fuel injection, and electric overdrive and you had quite a machine. Dad stopped in for a visit one day shortly after the divorce, and I was looking at the car. I noticed cat hair all over the back seat of the car. I commented on it, as I had thought that he wasn’t crazy about cats. “Well, my wife has two cats”. Bomb number one. I asked, “Anyone I know?”, knowing full well that I probably didn’t know her. As it turned out, it WAS some one that I had met before. She and her husband had come to our house to teach Mom and Dad to play pinochle. I remember the day clearly, because I found the game to be boring, and my brother and I went out to play one-on-one football in the yard. During the game, he was carrying the ball and I lunged at him and tried to trip him. I ended up stepping (hard) on his ankle. Games over. The football game ended because my brother was screaming in pain. The card game ended because someone had to take my brother to the hospital. I had broken a little tiny bone in his ankle. But, because just about every leg movement one can make affects the ankle, he was put in a hip cast. So I remembered the woman. “And, around the middle of next summer, you are going to have a little brother or sister.” Bomb number two. But, I accepted both facts with the proper amount of apathy. Of course, as the time grew nearer for the baby to be born, I mellowed just a little. It wasn’t going to do anyone any good to hold a grudge against a baby. (I must add that I got over my grudge with my stepmother. It took a while, but I did it. I realized that my father had picked her, and that she made him happy. I had no right to try to stifle that. And, she is actually a wonderful woman. She is not my mom, but still a wonderful woman. I regret having wasted the years that I did, not knowing her like I do now.) The summer after I (finally) graduated, I got a baby sister. My brother and I drove up to Montgomery, Alabama where Dad was attending the Air War College to see the baby. I hadn’t seen my stepmother since the pinochle/football games. The baby was beautiful, as all babies are. Dad took us to a movie while we were there. “What’s Up, Doc” was the movie we saw. Dad laughed through the whole movie. It was good to hear him laugh. The next day, we drove back to Florida.
I got a job as a busboy at the local Sheraton, and started thinking about a car. All I had was a motorcycle, and despite being in a “tropical” state, winters are cold. Especially on a motorcycle. Dad went with me to look for cars. We found a really nice light brown ‘69 Mustang with a 3-speed/6-cylinder engine. We both drove it and decided that I was a good car. The next day, I rode the motorcycle to the used car lot to put some money down on it. Well, it was gone. Somebody else had bought it. I remember that it had rained that day, a good Florida rain. So, the streets were still damp, and there were lots of puddles. I ended up at another dealership to see what they had. I found a ‘69 Dodge Dart about the same shade of brown as the Mustang was. I looked it over, there was some slight body damage, but the price was about what I figured I could afford. I asked to test drive it, and they let me. I was still 17 years old! I drove it carefully through some neighborhoods and on a couple of “main roads”. (Remember, the roads were still wet.) So I was being real careful. The car drove nicely, and the AM radio and air conditioner worked. I put $25 down on the car that very day, and went on my way to get hold of Dad to tell him about it, so he could arrange financing on it. He would take out the loan, and I would make the payments. The next day, of course, I went back by the dealership to look at “my” car. I opened the hood and looked at the engine. (I didn’t really have any idea what I would be looking for, but that’s what you are supposed to do, right?) As I closed the hood, I noticed some “decorations” on it. The decorations said “340 Four Barrel”. Yep, you guessed it. I asked if I could drive it again. The salesman said, “Sure, after all, it’s your car”. I might add that the weather was gorgeous that day. I idled out of the dealership lot and got on a side road and stomped my foot down. Holy Crap! That car just flat got up and MOVED!! I just grinned all the way back to the car lot. Financing went through a day or two later, and that car and I started wearing out (rear)tires. Of course, when Dad was riding in it, I “behaved”. He thought I had made a good choice, and inferred that I needed to make sure the money was there for the payment each month. It felt good knowing that my Dad approved of my choice, and that he was willing to put his credit reputation on the line for me. I made every single payment, sometimes in cash and change on the due date, sometimes early enough to mail it in. But I paid for it. Every darn cent.

