April « 2006 « eckermanmichigan.com Blog

Archive for April, 2006

Opening day ‘06

Sunday, April 30th, 2006

The opening day of Trout season here in the Jordan Valley, started with a beautiful pink sunrise, followed by hazy blue skies. The breeze was warm, out of the Southeast and I knew right off the bat that it was going to be a glorious day. My fishing buddy and I discussed our tactics over breakfast and from the way we talked, we were both going to be gourging ourselves on Salvelinus fontinalis by nightfall. Ralph Lemieur and I wern’t able to get on the river until almost noon; he had an appointment with his financial advisor on his upcoming retirement. We were somewhat skeptical of starting so late, but the Jordan, being one of the historical hotspots of angling, has always provided us with some fine table fare. I was a little suprised when we pulled into the launch site at Websters bridge to find only two vehicles, and only one of those had a trailer attached. Once we were on the water, we scanned the river watching for what insects were hatching and decided to stick with the original plan. In the past we’d tried using the local hatch, but found those little buggers just too small to hook them onto a hook, so we opted for a gobaworms. We wern’t on the river 10 minutes when I hooked into a beautiful Thuja Occidentalis. Of all the T. Occi’s I’ve caught, this was about the biggest one I’d ever encountered. I knew right off the bat that I’d hooked into a big one, by the way it fought. I kept trying to get it near the boat but it held it’s ground and after a resounding snap, I knew I’d lost it. I could hear Ralph up front chuckling to himself, but I new he’d eventually get hooked into one and then it would be my turn for the ribbing.

I pulled in the chain/anchor and floated down-river to the next hole and sure enough, it was his turn. I wasn’t sure what he’d hooked into until I saw the brown glisten in the afternoon sun. Fortunatly, he had grabbed his son’s rod and his son Mike, had strung it with 15# mono. If he had used his, with just 6# test, he would have lost it for sure. Prunus Pennsylvanica is one of the more resilient of the fighters, that inhabit the river and generally are found just off the riverbank. He wasn’t able to land it of course, but at least he got his gobaworms back.

We paddled down river for quite a ways, talking about retirement, the beautiful weather and all the other topics that two old fisherman speak of when I almost lost my pole. Instead of reeling my line in entirely, I’d let it float along behind the boat and almost paid the price for doing so. Amelanchier’s tend to attack that way too; they wait until you’ve passed by and then latch onto whatever you have attached to your hook. They’re easy to hook, but especially hard to get into the boat. Granted, the current played a part in my troubles but it was the species itself that won that battle.

Once I re-hooked and grabbed another gobaworms we were once again on our way. We noticed along the tree line the there was a family of beavers working along the river, and soon came upon their shelter. The mound of trees and branch’s that they had used had increased significantly and we decided to try our luck and stopped there. We never did see one of those beautiful creatures, but we both hooked onto a pair of huge Pop’s. Populus’s are stupid and weak so even using 6# test, I was able to land one, but Ralph got three, so I’ll have to live with that for quite a while!

The rest of the trip was uneventfull, except for one small Acer I hooked into, but by the time we pulled out at Rogers bridge, we felt satisified that we’d hooked into some of the best foilage the river had to offer. With any luck, next trip we’ll catch some fish

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Opening day

Tuesday, April 25th, 2006

For many families, when the term “Opening Day” was spoken, they were oftimes speaking of Baseball, or Football, maybe even Deer hunting. In my family, it always meant the opening day of Trout fishing. From the time I was but a wee lad, I can remember my Grandfather sitting at the head of the table, with all my Uncles and Aunts sitting in a line down the length. We would all start to gather about 10 o’clock on Friday night, and not long after there would be the aroma of cigar smoke, coffee, and beer. All of the grown-ups would be at the big table playing pinochle, and us cousin’s would be seated in the kitchen. I could hear them in the dining room trying to out-bid each other as they would reminisce about years past on this very night. Where they were, or what they had to do to get there. Who was pregnant, which one passed out first, and even one who had to come up with the bail. Mostly they talked about the fishing.Grandpa prefered fishing the Jordan, and told stories of him and my other Grandpa using one of Teddy Katovitch’s boats, fishing from Roger’s Bridge, right into town. By the time they pulled into the take-out spot, near sportsman’s park, they would both have a mixture of Brookies, Browns, and ‘Bows. The holes they fished then were 20 and 30 feet deep and so cold and clear you could see fish all the way to the bottom. A couple of my Uncles prefered to troll for them and would use either Mepps’ or cowbells, with a minnow trailer, and they bragged that they were never skunked on Opening day. My Aunt didn’t care, she caught more fish than any of them, no matter where or how.

