Babes, Booze & Biceps

By Paul Slayback

KIRKUS BOOK REVIEW
An impressive follow-up to Slayback’s (Boys, Bumps & Blood, 2013) debut memoir.
The author picks up right where his first autobiography left off, in the fall of 1952. At the age of 14, he was shuttled from Duluth, Minnesota, to Lansing, Michigan, while his father headed to Florida. Such trips had been part of their regular routine ever since the author’s mother died; this time, he was left in the care of his married older sister, Lorna. Yet as heartbreaking as it was for the author to hear his father abruptly tell him to “learn to be happy on your own,” it hardly sets the tone for the remainder of the memoir. Instead, the author was resilient, throwing himself into a quest for happiness and contentment; he immersed himself in archery, bodybuilding and bow-hunting, among other things. His diligence with schoolwork eventually allowed him to go to college. There, he enjoyed , for a short time, pole vaulting, spent productive time on a horse ranch and met a steady procession of women. This improved effort is sure to delight readers of heartfelt, folksy autobiographies. Slayback writes with sincerity, imparting vignettes from his life with urgency, as if committing them to paper might relieve the pain or sorrow he encountered in his early youth. His love of Michigan particularly shines through (“Fall in Michigan is football season....In every city, town, or village, it’s in the air, the fresh, brisk, warm, sunny air of day, coupled with the slight bite of cool air in the evening”). He just as clearly describes his time spent learning to rope calves in a rodeo as he does a spicy boat trip to Cuba. The memoir’s cheeky title, though, belies the emotional, introspective landscape of the author’s life. Overall, Slayback relates his adventuresome life with gusto and reflection.
A delightful second memoir that’s more engaging and contemplative than the first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Slayback
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311171795

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Michigan

My dad's 1939 Plymouth chugged along highway 61, from Duluth, Minnesota to Lansing, Michigan. I sat beside him mulling over his message of the night before.

You'll be spending the rest of your school year with Lorna and her husband in Lansing, Michigan. She's a good cook, you'll like it there, he said.

Lorna? Why can't I return to Myrtle's? I asked. Didn't work out, said my father.

I hadn't seen Lorna since I was 8 and I'd never met her husband, John Patrick.

My dad was dropping me off on his way to his winter home in Tampa, Florida. The night my dad told me I'd be going to Michigan, my sister, Marian said, Dad had deep chest colds for the last tree winters and the doctor told him to get out of that 20 below weather and go to a warmer place. She said Dad wanted me to spend the entire school year in one place.

To me, the change was temporary. I was used to change. It made me nervous, not afraid. After my mother died, my dad sent me for the summer to live with Grandma Baker, an Ojibwa Indian, at her camp in northern Minnesota. He picked me up in the fall. When I was nine, I spent the school year in an orphanage, the Duluth Children's Home. He picked me up in June. The past year, he sent me to live with my sister, Myrtle, in Long Beach, California for the school year. He paid for my Greyhound bus ride back to Minnesota in June. Over the summer I worked on a dairy farm and registered for school in the fall. In my young mind, my home was Minnesota. The place where I had friends, went to grade school, fished, hunted, and lived with my dad in a small house on Decker Road.

I wanted that life to last. I didn't like change but toughened my mind to handle it.

Driving along the road on that sweltering, sticky day, it never occurred I would never again return to Minnesota to live with my father.

Starting before daybreak, October 1952, my dad and I traveled straight through, stopping briefly at road stops, and arrived in Lansing on a hot, 90 degree Thursday afternoon.

The Patricks, John, Lorna, and their four-year-old son Michael, lived in a one bedroom, one bath apartment at 742 East Shiawassee next to a noisy 24-hour-freight-hauling company. Off the living room, separated by a sliding glass door, a 5' by 10' foyer held a single bed, small desk, and a rack filled with archery equipment—my room.

Lorna greeted us at the door with a hug, a cup of coffee for my dad and a plate of Fig Newtons.

Lorna's husband John walked through the door forty-five minutes later. Shirtless, wiry and sunbaked brown, John was a carpenter for a local cement company, Boichot Concrete. That 90 degree day, he'd installed a tin roof, a scorching job. Still, he greeted me energetically. Surprised to discover how big I was, he said, Hi son, not what I expected. Your sister always called you her little brother. His strong calloused hand gripped mine. I saw a man, 5' 6" tall, with dark wavy hair, bright blue eyes and a broad smile revealing a large set of buckteeth.

