A Sea Story

By Charles R. Johnstone

About a year ago, I came to the conclusion that none of my children or grandchildren knew much about my life and what I had done with it, so I decided to write an autobiography of my life from 1938, when I was born, until 1975, when I retired from the navy.
I didnt know anything about writing a book, and still dont, but I have always had the knack of making my brain remember things that happened long ago.

I have probably violated every rule of good book writing known to man.
But I will chock it up to inexperience; also I wanted to write it as though I was talking to you, face-to-face. I took the name of my book from the slang words used by sailors to describe the stories told among each other for some two hundred years. I tried very hard to not bring dishonor to the navy, my family, or myself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jan 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504360838

Charles R. Johnstone

Born in 1938, The eldest son of Odell and Donnie Johnstone. Mr. Johnstone had two sib;ings, a sister who passed away in 1972, and a brother who is sixteen (16) years younger. Mr. Johnstone was married to Eva Nell Garrett Johnstone in Las Vegas, Nevada, on 30, Nov. 1959. They were married for 56 years, before she passed away on 30, Sept. 2015. Eva Nell had four (4) children when she and Mr. Johnstone were married, she had two (2) sons and two (2) daughters, and her and Mr. Johnston had three (3) children, a daughter born in 1960, a son bornin 1963 and died in 1965, another daughter born in 1965 with “ Downs Syndrome “ and still lives with him today. He makes his home in Seven Points, Texas.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 Charles R. Johnstone.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

1 [phone]

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.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-6082-1 (sc)

ISBN:978-1-5043-6083-8 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 01/06/2017

A coward dies many deaths, the brave only one.

—Unknown

He who is without honor has a dead soul.

—Charles R. Johnstone

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my wife, Eva Nell Johnstone, who sailed with me and had my back these fifty-six years. She received her orders, boarded her ship, and sailed to her home port on September 30, 2015. It won’t be long before I receive my final orders, board my ship, and join her. My ship will pull in at the pier, and I’ll see her and our little Charlie in her arms waiting and waving. I’ll see some of my old shipmates who sailed ahead to take care of them until I got there. We’ll live happily ever after.

Preface

The difference between a fairy tale and a sea story is that a fairy tale starts out, Once upon a time … while a sea story starts out, Now this is no shit …

From time to time, I’ve talked to mothers and girlfriends of sailors who are in boot camp or have just gone to their first duty station, and they most always ask, What’s he talking about in his letters? I tell them it’s the new language they learn. Mostly, they’re trying to show off because they think it’s cool. So I thought I might just throw a monkey wrench in their little game by writing a glossary of slang words used by sailors or wannabes.

(Sailors must have required time in pay grade to qualify to take service-wide written exams. If they pass, they still might not get a promotion; it depends on how many are needed and overall score. It’s very hard to go up the ladder; you compete with others in your job description. That’s why the navy has the very best.)

I hope this information is useful for what follows. You’ve probably figured out by now that I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, but I promise I’ll entertain you. And I won’t use profanity unless it’s necessary. I never subscribed to the idea that you need profanity to make your point. My daddy always told me, It’s better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you’re stupid than to open it and erase all doubt.

So we’ll get started.

Now This Is No Shit

I was born on October 28, 1938, in Tolosa, a little Texas farming community about seventy miles southeast of Dallas. I was told that I was born in a one-room shack near a graveyard. My dad was a farmer; my mom was a housewife. My mom told me some years later that they didn’t have the money to pay the doctor, so they traded their mule for his services. She said the doctor came in his surrey from Kemp, about six miles away, and went back with the mule tied to his surrey. He was probably happier than a hog in slop because the mule was worth more than I was.

My grandpa on my dad’s side and my grandma lived in back of their general store in Tolosa. My earliest memory was when an old bus pulled up to the store. My dad walked out, got in the bus, and rode off. I didn’t know where he was going. I don’t remember how long it was before that same bus came back and my dad got out. Back in those days, grown-ups didn’t confide in kids about anything except when the kid did something wrong. But I learned later that my dad had gotten drafted by the army and had been rejected for some reason or the other. I believe that it was because he was a farmer and that the government was reluctant to draft those who provided the food and materials needed to win a war.

In 1940, my sister, Bobbie Lynn, was born. Around 1942 or 1943, we moved to Lisbon, a small town west of Dallas. In those days, it was out in the country, but it has become part of Dallas since then. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to when I was born or shortly before.

