James Wm. Frank – Page 26 – Laugh, Explore & Understand

September 2, 1977August 2, 2018

Machu Picchu

One of the most amazing trips of my life was backpacking through Ecuador and Peru in 1978. I flew into Quito, Ecuador, experienced my first earthquake, bused my way south into Peru. Flew from Tumbes, Peru to Lima, Peru then flew to Cusco, took an early morning train to Machu Picchu to spend the day.To sit quietly on a terrace where farmers had planted corn in 2000 BC, was truly life changing. Here are some pictures of that trip.

Train, leaving CuscoFunny story, I got up early to go to the train station to make sure I got a ticket for what they call the “local train”. There was also a Gringo train, however, the cost was higher and did not allow much time at the summit. As I was leaving the station, I overheard a local say that the train was leaving in an hour, not the 2 hours as written on a plaque on the station wall. When I ask the local, in Spanish, why the plaque said an hour later, they said, that sign has been there for years. All the local people know it leaves an hour earlier. So, imagine, running in the thin air at 10,000 feet, back to the hotel, crawling over the hotel guards sleeping on the floor in front of the door, so nobody can leave without paying, grabbing packs, and getting back to the station in an hour. My lungs felt like they were on fire.

The flight into Cusco is interesting. The plane has to fly directly at a mountain, before turning 180 degrees to descend sharply on the runway. Pretty scary.

When I was leaving, I got the airport, exchanged all my local currency and got in line to get my boarding pass. When I got to the front, the agent asked if I had reconfirmed my ticket. I said I had not known I needed to, however, I could reconfirm at the counter. She said, oh no, you must reconfirm at their office in downtown Cusco. Good grief! So I had to give the cab driver $20US because that is all the currency I had – no change, of course, to get back into town. I arrive at the airline office to meet hundreds of travelers trying to get tickets, etc. All of a sudden the guards start ushering everyone out of the office into the street. When I asked why, the guard said, we are too busy, so we are closing the office. I questioned the logic in this and was told, most people will go away and not come back, so that when they reopen in 45 minutes, there will be fewer people to deal with. Amazing logic.

When I arrived in Lima, I rented a car to sightsee for the day. After inspecting the VW bug, I went back to the car rental counter and explained that there was no gas in the car and the windshield wipers were missing. The girl explained to me that the cars are rented with an empty tank and are to be returned with an empty tank. I questioned the logic on that as I had rented cars around the world and never rented one with an empty tank, to begin with. She explained that there was a gas station at the entrance to the airport. It took me a second to figure this out as I asked, does you cousin own the station. She looked pleasantly surprised and retorted, oh yes!. So what happens is the cousin siphons the gas out when the car is returned and sells it again to the next gringo. Actually, pretty creative.

Here are some other pictures of that adventure.

Arrived in Otavalo, Ecuador with Rob Young. He had this rented this penthouse (haha) for trips to Ecuador to buy sweaters for Magic Mountain. He and Kent Griffin would trade off buying in S. America and operating the retail/wholesale business in Canada.

I can still smell the fragrance from the many flowering plants. The outside shower overlooked the countryside.

This is what is called an Ecuadorian wedding shirt. I really enjoyed that shirt for many years.

Local market

Cuenca street corner with local courier service. These guys carry hundreds of pounds at a time. I saw a carrier with an oak desk, plus an oak chair on his back. Unbelievable!

Local construction techniques

Lots of decorated, carved doors.

This disabled musician was carried by friends, maybe he paid, not sure, to this location outside my hotel window near the market. Every morning I would wake up to his pan pipe serenade. Most amazing!

Local merchant of toffee. They stand in the doorway and pull the toffee. I watched as a fly landed on the toffee and was immediately incorporated into the pulled toffee. Interesting added protein, yuck!

What are called Panama hats are actually made in Cuenca, Ecuador. Many times you can see women carrying dozens of hats on their heads through town. All handmade and quite beautiful.

I bought the strap that the lady is weaving in this picture. I have used it on cameras and guitars for many years.

This is my room in Tumbes, Peru, on the border with Ecuador. When I rented the room, I asked for a room with running, hot water. When I got to the room, the toilet had not been used in forever and there was no water, let alone hot water. When I complained to the desk, they said, well, you might get water today, and you can heat it yourself. Might get water meant that a truck came into town each evening and if one was fast, one could get a bucket of water. No chance of a gringo beating out a local.