The Patricks were an archery family, members of the Valley Bowmen, a club centered around an archery shop six miles north of town. Archery was to become a dominant part of my life. But, on this particular day, just five days shy of my fifteenth birthday, using a bow and arrow was new to me.

That same night after proving dad right with a great fried chicken dinner, Lorna said good-bye to us as John took me to the Valley Archery Shop outside of town. We shot arrows at targets tacked to straw bales in a field behind the shop. I was tense. I was a guest in my sister's house. Her husband was a stranger to me. I was unsure of how to act. However, John was a steady, patient teacher. I relaxed and took in my surroundings. It was deer hunting season so the targets were pictures of deer, bear and wolf. We walked on chipped pine that gave off a vanilla smell in the fresh, cool night air. A large yellow moon, almost close enough to touch, rose just above the straw bale targets and the inky sky held thousands of twinkling stars.

John shot a few arrows at the target and then let me have a turn. He showed me how to place my fingers into a three finger glove on the string, pull the string back with my right hand, anchor it to my cheek, aim toward the target, and let the arrow fly. My first arrow whistled through the air and smacked the deer target right in the heart giving me a satisfied glow. I can do this, I thought to myself.

My second arrow sailed two feet over the bale, lost in the grassy field. Confidence vanished, I handed the bow back to John, Sorry, I said.

Forget it son—we all miss the target when we first start, he said.

But, I don't want to lose your arrows, I said.

Don't worry about that, there're only arrows. We can always get more, he said. John's easy-going manner coupled with our common interest in this new sport of archery, eased my mind, lessened my feelings of insecurity.

After our practice round, we walked into the shop and John handed me a used bow to try out—a Polar made by Fred Bear. After shooting a few arrows, I told John I liked the feel and power of the bow and he offered to buy it for me for $14.00.

I thanked him for the offer, but told him, I have my own money. I paid Richard, the shopkeeper, part owner of the Valley Bowman Archery Shop, for the bow. Richard asked me several questions about my background, where I was from, my age, what work I've done—questions that seemed overly nosey at the time, but later became more clear.

When we arrived home, John searched through some of his things, found what he was looking for, and gave me one of his old gloves and an arm guard. This'll protect your fingers and here are some arrows, he said, handing me half a dozen arrows with white and black feathers.

Lorna examined my new bow. It's a beauty. Welcome to the Valley Bowman, she added with a smile and a laugh.

As my head touched down on the pillow that night, my Polar bow resting on the same rack as John's and Lorna's, I felt different than when I first arrived. I was no longer just a young boy shipped off to spend another school year with some distant relatives.

With my own Polar bow, arrows, short practice session at the archery range, I felt linked to John and Lorna, accepted as part of their family, but a connection centered around a shared and common interest—archery.

I closed my eyes, a vivid image of misi-bishi, the mountain lion, flashed across my vision and melted into another vision— me, standing on a hill, a quiver of arrows hung from my back, my bow firmly in my left hand as a large black bear emerged from a heavy thicket. My right hand deftly slid and notched an arrow with a sharp point onto the string. I drew back the string, anchored my hand on my face, aimed, let the arrow fly—and dropped off to sleep.

CHAPTER 2

The Patricks

Lorna was my oldest sister, sixteen-years-old when I was born, and, after our mother died in an auto accident on the north shore in Minnesota in 1939, inherited the job of raising me and my two sisters, Marian and June. Without Lorna, who held the family together, I would have been adopted out.

At 24, Lorna left Minnesota and moved to Long Beach, California where my other sister, Myrtle, was living with her husband and young daughter.

She was born on my father's 160 acre farm in Siren, Wisconsin. Together with my other sister, Myrtle, she fed the livestock, milked the cows, and did other chores, working like a man on my father's farm.

By the time I arrived in Michigan, Lorna was thirty years old, stood 5' 7 inches, lean, strong and angular. She still looked like the long ball hitter—smacking balls and home runs playing softball in the field behind our house in Duluth.

Honest, intense, loyal, hardworking, Lorna kept a spotless house, and one of the few ladies that could prepare, season and cook, delicious wild rabbit, pleasant, and venison.

