The 80 Year Dash

By Wells Field

There is nothing about me during my early years that is remarkable. Almost any lad can relate to these years. But WW II split my sister and me apart from each other and from our parents. Though not deprived of excellent academic institutions (boarding schools) and summer camps, we both felt abandoned, unwanted, and unloved by our parents. Our lives changed dramatically from being carefree, open, and fun-loving to being guarded, suspicious, and resentful.
I became rebellious and disrespectful of authority. I got in a lot of trouble, some instances being quite serious. Then, coming as a surprise to many people, I joined the Marine Corps and became a career Marine, fighting in Korea and VietNam. These experiences changed me dramatically.
Married and divorced, I lost respect for women and had no intention of ever marrying again, that is, until I met a very special lady whom I married within two months of our first meeting. She softened my outlook on life, and, for the first time, I felt loved and was able to love. When I finally accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord, that love knew no bounds.
The 80 year journey hits many bumps along the way, but there are many funny times also.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468537727

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© 2012 by Wells Field. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/29/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3773-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3772-7 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011963716

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

PROLOGUE

PART I

PART II

PART III

PART IV

PART V

PART VI

PART VII

Endnotes:

EPILOGUE

KRAZIE EIGHT RULES

To the memory of my darling wife, Charlotte, the bravest of the brave. By her example, she helped shape my life, encouraged me and taught me love. Best of all, she loved me. I was a truly blessed man.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This author gratefully acknowledges the following people: My editor, Sharon Adams, for her outstanding support, professionalism, guidance, and diligent editing; my daughter, Kim and her husband, John, for reading the manuscript and making many helpful suggestions; good friend Judy Merino for her encouragement and reading and editing the manuscript; for Sarah Scott, and Sharon Adams for their encouragement; Sally Yoast for suggesting that I write this book and providing me with many ideas and encouragement.

INTRODUCTION

by

Judy Merino

Wells takes the reader from his growing up days, in the simplicity of America’s innocence, as the mischievous little boy who fulfilled his Mother’s wish for a bad boy and challenged his Father, the strict Navy Captain, his war experience in the Marine Corps, to his meeting and marrying the love of his life, followed by his civilian and family life. Revealed is not only a keen recollection of the details of those years, but also a sense of humor, lack of self-absorption, the capacity for love and generosity of spirit, the ability to face fear, loss and death, and gratitude for it all.

I used to tease him and his golf buddies that, as much as they loved the game, all I heard from them was moan and groan. You won’t find any moan and groan in this delightful narrative of his life experiences with all its complexities. It is a splendid unfolding of memories.

PROLOGUE

The time is 1930 when I, Wells Field, live where none of the future modern conveniences are available and will not be for at least the first twenty years of my life.

Just imagine no television for entertainment and news. When it finally does appear, it will only be in black and white. Color television won’t come on the scene until I am thirty. So, other than parlor games and conversation, the radio is our source of entertainment. The radio programs do not contain dirty or foul language. Henry Aldrich, The Green Hornet, The Shadow, The Lone Ranger, Intersactum and many others are radio programs that engage our vivid imaginations. They are what later modern television will refer to as situation comedy or serials or soaps. Although some of the radio programs make the transition to television, our imaginations seem more real than the images on a TV screen. In the electrical and appliance world, besides no television, there are no copiers, dishwashers, clothes dryers, air conditioners, computers, FM, tape decks, CDs, typewriters, or instant coffee. Software is not even a word and hardware can be found at the local hardware store.

Not until my late twenties do commercial jet airlines become available. Until then, if I must travel, I’ll ride the train or go by car. A new Chevy coupe costs $600 and, if you can afford it, a gallon of gasoline cost 11 cents. For a nickel I can ride the streetcar, buy an ice cream cone or a Pepsi or make a phone call. For the same price I can mail one letter and two postcards, and at Woolworth’s Five and Dime store, I can actually buy items for five or ten cents.

The only fast food restaurant is White Castle. There, for a nickel I can buy a hamburger. Hamburgers are all they sell. McDonalds will start up when I turn 10 and Pizza Hut when I become 28. Though frozen foods were in existence as early as 3,000 B.C., they will not be in everyday use until I reach 20 years of age.