Funny story. I arrived at the border at the same time as several Peace Corp young adults. I figured they spoke better Spanish to get us through the border crossing so I let them lead the way into the guard house at the edge of a dried up ravine that separates Ecuador from Peru. Very interesting. The border was guarded by a little shack on one side of a bridge over the dry ravine. On one side were local merchants, sitting in the dirt, selling items that are illegal in Ecuador, and on the other, merchants selling products illegal in Peru. It had not rained in Tumbes for years. Even the cactus was dying. One Peace Corp guy really angered the border guard after being told that we needed a Visa to cross the border. He said to him in Spanish, so what is the bribe I have to pay to avoid walking back a mile to the town to get a visa? The guard went nuts and screamed at all of us to go back for the visa. I agreed to stay and guard the backpacks while Liz Marusic, and the Peace Corp group went back to get the paperwork.

I was waiting inside the guardhouse, a small one-room building with a desk, a couple of chairs and several windows with bars over them. As I was sitting there, the guard went outside for a moment. The wind came up and blew the door shut and it locked closed. The guard ran to one of the grated windows and started yelling at me to open the door. As I was walking towards the door, it struck me as so funny, and I couldn’t help but blurt out, in Spanish, how much to open the door for you, with a smile on my face. He initially turned red, then started to laugh as I opened the door. He came in and said, I like you, and proceeded to open his desk and take out a bottle of some kind of alcohol along with two glasses and started pouring. By the time the group got back and looked at me in aghast, we were the best of friends and he had already stamped my passport before getting the visa.

This is the airport in Tumbes to take a flight to Lima, some 3000 miles down the coast of nothing at all going on except dry desert. I had some concern that the cab driver was going to execute us on the way to the airport since I could not see anything that looked like civilization on the way. When we got there, the airport was not open yet. When the plane arrived, the pilot loaded the baggage. As we started to taxis down the runway, the plane turned around and came back. We were told that plane had a flat tire, and we had to wait until another plane had to arrive with a spare tire before we could take off. Needless to say, I was nervous the whole flight over a deserted desert coastline. Too funny.

August 26, 1977July 31, 2018

Founding Lambda Crystal Inc.

Of the many reasons that I write this story, life lessons are the ultimate source for future family members to perhaps gain some insight into.

In August of 1977, I had completed eleven semesters straight at the University of Guelph. That included summer semesters, which were great by the way, so I was ready for a month off before heading into the next fall semester.

A friend from U of G, Kim Boggild, (whom I met while waiting in line to see JJ Cale on campus) along with her dog, had already ventured to Colorado, and I talked Liz Marusic into taking an orange 1960 Volkswagen, of Tim Todd’s to join the adventure. The driver’s seat was falling through the floor, so we had a piece of 2×4 stuck underneath to keep it from dropping out the bottom. Consequentially, the noise from the ground made it difficult, to say the least, to hear inside while driving.

On the way to Colorado, Liz and I stopped to camp near Omaha, Nebraska. Hopefully there will be a slide of this. We found this deserted farmhouse front yard, still marked by a broken down mailbox at the entrance of the laneway. The rest of the farmland was under soybean cultivation as far as the eye could see in all directions. We could see the skyline of Lincoln in the far off distance.

After setting up our tent, and starting a propane stove for supper, we noticed a car in the distance winding its way between the fields of soybeans and headed our way. Just a bit concerned, because we had no invite for the property, I waited for the arrival of what turned out to be a Cadillac with a gun rack in the back window, unique, eh?

So this huge looking cowboy, farmer type rolls down his electric window and I say howdi, being social. He says howdi. I said I hope you don’t mind if we camp out here tonight on your property. He says with the longest drawl imaginable, “Nope this here is my daddy’s property, and you can just have at er all you want! With an enormous sigh of relief, I waved goodbye and we settled down for one of those most amazing nights under the stars, when it is so dark, the stars and shooting stars just have to remind you of your insignificance.

I remember vividly, walking down the main street of Boulder, CO at about midnight and seeing something down the street in a window that caught my eye. It attracted me because I saw flashes of color and could not decipher the source, so I had to explore and investigate.