Right after I got The Car, I also got a new job that paid a little more, and had potential for a career. I got a job as a machine shop helper at a local defense contractor. I worked in the machine shop as a “grunt”, then was sent to the welding shop to be a grunt there. I would test things we built for leaks, and if there were any leaks, I was to get a welder to come over and fix it for me. The guys in the shop got tired of having to fix holes, so the foreman taught me how to weld enough to melt the metal and let the hole seal up. Additional lessons followed, and I became proficient enough to not have to ask for help much at all. During this time, I decided to enlist in the Air Force. I needed eyeglasses so I figured that flying fighters was probably out of the question. But, I figured that maybe I could use not only the great benefits, but get some schooling as well. Maybe pick up a little more discipline at the same time. I spent a lot of time at the recruiting office. I asked the magic question: “What kind of job could I get in the Air Force?” Sgt. Mashburn told me that they didn’t know yet, but there was a battery of tests that I would take, then, based upon my scores, they could give me a list of all the jobs I qualified for. So, on a Saturday afternoon, four other young men and I took the tests. We were told that the results would be back the following Tuesday. So, that next Tuesday, I stopped by the Recruiting office. I asked Sgt. Mashburn what jobs I qualified for. He picked up a really thick binder and tossed it at me. “Pick one”, he said. “You qualify for every position in the book.” He elaborated, “You had a 95 in Electronics, a 95 in Math, a 90 in Mechanical and an 85 in Clerical. All those jobs have a listing as to what your minimum scores need to be to qualify for them.” So, instead of browsing through the book, I asked him what the Top Electronics job was. He recommended “Precision Measuring Equipment Specialist.’ So that is what I picked. Evidently, major corporations wrote to the Air Force every year asking what PME’s were getting out that year. Then they walked right into $25,000 (or more) a year jobs right out of the Service. Now, I know that 25K isn’t really a lot of money now, but in 1973 it was a LOT of money, especially for a starting wage. So, I was on my way. I took the bus up to Montgomery to take my military physical, and took another series of tests. I had done everything except “raise my hand” to take the oath. I kind of held off going in for a little while, and had to wait for the proper time to join up so that my Tech School (at Lowry AFB at Denver, my grandmother Fields lived right across the fence) would be starting right after basic training. I had also entertained the notion of going to college if I didn’t go in the service. Finally, the day arrived for me to get on the bus and head off to Basic Training. I was supposed to be on the bus at 4:30 that afternoon. At 2:00 that afternoon, I was at the recruiting office telling Sgt. Mashburn ,“I don’t think I want to go.” I told him that I was learning to weld, and that I had a girlfriend that really wanted me to stay. He tried to talk me into it, but admitted that it was, indeed, my decision whether I went in or not. I left the office, still a civilian. I continued to learn to weld, and was making pretty good progress. Then, disaster struck. I got laid off. There might have been some warning, but I did not see the signs. We were almost at the end of a contract, and needed to downsize until work picked up again. Not only did I lose my job, my girlfriend dumped me, and it was right after the registration deadline for the local junior college. I got a job in a small steel shop for about a month or so. That ended after I showed another guy who came looking for a job how to gas-weld some steel. Well, he showed the boss the pieces that I had welded, not the ones that he had tried to weld. So, they let me go, and he got hired because of my skill. Fed up with Florida and the crummy job market at the time, I called Dad. By this time he was stationed at the Pentagon, and lived in Virginia. I asked if I might come for a visit/move up there. He said yes, and since I didn’t have any money, either he or Mom bought me a plane ticket to Washington D.C. By this time, my baby sister was about 18 months old. She attached herself to me almost immediately. Since she couldn’t say “Roger” yet, it came out “Bobbee”. When she would wake up, she would start calling “BOBbee, bobBEE.” I decided to try to find a job there. Dad took me over to the Toys ‘R’ Us store in Fairfax, Virginia where I asked if they were hiring. The manager came over with some papers and handed me some, and handed the rest to a girl who also was applying for a job. One paper was an application, another paper was a test. Math problems, logical thinking, attitude and aptitude. The last piece of paper was blank. He explained that it was “scratch paper” for the test. So, the girl and I started our paperwork. I was just about 2/3 of the way through a nasty case of sinusitis at the time, and felt like crap. But, with Dad waiting, I needed to get the test done. I told myself that I would not use the scratch paper. So I didn’t. I did all of the math in my head. At the conclusion of the test, the manager came over and collected our papers. He picked up my application, glanced at it for a moment, picked up my test, checked the answers, and glanced at my scratch paper. He picked it up, looked at it and turned it over. One side was as blank as the other. He looked at me with amazement, said that nobody ever did that, and asked me when I could start, all in pretty much the same breath. I arranged for a start date, and Dad drove me back home. On the way, he was just about bubbling with pride and enthusiasm about my “amazing” feat. It felt good to make him feel good. There is nothing like a shower of Father’s Pride to bolster your attitude.