John was an old fashioned guy who wanted Lorna home taking care of their 4-year-old son, Michael. John handed her his paycheck each week and she balanced the budget, bought groceries and paid the bills. At home, they were a traditional couple but on the archery range they were partners, a strong husband-wife team, winning trophies and socializing with fellow archers.

The heating was a coal furnace in the basement that Lorna kept supplied with coal that heated both units. She got a rent reduction for her service. I volunteered to help and inherited that dirty job. Later, I remodeled the basement, put in a shower, an old single bed and florescent lamp John got free off a job. Lorna, while friendly and appreciative, had a mature, reserved manner unlike my other sisters who were more open and demonstrative in their affection toward me. I didn't mind. I was much the same way in dealing with people.

John was born and raised in Arkansas and boxed in the golden gloves. After high school, he enlisted in the Air force and during WW11, served in the Pacific as a gunner in one of those f lying fortresses. After discharge, he traveled to Long Beach, California and got a job in a saloon at an amusement park near the ocean called the Pike. Strange job for a former air force cadet who had seen action in the Pacific, I thought.

My entire family spent time in Long Beach. Sometime in 1945, my sister, Myrtle, married a navy man named Bob Bonham, moved to Long Beach, and all of us visited her there. Later, my sister, June, stayed with Myrtle for about a year. In 1950, I stayed with Myrtle for my 8th grade in north Long Beach, returning to Minnesota in the fall.

Lorna met John at the Pike in Long Beach about 1946 in the restaurant saloon where he worked. John played a guitar and sang. My sister June, a frequent visitor to the Pike and living with my sister Myrtle at the time, introduced them. My sister June once told me that Lorna didn't much care for Johnnie when she first met him. However, besides singing and playing the guitar, John was a great dancer and he finally won her over with his laughter and self-deprecating humor. They started dating, eventually married and settled in Lansing, Michigan.

The next day after I arrived, Lorna, armed with a scribbled note from my father giving her temporary guardianship of me, enrolled me in Pattengill Jr. High School located six blocks from their apartment. One end of Pattengill attached to Lansing Eastern High School.

No football team here, but I made an immediate impression on Mr. Janson, the swimming coach, who had us swimming relays that first day in gym class. The junior high schools in this town went from grades seven through nine and besides a swimming pool, Pattengill had a swimming team. I loved to swim. I immediately relaxed and felt more comfortable. Additionally, unlike California, boys here dressed more like us Minnesota boys. I had no problem fitting in.

Miss Patterson, my homeroom teacher, had us orally state what we had done the past summer… the other students seemed quite interested in my stories of Minnesota, California, and summers on Seymour's farm.

After swimming three weeks on Mr. Janson's team I got some shocking news. I can't believe it, he said, they won't let you compete—they say you're ineligible.

Why? I replied.

A new rule—says when you transfer to a different school, you have to wait for one semester before you're eligible, he said. You're the best swimmer I've ever had, he added, shaking his head.

I didn't miss the swimming. Besides competing in archery, about January 1951, I became eligible and joined the basketball team. I played varsity forward in some spirited games among other schools. We had cheerleaders.

In the city championship game we played Walter French in their gymnasium and won in the last seconds with a jump shot by our 6' 4" center, Pat Wrightman.

Our coach, Mr. Merry, was about 45 years old, 5' 7, with disheveled, thinning black hair, glasses, and weighed 275 pounds. A clownish figure on the basketball court surrounded by us young, chiseled, and muscular athletes, he loved sports, loved people, and loved to eat. After our win, at his urging, we joined hands and danced around in a circle—like that merry bunch of dwarfs that circled Snow White.

Several years later, in this same gym, Walter French would re-claim the city crown led by a tall, black, bushy-haired forward named Ervin Johnson. Ervin was a great shot maker from all over the court, so good his coach nicknamed him Magic.

In the spring of my 9th grade, I competed in the pole vault and running broad jump, vaulting 11 feet tying Dean Look from Walter French for first place in the city championship. Dean became a star quarterback for the Spartans at MSU, later playing professional baseball, and a referee in NFL football.

One of my new school friends was Alton Shepard, a sprinter, who won the city championship in the 100 yard dash the same day I tied for first place in the pole vault. Shepard, who preferred to be called Blackie, loved to work on cars. He and I spent many hours together talking about girls, repairing brakes, carburetors, installing new plugs and points in cars long before either of us got a driver's license. Athletics unlocked a door to new teammates and friends that eased my transition to this new state and school. One day in the library, I looked up Michigan.