As I stood in front of a gift store with crystal prisms hanging from a tree branch inside the front window, the rainbow colors literally sent shivers through me as I said this aloud, “Man, I bet that shit sells like crazy”. Now at that time, I had no intention of ever going into business. My total focus had been to get sufficient marks in undergrad to get into med-school within the next couple of years.

The challenge is that when you think you know what’s going on, you have no idea what is going on – that I learned in basic training for Vietnam.

The next day, I went back to the store during open hours and purchased what turned out to be: a pair of dangly earrings Art. 6400, and a prism, 6208 called a sunburst. As I was paying for the items, the clerk asked me “where are you taking these?”. Now, has anyone ever asked you that?

I rambled something about being from Canada and that is where I would be going. The sales clerk, immediately chimed, “I don’t think anybody is importing these into Canada. You should talk to the guys who import this here, just outside of town, in the mountains. They sell about a million dollars of this a year.” For no reason, I asked, yeah, but how much of that ended up being profit? He said, “I think about 30%.”. I then dismissed the idea with some comment about going to med school and having no intention of going into business. I left the store with a seed planted.

That evening, Liz and I were out to dinner with Kim & her bo and got to talking. I remember saying, well, my dad always said, “Talk is cheap”. It can’t hurt to go talk to these guys. So the next morning, off I go, with Liz in hand, back to the store where I had made the infamously psychic purchase.

I asked the clerk if he would call the supplier and allow me to speak to them. He agreed. Once on the phone, I asked frankly, if the clerk was correct in the sales figure of one million after one year in business. He confirmed. I asked if we could meet and he agreed to have me attend his home in the mountains outside of Boulder. The drive was spectacular, through lush river road, winding this way and that and each new view as full of wonderment as the last. It was truly an in the now experience.

I turned into a wide asphalt drive that expanded to reach toward a large, two car garage on the left, and a large log home on the right, both canopied by tall pines casting shadows far below. Both structures had been freshly hewn and epitomized the back to earth movement of the mid-seventies. I was in amazement. To see that one could be in the middle of nowhere and carry on business. That awareness started a passion to develop a business that was not limited to local sales but could be international.

After a couple of hours of conversing, I asked if they would front me some samples in order for me to get orders and then I would place orders with them until my volume got too large, and in which case they would introduce me to their European suppliers. Wow, how simple to say was that? Their answer was to be expected, NO! “You seem like a nice enough guy, but, Canada to get our money back, No.

Suddenly, I had a Dream. Ever since starting university as an older than average age student, I had this compelling lack of fall-back plan for what if I did not get accepted into med school. Perhaps that seemed like a good idea at the time. I knew that I could not go back into an employment situation as I had experienced in hospitals, and the idea of owning something, that I could control, seemed to bring comfort. The fact that I could buy something and turn around and sell it for a profit was attractive. And, if I had a product that was at the front of marketing, then I had supply and demand on my side.

As the fall of 1977 arrived, I obtained my OSAP payment. OSAP at the time was a student loan which eventually had to be repaid. I was also receiving an educational allowance from the US government for having served in the Army during the Vietnam era. Under the GI Bill, I received a monthly stipend, which was just enough to afford me the ability to go to school without working.

When my student loan arrived in September, I sent a $750 post payment to the guys in Boulder and told them to send me samples of the most popular items. When they arrived, I began learning about the customs and duty game for importing products into Canada.

I remember organizing them on a set of shelves I set up in a corner of one of the two rooms I rented on Forbes Ave from Caroline Inch. I labeled them on the shelf and just looked at all the sparkles I remember saying, “there’s my money”, just like when you see an enormous flock of birds on a crisp fall day and utter that to a friend.

My first sale was to a gift store in Elora, named “The Green Owl”. It was owned by the cutest little lady from a small town. She explained that I should sell my crystal at a trade show, which I had never heard about. She also taught me my first economic law of wholesaling, “Terms”.

When I return with her first order, while we chatted and looked at the crystal, she placed the hand-written sales slip on her desk and paid no further attention to it during our conversation. As I needed to leave to deliver some other product, I asked if I could receive payment and be on my way. Her response was, “I will pay you in thirty days”. I am sure I looked dumbfounded when I said, Excuse me? She said that is the standard in the industry.

My quick, little rebellious brain took over and I heard myself saying, “Who made up that rule? Why not this rule, I take your money and bring back the goods in thirty days. That’s how I have to buy. She said, well, that is how the game is played. How naive I was to business.