The country’s morals are of a high standard, but, unfortunately, will decrease as the future moves on. In this time, men and women marry before living together, and being pregnant out of wedlock is shameful. Gay is defined as gleeful, jovial, light hearted, glad, joyous, and lively. It does not refer to one’s sexuality. The term aids refers to a teacher’s helper. There are no dual careers (husband and wife both working) or day care centers. It may seem old-fashioned later, but teenagers address adults as sir or ma’am as a token of respect. Younger adults, most often, address their seniors in a like manner.

Finally, it is a privilege to serve our country and a greater privilege to live in this country.

Man will not walk on the moon until close to my fortieth birthday. The list of things created during my lifetime seems endless. The country will progress into more modern ways, and most of it will be all for the good, though some will always yearn for parts of the good old days.

Yogi Berra, the famous New York Yankee baseball player, is often quoted for his absurd, mixed, and often, obvious statements. There are at least five books about his life and his most famous malapropisms or Yogisms. Two of his quotes are: I didn’t really say everything I said and You can see a lot by observing. So, he might have said, He was born at an early age. Such wisdom cannot be denied, and so this story will also start when I am at an early age.

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Wells

PART I

THE EARLY YEARS

Pelham, New York

1931

The house is old, well worn and has that warm comfortable feeling, aided by the fire giving off a glow from the multicolored flames licking toward that black tunnel to the sky. The house is in Pelham, NY, close to the New York to Stamford rail line used by commuters, including my two uncles, going to work in the Big Apple and back, With two plus families living in this house, if someone puts a book, a coat, a glass or anything down, it does not move until that person moves it. With eight people living here plus occasional guests, the house has that truly lived-in appearance. One could, and some do, describe it as a messy house. My father is one of those, though he does hide his attitude about the chaos. Being a military man, he is used to, and expects, everything to be neat and orderly—shipshape. But this is not his house, and since we are only going to be here for a short visit between his duty stations, he tries to ignore the appearance.

Besides, it is cocktail hour, martini time. Now there is always this rush between Uncle Cary and Uncle Bill to get to the bar first. Uncle Cary is a shaker of the mix. It has to be ten gin to one vermouth into a shaker with ice. After several shakes of the container, the drinks are poured into the cocktail glasses garnished with a special onion or olive. Uncle Bill is of the mind that Uncle Cary’s system bruises the alcohol; that the mix should be stirred gently. He also likes the mix to be eight to one. Their debates on the subject have gone on forever. No one else cares, particularly my father, as long as something will materialize, and soon. Tonight Uncle Cary gets there first and finally, the six adults relax with the drinks in hand and a toast is given.

Honey, says Bud Isn’t it about time you put Wells down? His cuteness is gone now. It’s hard to carry on a conversation.

Letting out a slight sigh, my mother gets up and, taking me by the hand, leads me off to bed. The quiet is immediate, peaceful and relaxing, and they resume talking about the topics of the day while waiting for the Fibber McGee and Molly program to come on the radio.

The peacefulness does not last. Bud honey, I put him down in the crib, but he can climb out now, says my mother. See what you can do.

Smiling, my father says I’ll tie him in the crib and be back in a minute.

Again, there is peacefulness and adult conversations. Most of the talk is about the efforts to overcome the great depression. It has been a tough time for Uncle Cary and Uncle Bill. Not only is it difficult to find a job, it is difficult to keep it. In order to consolidate expenses, they and their families have moved into this large old house along with their mother-in-law. Fortunately, we are somewhat unaffected by the depression as my father is a career U. S. Navy officer.

Aw now, how did he do it? I tied him right smartly into that crib. Young man, let’s try it again. This time my father pays more attention to his knots. Finally, satisfied that I will not be able to escape, he returns to the living room. He’s down for the night. May I have a refill please? Adult conversation resumes.

Hmm, Bud, did you use your best Navy knots?

Yes, I did.

Well, don’t look now but someone is spying on us.

Shucks. How does he do it? Those were good knots.

Hey, someone says with laughter, maybe your son is related to Harry Houdini.

