The Prodigal Patriot: A Memoir

By James Kirkpatrick

Casualties of war come in many forms. During the Vietnam War, our servicemen and women left the battlefield and returned home to a new, horrific suffering. 'The Prodigal Patriot' is the true story of a young man, Jim Kirkpatrick, who never saw combat. While trying to perform his duties as a lower-ranking Airman, Jim was keeping his eye on what was happening in Vietnam, and it was making him crazy.

A turbulent childhood with an abusive father, years of substance abuse, and witnessing the effects of war on his close friends and relatives traumatized Jim as any casualty would.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098316013

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Copyright 2020.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-09831-601-3

So you will pay for all the godly peoples blood spilled on earth.

—Matthew 23:35

Contents

Preface

Down by the station early in the morning, seven little puffer bellies all in a row.

Cats in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man in the moon.

Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier

Like a river flows, surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be

Memories…Pressed between the pages of my mind.

The eastern world, it is explodin, violence flarin, bullets loadin, you’re old enough to kill, but not for votin, you don’t believe in war, but what’s that gun you’re totin.

Off we go, into the wild blue yonder, flying high, into the sun

He’s a Universal Soldier, and he really is to blame. His orders come from far away no more, they come from here and there and you and me, and brother, can’t you see, this is not the way we put an end to war.

Running wild, running free, waging war on society. Dumb blank faces look back at me, but nothing ever changed

"People smile and tell me I’m the lucky one, for me it’s just begun, think I’m gonna have a son."

I’ve seen the needle and the damage done, a little part of it in everyone, but every junkie’s like a setting sun.

It’s a long, way back home.

I’ve looked at life from both sides now, from up and down, and still somehow, it’s life’s illusions I recall, I really don’t know life... At all.

Against the wind, Runnin against the wind. I’m older now but still runnin…Against the wind.

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied, now I have only me to blame cause mamma tried.

You can’t hide your lyin eyes. And your smile is a thin disguise. Thought by now you’d realize, there ain’t no way to hide your lyin eyes.

So I’m movin on, movin on from town to town.

That midnight train, is windin low, and I’m so lonesome I could cry.

It’s alright ma, I’m only dreamin.

War children, it’s just a shot away, just a shot away.

We skipped the light fandango, turned cartwheels cross the floor. I was feeling kinda sea sick, but the crowd called out for more

So children reach out your hand, and pick up the crippled man, father, we will bring him home, father, we will bring him home.

Preface

A few years before this writing, I was contacted by an old childhood friend of mine, Steve Berlin, whom I hadn’t seen since High School. He lives in Bangkok now, where he retired after many years as a Flight Attendant. As you can probably imagine, his travels took him there regularly, where he eventually married a Thai girl and had a couple of lovely kids. He got a hold of me through Facebook. He said he was coming to Long Beach (Cal) to visit his sister Donna, and wanted to know if there was any way I could go down and spend some time with him. I was able to arrange a weekend, so I went down to visit with him for a few days. I wound up having a great time with him and another old friend, Jimmy Richardson. We talked about old times in the neighborhood, and had a wonderful time catching up on what had happened to all of our old friends. We all went together to visit another old friend, Alan Malone, who was blinded when a combination of chemicals reacted to blow up in his face eight years earlier. What a grand time we had, driving around reminiscing about the old days, bringing up about a thousand names to each other, searching old haunts, sharing our lives. It all seemed so therapeutic to me. I realized how much I had missed them, and that time in life that now seemed so perfect, and so far away.

On the airplane ride home, I was thinking about the grand time I had with my old friends, and how much I cherished those old memories. I love anything old and nostalgic like that. I always liked American History, and I can get lost in an old photograph. An old movie where that fifties and sixties period is emphasized, takes me right back to that time that now seems so special to me. Unique in ways I’m not sure I can explain to anyone, and if I could, I always wondered if anyone would be the least bit interested. That is what I always thought when the idea of a book crossed my mind, that nobody would care, or notice, or benefit in the least. Now I think maybe the one who cares is me. Perhaps I need my past more than I know. Maybe I need to share it with others, to appreciate the history that is mine and only mine.

An AA friend of mine once told me that if you want to learn humility, just tell your story to someone. Don’t take anything away from it, and don’t add anything to it. I’ve had a wild and crazy life, at least the first half of it, and I believe it to be an entertaining story if told right, with honesty, integrity, and some humility. I’m not sure if I even possess those qualities to the degree needed to do my story justice, but maybe it’s worth a try.