My friend, Andrew Smith made a display sample case for the crystal pieces from an antique violin case. It was just unusual enough to get everybody’s attention when I would walk into a giftware store. I would not need to say much other than to say, may I speak with the owner. Inevitably, they would ask what was in the case, as their imagination went wild as they considered it might hold a machine gun, like in the gangster movies. It opened the conversation and I made huge sales because of it. Thanks again, Andrew.

August 5, 1977July 31, 2018

Vancouver Trip 1977

As you know, I love to travel. In 1977, four of us set out from Guelph to go to Vancouver on a road trip. I remember we were going to stop to see Carolyn Inch’s brother in the mountains of BC. It took us 3 days to get out of Ontario, due to van problems. I had bought the blue Econoline Van in Toronto after moving to Pape Ave with Andy and Penney. The first thing I had to do was to replace the engine with a rebuilt that I bought out of Montreal and installed in the backyard. It made the trip and got us home safely. Although, we did almost run out of gas in the middle of the night headed into Banff, AB. And then there was the time the column gear shift would not engage into second gear as Rick Paine was crossing a railroad track with a train about 50 feet down the track.

We got to Vancouver and visited Stanley Park for the first time in my life. The fact that I may have been on some mind-altering something only created a memory full of vividness.

Sitting on a tree stump in Stanley Park, wearing a suede shirt that I had made myself from scratch. I impress myself sometimes with my creativeness.

The van I bought and changed the engine, moved to Guelph, drove to Vancouver – this is BC backwoods.

A couple of slide shots from the trip out.

April 3, 1974July 31, 2018

Letter to Lighthouse

Aberfoyle, ON with 1975 VW. When I first moved to Canada, I listened to a radio contest that required a written submission to win a week in a guitar music workshop with the Canadian band Lighthouse, in Collingwood, ON. The topic was why I would want to attend the workshop.

I actually received a call from the promoters who asked me to come to the workshop to speak to them about writing a story about the band. Although I attended the wonderful workshop, I declined the writing assignment as I was attending York University and working as a Pulmonary Technologist at Western Hospital in Toronto at the time. The experience was amazing. Here is the letter I submitted in the summer of 1974.

Dear Sirs:

One night when I was barely big enough to require a real bed, the type without side rails, I remember hearing the oldsters gather together in the front hall beneath my bedroom and harmonize on whatever the flow of music required. That happened quite frequently until I was about ten years old. I have no idea how long it had been commonplace before my first recollection.

Mom was in her late 30’s then, didn’t look her age at all and could play a tune on the piano as well as the concert harp – played really well too. She had the long thin fingers and the dexterity required for the classics and Christmas carols, but could never create music from within and was later unable to understand my musical score notation of “get down”. Of course, I never got it together to comprehend her score notations; consequently to this day I have difficulty reading music. She never discovered that fact until while I practicing on my trumpet one day under her command, she asked me begin at a particular bar. After giving several notes the opportunity to be correct, I had to admit I was not sure of the beginning. After a brief discussion with my father, my trumpet lessons were cancelled – after a year of Saturday mornings with Mr. Kratz. Mr. Kratz had played with Sousa’s Band and should have retired years prior but continued to give music lessons. I remember him of short stature, overweight, and had heavy lips congruent with a horn man. He set my goal to be able to play the trumpet while the aforesaid was suspended from the ceiling – no hands. I couldn’t really think of a time when I would be required to perform such a feat and therefore could not get that together either. The worst part was that he was a friend of the family and I was required to be in his presence thereafter, realizing that he knew of my failure. That way the guilt had a recurring effect.

My father had a curtness about him concerning this situation. The facts spoke for themselves and the outcome was totally logical. He had been through the older school, having been born in 1889; he was fifty-nine when I was born. I guess he always seemed a grandfather image, stern but with a good heart; and, man could he play the fiddle. Hell, I was twelve or thirteen before I discovered that it was one and the same as a violin.

I’ve still retained his violin and each year I give an oath that I’ll learn to play it a bit better. I’m improving, but there never seems to be enough time.

The guitar has been my instrument now for about six years; and unlike my sister who studied piano from my mother or my brother who captured the fiddle skills from my dad, I learned myself. That’s not completely true, because I was exposed to the music and the chord structures while pretending to play a portable Lowry organ in a teenage band called “The Chambermen”. That was my first and last experience with a “professional group”. Our biggest gig was playing the opening of a shoe store. We were once asked to leave a school prom because all the girls were in high heels and couldn’t dance to fast music, which was all we knew.