My sister, Taffy, enters this world just before Christmas 1932 in the neighboring town of New Rochelle, NY just after my father receives orders to the west coast for duty aboard ship. The rest of us remain in Pelham.

Vallejo, California

1934

When Taffy is almost two, the three of us are off to California where our father’s ship will be docked. We are travelling by train. I sleep in the upper bunk and our mother and Taffy are in the lower bunk. We are in a Pullman rail car. There is an aisle running down the middle of the car with double decked bunks on either side. For privacy, each bunk has a cloth curtain. During the daytime, we are either in the coach section of the train or in the dining car. The porters are Negros and are very helpful. They serve the meals, make the beds, and keep the cars neat, clean, and orderly. We enjoy watching the landscape pass by and the excitement at all the stops the train makes along the way from New York, where we boarded, to San Francisco, our destination. Taffy and I do get bored now and then, but between our mother and the friendly porters, we are entertained. With the train ride over, we are driven by automobile to our final destination in Vallejo.

One warm, cloudless morning my mother, with little Taffy snug in her arms, walks outside. The fog has long disappeared, leaving a gentle wetness to the plants and grass. There is very little wind as she inhales the sweet aroma of mixed flowers that fill the air. It is a day that everyone likes to believe is the norm for California. She has not seen me for awhile and that is not a good sign as I am known to get into some mischievousness. Hey, Wells, where are you? She listens, but there is no sound, that is until she hears rustling in the tree above her. She looks up. Gulp! I am high up in the tree.

She thinks, How? Truly, he is too young to be able to climb a tree. Hiding her anxiety and concern and just as calm as she can be, she says Hey, Superman up there in the tree, come on down. I remain quiet, not one word, just silence. Did you hear me, young man? Come down now!

No.

What? More silence. Wells Field, you come down immediately!

No! Then I let go a small spit. Defiance! Sass! I feel invincible. I know my mother will not or cannot climb up to get me. I am untouchable. Inwardly, she smiles. She always wanted a bad boy.

Oh, how I wish Bud was here to give me a little relief from Wells, thinks my mother. He seems to be forever on the move trying to satisfy his youthful and unquenchable inquisitiveness.

My mother is right. Just yesterday, I discovered that the lever at the head of the stairs operates the entrance door below. Now that convenience is no longer available as my mother has walked down to the front door and locked it.

This is crazy, she thinks. No one locks doors. Wells, please, draw on the paper tablet, not on the walls, says my mother who is feeling that keeping an eye on me and tending to Taffy is more than a one person job. My mother is tired and my father is no help at all. He is aboard a ship floating somewhere in the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean.

Bennington, Vermont

1935

Finally, after a full year at sea, my father is relieved of ship board duty and is awaiting orders for his new duty station. With this time off, he has decided to take the family to visit his mother in Bennington, VT. Her home is fondly called The Gadget, a typical New England style house. It has flat white clapboard with screen doors and a porch, complete with wicker rocking chairs and a hammock, my favorite nestling place. Today the air is crisp, dry and a little cool, another typical Vermont day. The aroma of new mown grass from the nearby golf course permeates the air and the quietness is often interrupted by the cooing and chirping of the birds and the voices of the golfers not far away. On all fours, I am sneaking up on a bird perched on the birdbath when my father sees me. Noting that his son is interested in the birds, he decides to teach me how to catch those little feathered creatures.

Grab the salt shaker, son, and put salt on the bird’s tail and she’s yours. Assuming that my father must be right, I quickly run to the kitchen, seeking the salt shaker. There it is, I say to myself. It’s out of my reach.

What to do? Finally, a light comes on in my head. I know. I’ll pull it down with grandma’s cane. It seems to be a good idea until I put my plan into action. It comes off the shelf alright but falls to the floor and breaks.

Ashamed and afraid to tell my father, I whisper what I did to my mother. Kind as always and feeling sorry for me, she helps me clean up the mess. With a new salt shaker, I am off for the hunt. Doing as instructed with much enthusiasm I am unaware that my father, sitting on the porch, is doubled over laughing. I am not really dumb, but I am gullible and trusting. Finally, exhausted, I realize my efforts are futile and that I am the object of much amusement to my father. Feeling embarrassed and betrayed, I vow to never forgive him.