People write books for a multitude of reasons. Mostly money I suppose. I saw Irma Liebowitz flapping her yap on television the other night talking about how there are way too many people writing books and not saying much, and that all they’re trying to do is cash in. She may very well be right, but I believe some folks write as a therapeutic means to their mental health, and don’t care about the money. They just need to get it out, and if the book makes money, fine. If not, at least they’ve told their story and feel better for the experience. That’s me, I want to tell my story, and tell it all, both good and bad, no matter the consequences, and hopefully feel better for the experience.

I’m not proud of most of this story. The majority of it is a tale of woe. Riddled with lies, broken promises, failed expectations, squandered potential, blown opportunities, and the worst kind of unfaithfulness. In no way do I intend to come off like some kind of free-spirited Vagabond with the best of intentions, who just happened to fall victim to the disease of Alcoholism. I do not wish to romanticize or justify or glorify or make excuses for that which some readers may find disgusting. I’ve come to terms with the first half of my life, and believe that amends have come in the form of trying my best to be a decent person in the second half.

I hope my children, my wife, and all those who know me now can separate me from the confused young man in this story.

It’s probably a long shot if this memoir even makes it to print, much less if it sells any books, but I have to believe that the real treasures will lie in just being able to talk about my life experiences honestly and straightforwardly. A way that will tell the world and the people close to me know who I was and who I am now. Something that has always terrified me. I have always had the feeling that if I were to reveal to you who I was, you would certainly hold it against me.

For you to understand this, I must take you back. Way back. From the beginning, as best I remember it. Back to a time filled with wonder and dread, hope and despair, love and misunderstanding, pleasure, and pain. The grandest dreams, and the harshest realities. It has been a long, wild, and crazy, bittersweet journey for me.

And for you, the reader, I hope it to be, well, at least interesting.

I.

Down by the station early in the morning, seven little puffer bellies all in a row.

The first memories I have are of the house on the hill in Ventura, California, just north of Los Angeles. I must have been around 4 or 5 years old then, I guess. Just a little guy. Happy for the most part. It was a rental house, kind of small and shabby as I remember. It was probably built in the twenties, maybe earlier. It seemed a little run down, even then. Drafty and cold, and kind of scary.

Memories of my life before that have faded over time, but some have remained, like riding on a train with my mother to where I haven’t the foggiest idea, being sick with Rheumatic Fever and crying for days, playing in the dirt with the little girl next door. My mother always liked to tell the story of my first girlfriend named Candy, who lived next door.

Although most memories of my life before the house on the hill have faded, some are as vivid as if they happened yesterday, like riding in my Dads 40 Ford Coupe. Standing up in the front seat, sometimes sitting on his lap steering as we drove through town.

I remember sitting on the floor in front of one of those giant wooden cabinet radios listening intently to radio shows like The Green Door, The Lone Ranger, Amos and Andy, The Shadow.

Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?

The Shadow knows.

My mother told me that Country music was always playing on that radio, and that I had my favorite songs. She said whenever Mule Train by Frankie Lane would come on, I would run to the radio to dance and sing along... Mule Traaaaaaaaaaain, Hya!!! Clippity Cloppin aaalong..."

I believe my earliest fears cultivated in that old house on the hill. I vividly remember there was an access hole in the kitchen that led under the raised foundation of the house. It allowed access to the plumbing, etc. My dad, in his infinite wisdom, told me not to open that door, because there were Puffer Bellies in there that would get me. What is a Puffer Belly, you ask? There used to be a song called Down by the Station. In the song, there was a verse that went,

Down by the station early in the morning, see the little Puffer Bellies all in a row.

I had always imagined them as happy little potbellied cherub-like creatures running around spreading cheer like Santa’s elves. I asked my Dad, What’s a Puffer Belly?

He said, They’re little dwarf-like characters with long fingers, sharp teeth, and little potbellies from eating little boys when they are bad.

I think that was my first real Holy Shit moment. Not only did I never open that door, I didn’t go in the kitchen unless it was necessary. My Dad thought it was amusing that I was so scared of that kitchen. At night I would lay there in bed wondering if those damn Puffer Bellies came out at night, looking for little boys to eat.

So I spent a lot of time outside that little house on the hill. Away from those childhood fears. Where I could run and jump and play my cares away.