Michigan is called the Wolverine State and they take pride in the image of the wolverine as their state motto. Just what is a wolverine anyway?

A wolverine is a stocky and muscular carnivore closely related to the martens but resembling a small bear. The local sport teams like the Michigan Wolverines at the University of Michigan chose this animal as their motto as it has a reputation for ferocity and strength out of proportion to its size.

Wolverines have thick, dark, oily fur, highly hydrophobic, making it resistant to frost.

Armed with powerful jaws, sharp claws, and a thick hide, wolverines will defend kills against larger, more numerous predators like wolves and cougars. There are even published accounts of a 27-35 pound wolverine harassing and attempting to steal a kill from a black bear—a gutsy, high-risk activity if there ever was one. They live primarily in Michigan, Minnesota, Canada, Alaska and isolated northern areas. The range of a male wolverine is more than 240 square miles and they are fearless.

Besides spending considerable time with Blackie and my new athletic friends, I'd accompany John on his remodeling and repair work, learning the trade of a carpenter. Outside of a seven inch circular electric saw, John used simple hand tools—saws, hammers, chisels, wood planes, framing square, utility knife, pencils, tape measure, rasp, miter boxes, chalk lines, and sanding blocks.

For the most part, he continued to use the same tools even as more modern, laborsaving power tools came to market in the 1950s. Partly, this was because he tended strongly toward the traditional in all things. Partly, it was his belief that hand tools gave him more precise control over the fine details of the work. Partly, it was because he could not abide the noise that power tools made. John thought of himself as a craftsman, and craftsmanship required planning, precision, thought, and a quiet environment. Mostly though, it was because he wanted more intimacy with the wood. He loved the smell of freshly cut pine, cherry, and cedar—he wanted to smell and feel the life of the wood with his own hands, and in turn to impart something of himself, his skill, his pride, his caring workmanship, and beauty into his finished product.

I enjoyed visiting the local lumberyards with John. He knew all the employees and joked with them as we selected our wood, pulling out samples of pine, fir, spruce, cedar, oak, maple, white ash, and birch. He would hold up each piece and inspect it, turning it over and over in his hands, sighting the length with a discerning eye looking for warps or imperfections, and telling me about the unique and individual qualities of each and how it took all of them contributing their individual and unique qualities to lay a floor, build a cabinet, make a step, hang a door, install a window, repairing a roof, or whatever project we were working on.

Once we worked together on a log cabin west of Lansing that had been partially burned down in a fire. The cabin was made of split cedar and we went to Duncan Lumber to find some suitable wood. John went to a bin and pulled out a long cedar plank from the rack and pointed out to me the annual growth rings. I looked over John's shoulder and studied the wood.

The rings tell the age of the tree, don't they? I said.

Tell more than that. Look closely, they tell the whole story of the tree's life.

Their life? I asked.

Sure, their thickness and thinness spoke of bitter struggle mixed with rich years of sudden growth. Flaws and irregularities told how the tree endured fires, windstorms, insect infestations, and yet continued to grow, said John.

Listening to John, I became mesmerized. It was more than the soft, earthy cadence of his voice, it was the reverence with which he talked about the plank of wood in his hands—as if there was something sacred about it.

This wood, murmured John, teaches us about overcoming adversity, about survival, and the infinite beauty of nature itself.

Throughout that first year in Michigan, on weekends, vacations, and part of the summer vacation, I helped John on several of his part-time carpentry jobs, enjoying the feel, smell, and stories about the particular wood we were using.

Additionally, my father sent me two letters during that period talking about fishing with his friends in Tampa and asking about how I was doing.

I answered both letters telling him about the archery, working with John and that I was doing fine.

Early one Saturday in July 1953, my dad called on the phone and after a short chat with my sister, asked to speak with me. I closed the door and spoke with my dad in private.

Hi Dad, how's it going? I said.

Not too bad, he replied. After some small talk about the weather and fishing, the discussion turned serious.

Schools over, when you coming to pick me up? I asked. "That's just it, I'll be staying over this summer in Florida.

You won't be able to stay with me anymore. You're pretty much grown up now, you're going to have to make it on our own," he said.

His words stunned me into silence, my hand twitched, and my face felt warm and numb.