I played a coffee house in Berlin, Germany; they paid $2.50 a set and didn’t mind talent that was in need of about ten years experience. I’d watch the other sets, half glued to the movement of the fingers more talented than my own and half absorbed by the music: wandering and wondering if I would ever be able to disclose the identity of each note and chord which flashed before me faster than I could assimilate. Once, I tried to audition with my twelve-string, for a gig in Columbus, Ohio. I was so uptight that I took a book of words with chords which I had gotten together in my compulsive days. The manager was honest and told me I had potential but that I needed more exposure to crowds larger than myself. He was not a bad guy but explained that John Denver was booked that week. All I knew about him then was that he had written a song recorded by Peter, Paul, and Mary.

It wasn’t long after that, that I realized I was never going to be a rock star. I still believe it, but like most dreams and schemes, one always secretly hopes to have it happened around the next corner.

So music has been a great part of my life which has been educated and has educated, has expressed eras of me and is constantly pulsing within me at several levels of consciousness. It has been the theory and lack of exposure which has bogged down my creative flow, like the essentials of rhythmic structure – I speed the tempo constantly, or the idea that no one has ever heard of 12-bar blues ending on the I7 chord.

But by now I’m ready to get into a musical workshop. A learning situation has the ability to enhance the creative riffs and acquiring and developing new musical skills tend to keep that creativity flowing. And besides all that, it would get me off this musical plateau where I have been stagnant for what seems an eternity. Which reminds me of something my father said that night when as a child I was supposed to be asleep.

My older sister and brother had composed a duet of piano and violin which they were presenting for the first time. Upon completion of what I recall sounding like something that would have awakened the gods, my father smirked, with a contained grin, “Well, that’s one way of playing it”. He and my mother then took over the respective instruments and accomplished what my brother and sister had attempted – playing a classical duet in ragtime beat.

As to why I would appreciate the opportunity to attend the school is quite simple. I would never have a chance to jam and learn music from the talent composing the workshop otherwise.

September 13, 1973July 31, 2018

West Virginia Fall Fair 1973

Fall fairs are so much fun. In the fall of 1973, I drove from Columbus, OH to West Virginia for a local fall fair. They had a firing range with antique muskets. I had to try my hand. There is a delay from the time the trigger is pulled until the powder actually ignites in the barrel and the ball fires. It took some getting used to in order to keep the aim after the trigger is pulled.

June 28, 1973July 31, 2018

Dizzy Dean

Some people leave lasting impressions for reasons as simple, and complex, as having taught you something that sticks with you forever.

Dizzy Dean was one of those people. Dizzy entered my life in Columbus, Ohio in the summer of 1973. I had been introduced to the local watering hole, Dick’s Den, on High St. in the Ohio State district of Columbus, Ohio. At the time, I was attending Ohio State and working at the University Hospital, running pump for open heart surgery. It was the time of love, not war, peace is the only way, era of my life, and the times.

I had been connected to some locals, Ralph Leesburg, specifically, by Gary Bolstad, who I had spent great times in Berlin, Germany with while stationed with the US Army Medical Corp.

Dizzy had been arrested on possession in Indiana and had spent two years in the state penitentiary. While incarcerated, Dizzy had written a manuscript of the history of jazz in the US. It amazed me that he had accumulated so much knowledge and transcribed it onto written pages. He shared much of his knowledge and taught me some fundamentals of Jazz that have stayed with me ever since. I include here a recording of me playing the chords that he passed on to me. My rendition is much different than his due to poetic license, however, the 12 bar blues is always open to interpretation.

June 3, 1972July 31, 2018

If I Were Young and I Didn’t Know

I love writing musical lyrics and score. This song came to me in Columbus, Ohio, circa 1972. I had just watched a news article about a mine explosion that took 91 lives. I began to wonder why men would go down into a hole when they know the risks. It occurred to me that they just don’t believe they could be there when the cave-in happens.