When I say The House on the Hill, I should say, The House at the Bottom of the Hill, because there was just a short elevation from the street to the house, and then the hill became much more elevated as it moved upwards from the back of the house. There was an old barn up towards the top of that hill, all grown up with weeds. There was a big scary looking door on that barn, but I was always afraid of what I might find if I opened it. Spiders? Snakes? Puffer Bellies?

I spent an awful lot of time on that hill. Up and down, running, walking, and riding on any number of contraptions. First, it was a piece of cardboard. Drag it up, ride it down, drag it up, ride it down. Until I wore the inevitable hole and had to search for another piece of cardboard. It wasn’t long before it became evident that I needed to find a more durable material for the trip down that old hill. I tried a piece of plywood but soon found that to be too dangerous with splinters and such. An old piece of sheet metal worked great until my mother came running out, shouting for me to Stop that right now! Before I cut my head off with flying sheet metal, I suppose. I thought about a wagon but didn’t have one. I tried to befriend the neighbor kid in hopes of using his wagon, but he took one look at that hill and said, No Way.

Eventually, my Dad built me a swell little racer to ride down that hill on. It was kind of a hillbilly version of a soapbox racer. It was just a piece of plywood with wheels, an old tractor seat, ropes attached to each front wheel which moved on a pivot point on the front end for steering, and a wood crate on the front. It even had brakes. It had a side handle positioned, so if you pulled up on it, one end would drag the ground and slow you down. My dad painted a big black five right on top. To this day, ask me to pick a number, and I’ll say 5 every time. Man, what a sweet buggy that was. I must have drug that thing up that hill 500 times. There I go with the 5’s again.

There also was a huge walnut tree in the yard with a tire swing hanging from one of its branches. I spent many a day swinging in that old swing. The cool part was that you could twist the rope one way, then swing and spin at the same time. I was always looking up the rope to see where it tied to a big heavy branch—never worried whether it would hold or not. Just swing, like there was no tomorrow.

I remember a little green lizard that my mother bought me at the pet store. I remember making all the usual I’ll take care of it and eat my spinach promises if she would only just please buy me that green lizard. I worked her hard until she finally gave in. I loved that lizard. I kept it in a big glass jar with holes poked in the top and all kinds of fresh branches in there where he could cling and hide. I fed him fish food, which he loved, and the occasional fly that I would find lying on the windowsill. He would run over to where the fly had landed and stood there with his head up high, looking around all cocky like whipping his tail back and forth before he devoured it. I kept all my promises to feed and care for my green lizard—all but one. Never leave your lizard in a jar on the windowsill with the hot sun shining in.

My mother and I had a burial ceremony for that little green lizard under the cool shade of that old walnut tree. It’s the first time I ever heard my mother pray.

Dear God, please take care of Jimmy’s little green lizard… Amen.

We had chickens and rabbits in the back yard, and it seemed like there was always some varmint after the young ones. In the spring, there were newborn chicks and bunnies to worry about, because there was always some kind of predator lurking in the shadows. Raccoons, possums, coyotes, skunks, wildcats. Even dogs and alley cats would try to get in to get those babies. Dad was always on the lookout, and always ready to shoot anything he caught trying to get a free meal. Not to mention the rats and mice that were always getting into the feed. When I got older, it was my job keeping these predators at bay-- usually with a pellet gun lying handily by the back door.

Then there was that earthquake at about 3 in the morning. I woke up to my bed, shaking and moving across the floor. In the approximately 60 seconds of shaking, that bed moved from one wall across the room to the other. It scared me to death. By the time my mother came into my room, I was hysterical. I thought it was the end of the world. Up until that time, I had never even heard the word earthquake. It knocked out power, and I remember sitting in that damn kitchen with the gas stove on and the oven door open for warmth, and sitting there in the dark with those retched little puffer Bellies just behind that door. Quite possibly, the most frightening night of my life. At least up until that point.

Some 20 years later, I was passing through that area on my way to a Yosemite vacation, and I stopped to see if the old house was still there. My Mother had remembered the address, and after some searching, indeed, it was still there. It had an addition and some different landscaping and a paved driveway now, but it was still there. I found it quite amazing how much a hill can shrink in 25 years. And the walnut tree and the swing both were gone. I sat in my car across the street and watched for a while, remembering those early days. My wife, Kay, slept in the seat next to me, as I stared blankly at that old house. Suddenly I realized that I was sitting in the very spot where I once was confronted by a passing motorist. I had, for whatever reason, found it entertaining to throw a rock at his moving car, when he suddenly stopped and backed up to face me. Why did you throw a rock at me? He asked. The first thing I noticed about him was that he didn’t appear to be angry, but instead was grinning a kind of sinister grin that chilled my young heart. I was so terrified at that moment I was afraid to move or answer him. I just stood there, looking at that man with the evil grin. He stared at me, grinning for what seemed like forever, then finally said, I’m the devil, and if I hear about you throwing any more rocks at cars, I’m going to come back and eat you. My throwing rocks at car days were officially over.