My family name is Johnstone, but the story goes that my grandma Johnstone didn’t like to be called Johnstone. She always told people it was pronounced Johnston. It seems my mother convinced my dad that if my grandma didn’t like the way it was pronounced, they should just drop the e and everything would be cool. That’s what they did. So my birth certificate has my name as Johnston. Sometime after I left home for the service, my dad put the e back into their name, but it was too late for me to do that; all my service and other records had my name as Johnston. I never changed it for that reason.

About 1945 or 1946, there was a knock on the door. It was my uncle, my dad’s youngest brother; he had mustered out of the army after the war and was standing there in his uniform. My dad had started to work at North American Aircraft in Arlington or Grand Prairie, not far from where we lived. Around 1947, my dad bought a duplex in South Dallas.

Around 1945 or 1946, I saw my first movie—a Saturday matinee for kids that cost a dime. The movie was an old shitkicker, a western, in which a cowboy jumped off a balcony onto his horse to avoid someone who was shooting at him. I got home and thought I’d like to do that, but no horses were around. However, down the road was a goat, so I went down there, borrowed the goat, led him to my backyard, and tied him under a shed. I climbed on the shed, but the goat kept moving around, so I told my sister (I called her sissy) to hold him still. She did. I jumped. Males who jump on hard, sharp objects, let’s say a goat’s spine for instance, lower their chances of fathering offspring. When I hit the goat’s back, I just rolled off him, and he got on top of me. I yelled to my sister, Grab his ears, sissy! The goat had to be destroyed. I’d almost been destroyed.

The house my dad bought was on Lenway Street off Lamar Street, one of the main thoroughfares in that part of town. A little way from the house, on Lamar Street, was the Procter & Gamble Company. It had a slaughterhouse for killing horses for their hooves and any other parts used to make soap. The stink from that slaughterhouse would have made an outhouse smell like a perfume factory. But after living there a while, we never noticed the smell anymore.

The people my dad bought the house from were still living there. I don’t know why, but apparently, they were having some trouble getting another place. The other side of the duplex was occupied by an older couple. I believe one or both of them were disabled because we never saw them outside the house. My dad wouldn’t make them move. We had already moved out from our house in Lisbon, so we moved into the one-car garage with a dirt floor, leaky roof, and no rear or front walls. It was a dilapidated carport.

My dad stretched large tarps over the front and back; one corner was loose so we could get in and out. It had no windows. All our worldly goods were stacked in the rear. My dad and mom slept on a mattress in the front part. My sister and I slept on pallets.

I was the only member of my family (that I know of) who had red hair. And a nasty temper. All the trouble I got into (my fault or not) was blamed on my red hair. I also wet the bed. Try as I could, I just couldn’t wake up to get to the bathroom. This will set the scene for what happens next.

The little alley in back of the garage ran down about half a block to the next street, and across this street lived a Mexican family who had four boys and a girl. Two boys were older than me, one was my age, and one was younger. On either side of me lived a boy; both of them were older. They were all probably within a couple of years of me, but that seems like a lot when you’re just a young kid. There were some other boys scattered around the neighborhood.

My mom started hanging my wet bedding on the clothesline in front of the garage. Pee stains on sheets are unmistakable. The first time she did that, the two oldest Mexican boys were walking up the alley. They saw the pee-stained sheets and started pointing and laughing at me and calling me a baby and a sissy.

Whenever I lost my temper, everything would turn black and I’d lose my memory. All I could see was the source of my anger. The fight was on.

The next thing I knew, my mom was talking to me and shaking me. The two boys were crying and limping down the alley. They came back again with their other brothers. The same thing happened. I ended up having to fight every boy in the neighborhood.

I don’t remember how long this went on, but it finally stopped. The Mexican boys and I became friends, and when more than a couple of boys and I got into it, they were right beside me. It was around this time they gave me the name Big Bad Red.

The people in the house finally moved out; I think we stayed in the garage for many months, but it was probably only a couple. Around that time, my mom took my sister and me to her parents’ in Jacksonville, Texas, to have my tonsils and adenoids (whatever they are) removed. My dad had to work, so he didn’t go. It was shortly after that that my bed-wetting stopped. I never understood what peeing had to do with tonsils, but I suspect they kept me from waking up to pee.

I went to Colonial Hill, a grammar school not far from home, maybe two blocks, but it seemed miles to me. My mom worked there, so to my regret I couldn’t get away with anything.

Our art teacher had us paint pictures of farm animals. Apparently, my picture was kind of strange to her; she had me stay after class and asked me all kinds of questions about it. She took me to the nurse’s office, and the nurse asked me all kinds of weird questions as well. She showed me some cards and asked me to tell