If I Were Young & I Didn’t Know

Written by

James Frank

Daddy worked the mines, so I’m a miner

What I know, I learned from watching him

Momma hid the fear of losing love-ones

Mining takes its toll, nobody wins

Mining’s been a hard a fearful business

Sunlight never sees my face

But busted rock and picking through the rubble

Darkness is my life, it is my day

Silvermine explosion down in Kellogg

Ninety-three good men trapped alive

Two walked away with their sweethearts

Ninety-one others lost their lives

Refrain:

Well, I’ve worked/staked many a claim

And I’d do it all again

If I were young and I didn’t know

Mining’s what I know, don’t think of moving

Daddy taught me well before he passed

Since then, I’ve taught my sons the work of mining

When mining’s all you know, there’s no contrast (you live the past) future is the past

Argonaut Mine – 47 – August 27, 1922 – Jackson California

Speculator Mine – 168 – June 8, 1917 – Butte, Montana

Sunshine Mine – 91 – May 1972 – Kellogg, Idaho

February 15, 1971July 31, 2018

MGTD – 1951

This is the story of how I bought and rebuilt a 1951 MGTD while working and living in Fairfax, VA, circa, 1971.

I was living in Fairfax, VA and working at Fairfax Hospital. Simultaneously, I was taking a course to run a pump for open heart surgery at Washington Hospital in downtown DC. I also was running in an ambulance out of the fire departments of Maryland to earn extra money.

I remember seeing this 1951 MGTD sitting in the parking lot of the apartment building where I lived with Kathy Frank. We had an “efficiency/bachelor” apartment directly across from Fairfax Hospital, within walking distance to work. I found the owner and bought the car for $750, as is.

I soon discovered why it was sold, as is. The back cylinder, of four, had a head gasket leak that allowed oil to seep into the cylinder which would repeatedly coat the spark plug to the point that it would not fire. The result was that each day, as I drove to Washington Hospital, the engine would begin to fire on only three cylinders. At best, every other morning, I would have to stop at a specific point in my travels to remove the spark plug, clean it, and then carry on. Thinking back, crap, was that ever crazy.

One night, Kathy & I were going out and I attempted to start the car. It had a key, push-button starter system. When I pushed the starter button, flames shot out of the side of the hood. I remember Kathy saying, “Why did it do that?”. I said I don’t know, but get the hell out of the car. It was winter time and I could not find a fire extinguisher in the apartment building entrance so I grabbed a chunk of ice from the side of the parking lot in a futile attempt to put the flames out. Neighbors were watching from their balconies by that time, and somebody asked if I wanted them to call the fire department. By the time they arrived the flames had disappeared but the damage had been done. Afterward, I discovered that some thief had taken one of the carburetors and when the electric fuel pump started, it pumped gas over the starter motor which led to the fire.

Once I realized that I was going to have to buy replacement parts from California, I decided I might as well repair the head gasket. To my chagrin, I also discovered that one of the crankshaft bearings was worn and had to be replaced. Having to learn all the repair techniques, buying the parts, begging a local MG repair shop to use their tools, and parking lot to rebuild the engine was a testimony to my perseverance. I eventually restored the MG and here is a picture of Kathy sitting on the hood. I later sold the car to the same Youngstown, OH labor union leader who bought my 1934 Packard.

I loved that car! Side curtains, leather seats, and my first convertible. The picture on the right is as close to the exact model as I have found, but an MGTC instead.

December 31, 1968July 31, 2018

Berlin Germany

The world can be an awesome place to experience. I recommend that you learn to travel as early as possible and never give up on experiencing someplace new as often as possible. The things you will learn will stay with you forever.

My Christmas 1968 was spent getting ready to ship out to Germany over New Year’s Eve. That was the reason I joined the Army, (drafted really), to see the world! I was really excited, scared, full of wonderment and solo in the world. If it was to be, it was up to me.

We flew from Washington, DC to New Jersey and then on my first flight across the Atlantic. Imagine, over a hundred, lonely, horny soldiers on an overnight flight with the oldest stewardesses in the world, who would take no shit from loud-mouthed crazies full of testosterone.

When we arrived in Shannon, Ireland for a stopover to Frankfurt, I headed for the can. To my amazement, there was a woman tending the men’s bathroom. Well, not having used a facility with a woman standing within sight of the urinal, I found my bladder unwilling to function under the watchful eye of a matronly observer. Try as I might, I could not go. Finally, out of total embarrassment and frustration, I kind of made a sound like I was going, accepted the towel after washing my hands, dropped some US change on the offertory plate at the door and left, still feeling a need to service.