It also came to me at that moment how I had first met my older half-sister Glenda, my dad’s daughter by another marriage. I was under that old walnut tree one day playing in the dirt with a bucket and a spoon when I heard someone behind me say, Hi Jimmy. I stood up quickly and turned to see her standing there with a big smile on her face. I’m your sister, Glenda, she said, and then she got right down there in that dirt with me. She dug that dirt like a pro, and I liked her immediately. She had such a kind face and gentle voice like my mother, and I knew I could trust her not to hurt me. She was a big influence in my life for a time, then later, we kind of drifted apart. When I heard she had died, my mind went immediately back to that time I first met her under that old walnut tree.

One day I got up the courage to open the door to that decrepit old barn at the top of the hill, to behold a wealth of treasures. There were lots of spiders sure, but no snakes and no Puffer Bellies. Lots of bottles, and cans, and what looked like old farm tools, and some rusty car parts. But the thing that caught my eye was one of those old skinny tires you might see on a Model T. I was thinking how it surely could be used for something, but as I was rolling it down the hill towards the house, it got away from me. I began chasing after it trying to catch it before it went out into the street, but I just couldn’t run fast enough. I was so intent on catching that prize I had found, that when it went out into the street, I went right out there after it. A car that was coming had to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting me.

I ran back to the curb, and my first thought was to look up at the house to see if anyone was watching, and sure enough, dad was standing on the porch, motioning with his finger to come to him. I knew I was in trouble big time. He took me inside and beat my ass good with a belt for running out into the street. You’d think he would be glad I didn’t get run over, at least that was the reaction I would have had if one of my kids was nearly run over, but with my dad, an ass whooping was his answer to about everything. I’ve since learned that kind of discipline doesn’t work with some kids. It indeed didn’t work with me. Sure, it made me fear my dad, but all it taught me was that if you get caught lying, or stealing, or doing something dangerous you weren’t supposed to be doing, you’re subject to an ass-whooping. I learned quickly that I just have to be a better thief and liar, so I didn’t get caught. Now everyone knows this is skewed thinking, but for a boy trying to avoid getting his ass beat, this might make perfect sense.

I was around four years old when my sister Debbie was born. A little bundle of joy, I’m sure at the time, but who was then pretty much a pain in the ass when she got old enough to walk and talk. Chubby, harsh and abrasive, hard-headed, and obnoxious. We never did get along very well. I guess we were civil to one another when we got older, but we were anything but close. When our mother died, some issues drove us farther apart. Long-simmering family issues I’d rather not explain. My sister Debbie passed away about a year before this writing, so out of respect for her grown children and her husband Terry, I’ll just say that although we never got along that well, I still loved my sister, and it hurt me deeply when I learned of her passing. And I will forever regret not going to see her when she was ill.

At any given moment in my life since, even today, I can be right back there swinging on that tire swing under that walnut tree or racing down that old hill on that number 5 racer my Dad made for me.

II.

Cats in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man in the moon.

When I was around 5 or 6, we moved south to a little triplex in Buena Park, California, on California Street. I liked it there and was damn glad to get away from those puffer bellies.

When I was down in California visiting my old friends a few years back, one night, while lying in my motel bed, I happened to think about that little triplex on California Street. I wondered if it was still there. Surely it had been torn down long ago. So I got up and went looking for California Street. It was a little hard to find because it is just a short diagonal kind of street, and the neighborhood has changed so much since I was a kid. I was doubtful that there would be any trace of the old triplex left, but to my surprise, there, nestled between two huge apartment buildings, was that same little triplex. I was so amazed and so flushed with nostalgia. I just sat there staring across the street at that little triplex, vividly remembering a lifetime ago. I do believe that my life has been an unusual one, and the collection of bizarre moments that seemed to follow me throughout my life began to take shape in and around that little triplex on California Street. As I sat there in my car lost in thought, I remembered the two big mean geese we had in the small back yard that would attack anyone who ventured into that little yard when they were out of their cage. And the time my cousin Charles got a dried pea stuck up his nose and had to have an operation to have it removed. To hear my Dad tell it, it was my fault. Never did figure that one out. Why is it my fault my dumb ass cousin got a pea stuck up his nose?