Can't I join you in Florida. I like living with you, I said. I'm an old man on social security, you just have to make the best of the situation. Learn to be happy on your own, he said.

Okay Dad, I mumbled. I'll be talking with you, and hung up the phone. The whole thing had taken less than one minute and I returned to breakfast in the kitchen. Even with the frying bacon, warm toast and perking hot coffee, the room seemed cold and barren. My sister had finished breakfast and was washing and drying some clothes. As I slowly chewed on my breakfast of bacon and eggs and the coffee cleared my mind, the spinning in my head began to diminish and I found myself creeping up on a new realization. I opened my eyes, took it all in, and found that it came with a fierce determination and sense of a new awareness. I was tired of being shifted around. Tired of being a problem to be dealt with. Tired of depending on others. From now on, I wasn't going to let anything like this happen again. From now on, I would make my own way, depend upon myself, and find my own road to happiness. I had abilities. I could do things. I had friends but I didn't need them, nor anyone else, for the sense of who I was. I would succeed, and I would do in on my own.

CHAPTER 3

Doc Zeeb

A week after the call from my dad, I was teamed with Dr. Bernard Zeeb in an archery tournament in Graying, Michigan. Dr. Zeeb, a square-jawed veterinarian, about forty, 5' 10" with a stout build, a warm, friendly guy with a slow, deliberate, easy-going manner with intelligent blue eyes and an inquiring smile, lived and worked in the north side of Lansing. His hair was light brown swept straight back. He had large tanned hands with considerable curly hair on his forearms and on the tops of his fingers. An avid archer, he was a member of the Valley Bowmen, a friend of Johnny and Lorna's, and someone I shot with in a few archery tournaments around Michigan. During the shoot, we started talking.

Like animals? asked Doc. Sure, I replied.

Working this summer? A little, part-time, I said.

Like to do some work for me? asked Doc. Sure. What kind of job? I asked.

Doc told me that he worked with all kinds of animals— cows, horses, sheep, cattle, dogs, cats—even a few exotic pets. One of his part-time assistants had recently moved and he needed someone to help him around his clinic, a few days after school and on the weekends—mainly minding the place and feeding and cleaning the dog and cat cages.

I accepted his $1.25 hour offer and started work the next day.

Doc's office, a large brick, rectangular shaped one-story next to an open field, was located in the north-end of Lansing, just off highway 27. Not yet old enough to get a driver's license, I hopped on a bus after school and arrived at his office about 4:00 p.m.

The smell and warmth of animals entered my nose as I opened the door and entered the waiting room—a small, rectangular area with seven or eight chairs, now occupied by three people, all with dogs in their laps or sitting next to them, in front of a gleaming metal counter.

Doc Zeeb opened a door behind the counter, greeted me with a come on in, motioned me inside his office, and gave me a quick overview of his layout.

Besides the waiting room, Doc had an examination room, an operating room, an extensive medicine cabinet, a miscellaneous equipment room, and a room filled with boxes of cat and dog food and medicine near cages lined on both sides down a long corridor then led to the rear of his facility—my work area. Inside the cages were several dogs and cats with identification tags, feeding schedule, medications given to date, and to do, notations. There was also a large, penned up cage where several dogs were barking and romping around together and seemed to be enjoying themselves.

This is the community pen, where friendly dogs are welcome, he said.

Following Doc's directions, I started cleaning out the pens, gathering up the poop with a shovel and broom, burying it in some pits about fifty yards behind the office, and feeding the animals per the listed instructions on their cages. That first day I worked about three hours. Easy and interesting. Doc told me I did a good job. Receiving over $18.00 on my first paycheck, I almost felt guilty about taking the money.

Over the next several weeks, I enjoyed my new job with the animals and meeting people, developed a regular routine, took on added responsibilities, and gained some insight about the relationship between the vet, the treating animal, and the owner. Two owners in particular, exemplified the common, yet profound bond of love and affection I observed at the clinic.

One Saturday morning as I was working at the intake counter, a lady of about fifty-five with grayish blond hair entered with a large, orange/yellow/black tomcat in her arms. She filled out our one-page sheet, fill in the blanks paper asking for her name, address, phone number, name of the animal/ pet, and nature of known or suspected problem.