When I arrived in Frankfurt it was New Year’s Eve and snowing. We were housed in temporary barracks that had a quadrangle in the middle of four buildings. We lined up in the quadrangle and left our duffle bags in rows. We were told to leave them in perfectly aligned order and retreat indoors from the cold.

We were told that we could sign out bedding on which to sleep but would have to return them to the supply room at 4 AM. Nobody wanted to get up that early to then do nothing for hours, so nobody slept on mattresses with blankets that New Year’s Eve. I curled up in my heavy trench coat on bunk bed springs and tried to stay warm. I could see through a small broken pain of glass, out of the building, and across the street to a bar where couples were wandering in and out all night. They were speaking a language I did not understand. I felt alone, somewhat vulnerable, yet so excited for all the adventures I would experience. That was my New Years Eve 1968.

The next morning we had to find our duffle bags under 6 inches of snow. I finally got my orders approved to travel behind the Iron Curtain to Berlin. We rode all night that night and arrived in Berlin the next morning. Somehow I managed to get to the 279th Station Hospital, Berlin safe and sound. What happened next will amuse me for my whole life.

I was assigned to a barracks room in an old German Psychiatric Hospital in the American sector of Berlin. Beautiful old ornate red brick buildings with a 10-foot high wall surrounding the compound. The compound included a large grassy area at one end, which included a bar at the opposite end from the hospital, which I came to know all too well. The beer was 10 cents, a shot was 25 cents, cigarettes were a dollar a carton of ten packs.

When I opened the door to my room, I immediately noticed that the ceiling was painted black, with white silhouettes of stars and half moons at awkward intervals. It was a foreshadowing of what was to come. I unpacked enough to head to a much-needed shower.

When I opened the door to the shower room, I stood there in disbelief facing a beautiful naked girl in the shower. I questioned in my mind whether WACS were also in the same barracks. When I started to leave, she said it’s ok to stay and shower. I ask her how come she was in the shower. She responded that she was living with her American GI boyfriend in the barracks. Welcome to Berlin’s 279th Station Hospital. It turned out to be just like a MASH crazy unit with little discipline or military structure. That was the start of a year and a half tour that was an amazing adventure.

A nighttime picture of Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin between the US quadrant and the Russian quadrant.

June 26, 1967July 30, 2018

Army Induction

In February 1967 I received the dreaded yellow draft notice from the US government requiring me to report for a draft physical in March. I was about to turn 19 years old. Take a moment to remember who you were at that age, your beliefs, hopes, and dreams and all the things you held important in your life.

My brother, Mike, instructed me to immediately go to the Army recruitment office and request a written guarantee for the training school of my choice. He felt that was my best chance of staying off the front lines in Nam. The reason being that I had spent the last two years of high school working at night at St. Thomas Catholic Hospital as an orderly. He knew that if I allowed myself to be drafted without a school, I would be shuffled off to medic training and sent to the front lines with a red cross on the front of my helmet for target practice by Charlie. Their procedure was to shoot the Second Lieutenant, or whoever was in command by their insignia, then the radioman so he could not radio for help, then the medic so he couldn’t patch up the first two. The life expectancy of a medic in a firefight was about 30 seconds.

So off I went to the recruitment office. The Sargent was elated when I told him I was there to enlist because I wanted to go to Vietnam to help save Vietnam from the Vietnamese. He said, “You are our man, sign right here”. I told him I wanted to get a written guarantee for the training school of my choice. He said, I didn’t need that, just sign here and I would get the training of my choice afterward – crock!

Reluctantly, he provided the largest bound book I had ever seen, listing pages of job training schools for the entire military. I carefully perused it looking for job descriptions that would allow me to use my previous medical training while keeping me from the front lines with a target on my head.

I applied for such schools as x-ray-technician, lab technician, and one called social work/psychology specialist. I had no clue what it really meant, but figured it would keep me off the front lines, unless I found myself jumping out of a plane with some gun-ho Airborne-all-the-way Green Beret/Special Forces guy, asking him on the way down, “just what happened during your early-childhood that made you want to jump out of a plane that you know damn well is going to land”.