And there were the many bee stings I use to get running barefoot through the grass with all the little white flowers in the yard next door. It was there that I learned I was allergic to a bee sting. My foot would swell to about half again its average size.

There was a Boys Club right up the street, and I spent an awful lot of time there. Playing pool, boxing, gymnastics, swimming. What a great place that was. I loved going there. My skills as a pool player would later serve me well. At least at times. I became quite good at hustling barroom pool players for their paychecks. Once in a while however, I did get in over my head. Losing my ass and my money to someone better than me. Always someone better. Sometimes I had a hard time figuring that out, and not only regarding billiards.

I think everyone has had a dream at one time in their life that has had a lasting effect on them. Mine came right around this time when I was walking to the Boys Club almost every day. In this dream, I was walking to the Boys Club and happened to look up into the sky just in time to see two small airplanes collide. What are the chances? One of the planes continued forward for a ways and looked like it came down some distance away, but the other one seemed to stop and fall straight down in a spiral missing one wing. I ran as fast as I could to the scene, noticing the sounds all around me of debris from the collision falling to the ground. It was an eerie sound I will never forget as long as I live. It landed in the back yard of a house about 5 or 6 blocks away with a loud crash. I arrived at that scene to see many people already crowded around filling the driveway and front yard. 5 or 6 people were standing on the roof of the house looking down into the back yard. People were screaming and shouting and running around, trying to get a better look. I stood at the curb, frightened by the crowd and the smoke and flames shooting up into the sky from the back yard. I could feel the heat of the flames from where I stood.

It wasn’t long before I could hear sirens off in the distance: first one then another, and another, and another. The people scattered as the first fire truck arrived. Firemen jumped from the truck, barking orders to the crowd to Get out of the way! as they went to work, removing hoses and tools. You could see the determined looks on their faces as they scurried around, each with a specific job to do. Now I could hear several sirens converging on the scene: another fire truck, ambulances, police cars. The fire was raging, firemen were shouting, police officers were hollering at the crowd to get back.

I began to suffer from sensory overload. All the noise, the smell of burning fuel, people were shouting, men and women both crying, the feel of certain death in the air. Another siren was getting closer and closer, and as I woke in a cold sweat with my head spinning and my mother saying,

Jimmy, get up now, it’s time to get ready for school.

My head kept spinning, and I could still hear the siren as I stared across the room. I tried to tell my mother about my dream, but she brushed it off and told me to forget about it. I told my dad, and he seemed irritated that I would bring it up. Looking back, I don’t believe either of my parents were ever aware of the profound effect that incident had on me. They both were pretty oblivious, and we didn’t have school counselors to help us work through any emotional issues back then.

To this day, when I hear a siren, I’m right back there sitting up in bed, staring across that room.

Sometime later, as a cruel reminder, one day I was standing out at the end of the driveway with some other kids watching a neighbor boy flying a box kite. He kept letting out more and more line until that kite was little more than a speck in the sky. Suddenly I noticed an airplane flying towards that kite. I, like everyone else, stood in stunned silence as that plane flew right into that kite. You could see it explode into the propeller as it hit, and the plane just kept right on flying. It certainly must have scared the shit out of the pilot and whatever passengers he had with him.

All the kids around me started laughing and joking about what had just happened, but it scared the hell out of me. All of what I had witnessed in my dream came rushing back, and all I could do was run home in horror.

Since then, I have been fascinated with airplane traffic. If a plane flies overhead, I have to look up. I can’t help myself. Often I’ll watch it until it’s out of sight. If I see two planes in close proximity, I get butterflies in my stomach. After all these years, I still often recall the horror of that dream, and many times I’ve revisited that same dream.

Many years later, when I was in Air Force basic training, we were in formation marching when an F-4 Phantom fighter jet flew by. I just had to look up. I couldn’t help myself. I was gazing in awe at its power, unaware of who may be watching when suddenly the Drill Instructor, Staff Sargent Bell, gave the Halt! command, and seconds later, he was in my face screaming.

What the fuck are you eyeballing Airman?

An F-4, sir, I replied, hearing the quiver in my voice.

Aww, ain’t that sweet, he screamed.

I’ll bet your little heart was broken when it flew away, wasn’t it shit for brains?

Yes sir, I