Stroking the cat affectionately, holding him close and looking into his eyes, it was like she was talking to her young child. Now Tommy, don't you be afraid. Just look at you. All bloody and scruffed up. We can't have you fighting with all those other tomcats all the time—it's not good for you. Be nice to the doctor now, he's going to help you with your behavior problem, she said with a kind, motherly, sympathetic tone in her voice.

I glanced down at the paper and saw her wish for Tommy—neutered.

It's O.K. boy, said a tall, thin man in his late 30s, gently patting his Irish Setter on the head on another occasion as if he, too, were taking to his minor son, patiently waiting his turn for Doc to remove a thistle from the setter's left eye.

Working with animals, I developed a fondness for many of the dogs. From my observations, not all dogs are created equal. Many were lively, fun-loving, and loyal family dogs. My favorites—the Labs and German Shepherds.

The Labrador retrievers, devoted and obedient, had even temperaments that make them good with both children and other animals. Bred to be eager to please and playful companions, Labs are smart and commonly chosen as guide dogs and service dogs for blind and autistic individuals. They make understanding therapy dogs, and can be trained to aid law enforcement and other official agencies by screening and detection work.

The German Shepherds were also exceptional animals: courageous, obedient, incredibly loyal, eager to learn, intelligent, and excel at most anything they're trained to do. Like labs, many are trained as service and police dogs to protect officers and locate drugs and human remains. German Shepherds love their owners so much that they will suffer from separation anxiety, and can become destructive when bored and left alone at home.

Another dog that came to us and interested me was a border collie. Not that I wanted her as a pet. I admired her work ethic, her tenacity, her focus on doing her job and getting the job done right. Sally was not here for a medical reason. She was here for a two week stay—her owner was traveling back East to visit a sick relative and Sally needed canine company.

This one earns her keep, said Doc, pointing to Sally. How so? I asked.

The colonel hires her out to chase birds, said Doc smiling. Birds? I said. Who'd pay you for that? I asked.

Up around the beaches, Saugatuck, Grand Haven, Holland, all along Lake Michigan, they got a problem with gulls. The gulls swoop in, snatch food from the picnickers and annoy beachgoers, said Doc. They also crap a lot where people swim, added Doc.

So the colonel rents out Sally to chase away the birds, I said.

Yes. But there's more to it then that. The gull crap is a major source of E. coli, a bacteria that health officials test for as an indicator of pathogens that can make swimmers sick, said Doc. When the levels get too high, they close the beach. Besides sick swimmers, the local businesses suffer, Doc added.

So that's where Sally comes in, I said.

Yep, border collies are highly effective at warding off gulls from beaches. Doc also told me that border collies are perfect for this because they resemble coyotes, the gulls' only natural predator. Doc also said they have a natural stalking and chasing instinct. They chase the gulls but don't catch them or kill them. And, they love their work, added Doc.

On serious problems, Doc would operate. When operating, Doc's demeanor changed—all business. Deliberate and focused, his casual, relaxed manner was replaced with decisive and confident movements, commands, incisions, and stitches. Moreover, Doc was a good storyteller. On occasion, we discussed the interesting quirks and personalities of the different animals he treated.

You recall yesterday I went over to Walgreens to pick up some things for those cows I saw this morning? he said.

Sure, I replied.

Well, I was waited on by the pharmacist—Mr. Simmons… and there were two or three women in line behind me. I told him I needed four gross of those large prophylactics (rubbers) and as I was trying to explain the reason I needed so many and so large was because they were for these cows I was treating… that they had sores on their tits and I was putting Vaseline on… when I heard some giggling behind me. The pharmacist comes around the counter, puts him hand on my shoulder and says, Doc… Doc… you don't have to explain. The ladies behind me burst out in laughter. Embarrassing!" he said, and we both laughed.

However, no matter how experienced or valued I became, one day I was let go. Evidently, placing me on the payroll and listing my date of birth alerted the State Payroll Board that an under-age worker was employed by Dr. Zeeb. It was September 1953, a month short of my sixteenth birthday. The labor laws at that time forbid anyone under sixteen from working in the manner I was for Doctor Zeeb. Doc protested and attended a special session in an attempt to allow me to continue assisting him—no luck. A side story on this matter later caused the particular labor official that personally made a follow up visit to the clinic to verify my employment some domestic problems. Doc informed me that this official's wife was one of his regular customers and she went through the roof when she heard that her husband was involved. Doc said she liked me but, more important, I always gave sound, common sense answers, was courteous, friendly, and professional, and