In early May, I received a call from the recruiting officer that my written guarantee was in and to report for enlistment. When I arrived he handed me a piece of paper with Accepted for the school for Social Work/Psychology Specialist. It seemed pretty safe at the time since I didn’t have much choice left with having to report for my draft physical in a couple of weeks. I signed on the dotted line.

I then asked him what I was supposed to do about the physical in Cleveland coming up? He turned beet red as he said, you bastard, I could have had you before if you had told me that. He was furious that I had enlisted for three years instead of the mandatory two years by being drafted. Go figure. So he says, just report for your physical and show them this enlistment notice.

When I arrived in Cleveland for my draft physical, I had an eye-opener. First, I found out I am color blind. They stood me on a line and told me to cover one eye and tell them the number appearing on the screen. All I saw was colored dots and no number. When I told the medic I didn’t see any number, he said 17, cover your other eye and tell me the number you see. Again, I said there was no number. He said 7, pass, next! In other words, color blindness did not keep one out of the Army.

After peeing in a bottle, having a guy grab my balls and ordering me to cough, and being totally stripped of my identity, shades of things to come, I watched as hundreds of guys who had arrived there that day, not knowing what was going to happen, being told; you are Navy, step over there, You are Marine, step over there, You are Army, step over there and You are Airforce, step over there. They had no idea they were being shipped out that day from there without time to say goodbye to family and sweethearts. Reality can be harsh!

I, on the other hand, showed them my enlistment papers and went home, matured by the experience.

I graduated from high school on June 8, 1967, got married to Sandra Dako on June 10th, We went on a quick honeymoon to Mammoth Caves, which was all we could afford. Well, what I could afford. I covered most of the wedding costs personally. We all stood at the train station in Akron, my Mom, Dad, and Sandi on June 26th. It was the first time I saw my Mom cry as I left.

I had a sleeper-car for the ride because it took all night to go from Akron to Louisville, KY. When I arrived at Fort Knox, all I knew was that the US gold was housed there. From there, my whole world changed beyond belief. We were immediately yelled at by my some Sargent who called us all girls and that we could give our souls to God, but that our asses now belonged to the Army.

I was stripped of all identity, hair cut off, clothes taken, personal items confiscated and stored and left looking exactly like every other naked guy in skivvies. They then began to give us new identities, a green uniform, boots and a hat, and on day two, my own last name on a tag that I had to sew on my shirts. Even tho every guy had their last name on their uniform, we all had the same middle name, Fuckin! It was Fuckin Frank, get over here. Fuckin Frank, drop and give 50 push-ups because I don’t like the expression on your face.

A couple of events happened in Basic Training that are worth mentioning. One, I developed an infection in one of my molars. The swelling finally got so bad my eye was beginning to close. I was “allowed” to walk to the base dental office, where two medics held me down, while another yanked the tooth out. There was so much pus, any Novocaine would not take effect. Ouch!

The second was more complicated. During PT (Physical Training,- two hours a day), I passed out and collapsed. Upon awakening, I was told to “walk” to the dispensary to see a doctor. I remember walking down the road, not knowing exactly where I was supposed to go, when this jeep came along-side me and a guy said, you alright? I was staggering from the heat, July in Kentucky, and the fever. Upon arrival, they decided that I might have an appendicitis by sticking their finger up my ass to see if it hurt. They also pressed on my lower right quadrant to see if there was pain upon releasing their pressure. Both hurt like hell! I was taken by jeep to the hospital, where they repeated the procedures and determined that yes, I had an Appendicitis and scheduled me for immediate surgery.

I remember telling them that I did not want to worry my Mom by letting her know I was going into surgery. I figured it was better to say, Mom, I am out of surgery and doing fine. I recall them getting me out of the recovery room bed to walk to the phone while holding onto the IV pole to talk to my Mom. Humorously, I remember saying yes Mam to my mother as I had been commanded to by the military to speak to any female officer.

Story short, I spent three weeks in the hospital, having contracted serious pneumonia following surgery. Sandi and brother Mike came to visit me in the hospital. The result was I had to repeat Basic Training all over again due to being absent for three weeks. UGH! Normally, guys who cannot pass the final rugged tests for Basic Training are called Recycles. Due to the event, I was classified as a Recycle. Further embarrassment.

The bottom picture is me after three weeks in the hospital, having lost about 35 pounds. Not good!

One of the first things I learned in the military is that when you think you know what is going on, you don’t have a clue to what is going on.