It is the next morning and Mr. Seanay has arrived to mow the lawn. I’m sitting on the porch anxious to watch this event as I have heard about it earlier. As he pushes the mower he is followed by his dog. His dog is followed by his cat and then his rooster. This continues until the mowing is completed. The animals follow in his footsteps, never cutting corners. Apparently others have heard of this unusual parade as several cars have ventured out into the country to witness the event. I know it sounds unbelievable, but it is not fiction; it is true.

Our father told us that when he went to see Mr. Seanay at his house, the dog and cat were sleeping on the porch, but the rooster was guarding the front steps. As our father approached the rooster started toward him. Mr. Seanay called the rooster off so no damage occurred. That rooster was the guard animal.

With this visit over, we head to Hampton, Connecticut.

Hampton, Connecticut

1935-1936

Our rented home is close to my father’s next assignment at Yale University as the Naval Warfare instructor. It is a cozy little house with all bedrooms upstairs and a fireplace with embers glowing most of the time, thus keeping the house comfortably warm. It is in a quiet bedroom community, and our house is on a hill on a road that dead ends at the creek. The exterior of the house is rough stucco, really rough with large jagged pebbles that hurt when one brushes against them. My father has just completed converting part of the basement into a cocktail bar and sitting area, leaving a small space for his workshop. My mother enjoys the backyard, planting not only flowers but vegetables. Her veggies are considerably tastier than the ones from the market.

In the winter when the snow arrives; we love it. Sledding on toboggans or sleds or just anything that will slide is a thrill. Snow removal is slow in coming allowing for long periods of such fun. School vacation days find the hill full of youngster sliding down on whatever they can find. School is kind of nice as it is where I meet a lot of neighborhood children.

My mother finds it strange that the teacher is teaching me to write with my right hand. I had always used my left. The teacher reasons that almost everything made is made for right handed people. It will cause me some minor problems later.

The creek at the end of the road has peaked my curiosity and so, of course, I am off to investigate with my new-found friend, Zack. Racing down the hill, then over the embankment, then finally at water’s edge we are sitting watching the water bubbling along over the rocks and pebbles at a lazy pace making sounds a bit like a soft gurgle. The banks are shadowed by the many trees and underbrush giving the area a darkened, secret look. Both barefoot, wading into the ice cold water, we begin skipping stones on the surface.

Hey, look up. Something’s alive and moving up in the tree, Zack shouts.

Yeah, I see ’em. Holy moley. Those are snakes. Lots of ’em.

Several snakes of unknown origin lay lounging on a branch. We throw stones at them and when they, the snakes, drop down, we grab our shoes and take off in a sprint. From then on, we give the creek a wide berth. Zack and I agree that the creek, Cottonwood Creek, should be renamed Cottonmouth Creek.

Taffy likes to join me in my explorations and both of us are ever curious, testing our limits. I must admit, however, that in most things, Taffy is more prudent than I am.

Hey, Sis, look what I found. It is a hornet’s nest just barely under the house. Of course, we decide to investigate. Well maybe investigating really is not the proper term. Soon bored of the little activity coming from the nest, we decide to stir them into action. Poking sticks at the nest gets more action than we anticipated. The agitated hornets win this engagement as they retaliate by stinging both of us several times. We make a hasty retreat to our mother who treats the many welts. It is a lesson we learn at the tender ages of 2½ and 5.

While Taffy, Zack and I have been exploring the neighborhood, my father was building a soap box car in the basement. I have been totally unaware that this was happening. It is finished and he really did a fantastic job. What a great surprise! The car has empty soup cans as headlights, ropes to pull for steering, a working horn, and a foot brake. It really is cool and it is the only one on the block. Golly, I think, this is swell. There is even room for Taffy, but not today. After a few lessons from my father, I am a bit nervous, but full of bravado. It is time to solo.

No, you cannot start from the top of the hill yet, warns my father. Just about a third of the way up for now and then we will work our way up toward the top. Okay?

Okay Dad. That is good advice as the first solo ends up in a minor crash. No harm is done. My father makes a small alteration by attaching the ropes to a steering