I would sit there at that kitchen table and could see every fish those people caught as they were telling their tales. By Midnight I was wired to the gills with Hot Chocolate and couldn’t take it anymore. I’d go to the front porch, grab my pole, and go out to the end of the dock. Another 90 minutes later, the sugar wore off and I was sound asleep with my hand firmly holding onto my pole. I never filled my limit on opening day, or even caught anything some years, but I was always there.

This Friday night, I hope to be sitting at the kitchen table at the Zipp cabin in Eckerman. I’ll be drinking coffee and talking to Doug Frye about the years past, and the next days catch. Wish me luck.

Posted in Fishing, Thoughts from today | 2 Comments »

“S E C R E T Reports”

Sunday, April 23rd, 2006

I was in highschool when I first started watching the news, and for awhile, I took what was told to me as “Gospel Truth”. After all, we were the good guys, we lived in a country where the first Amendment guaranteed our right to a free press. Well, we were guaranteed a free press, but not an honest press. There’s nothing in the Constitution that says what were told has to be the truth.

After dinner each night, I’d sit with my parents and watch one of the local news channels, and then after 15 minutes of that, we’d get the national news for another 15 minutes. In the late 60’s, I remember them telling us that because there was so much going on in the world, and especially in Viet Nam, they were going to be on for a half hour. It was during these national reports that they would show a graphic of the American flag, and that of North Vietnam. Next to each flag, would be the “body count”. On a typical report, the American’s would suffer 6 dead, and 40 wounded, and North Vietnam would have 500 dead and 2000 wounded. We were always a little happy to hear that the “bad guys” were taking such a beating and our side wasn’t bad at all, considering.

It was during this time that I was given a short wave radio from my Grandmother, for Christmas. Being a student of “Ham operators” I hooked up a single pole antenna that ran the full length of my attic, and ran the lead down through an empty cold air return to the basement. Most of the time, I tuned it into a CW (Morse Code) circut and practiced copying code, but one night I found a voice circut called “Radio Peiking”. There were two people, a man and a woman, who spoke with impeccable diction telling those who listened what a bunch of “War mongering capitalistic imperialists” we were. They went on and on about all of our faults and how much better their way of life was over ours. I asked my teachers at school about it, and learned the word “Propaganda” from them. They said it was the same type of reporting that was done by “Tokyo Rose” in Japan and Herr Goebbels in Berlin during the Second World War. I continued to listen to the broadcasts and with that in mind, and would laugh at the outlandish accusations those two morons spewed forth. As part of their report, they would get around to the daily body count for their side of the war efforts. They would tell me that the Imperialist Americans had suffered 500 dead and 2000 wounded whereas the conquering peace loving North Vietnamese had suffered just 6 dead and 40 wounded. I had them figured for lying heathen bastards until two years later on a Mid-watch.

Generally speaking, the mid-watch (0000hrs until 0800) was the slowest of the three watch’s. The messages we’d get over the fleet broadcast would be repeats, for those ships who’d lost communications during the day and maybe missed a few. It was also the time when the daily newspaper from the NSC (National Security Councel) would be printed up and sent out to the various commands. The message would cover all the worlds events and was always classified S E C R E T. I can’t by any means divulge what was written per se, for two reasons; I’d end up in the Portsmouth Naval Prison, and it was a long time ago, and I don’t remember. What I do remember though, was the report that somehow came from the battlefield in Viet Nam to my eyes. In it, was the factual body count for that day, not the one I’d just read from the UPI that we also copied, or from Radio Peiking that I’d tuned into. What I learned that late night, was that the United States press was as slanted and corrupt as that of the Communist Government in China.

So, remember this: No matter who or what you read or see, either from Harry Smith, or Bill O’Reilly, or even Bahgdad Bob, it’s mostly bullshit. The only way your going to get an honest outlook of what is truely going on, is to watch them all, add them up and divide by the number of reports. Be it History, Economics, or even Religon, it all works out the same.

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Grandpa’s flower

Thursday, April 20th, 2006

During the last year that I worked at Site Planning, I’d hoped to start a community “Friendship Garden” where the patrons of our company could share and exchange some of their perennials with each other. I wrote an article about it in the company paper, and in it, I mentioned a plant that had been my Grandfathers from way back before I was even born. One of the companies customers read the article and had asked me to send a slip of this plant to a garden she was working on in Charlevoix. She was helping develop the community garden at Depot Beach, and maybe if I had this plant there where people could see it, maybe someone could figure out what it was. She also asked me to send along a history of the plant to add to the archives there, and I didn’t know much about it. Since my brother used to help Grandpa with his gardens, I’d asked him if he knew anything about it and he sent me this story;

This is the story of that flower in the garden that is so special and we always called “Grandpa’s Flower”.

Our grandfather, George Griffin, was a 1^st Sargent in the Army National Guard back in 1916. At that time he and his Company, Company I of Michigan, were ordered down to the border country of southern New Mexico, shortly after Pancho Villa attacked the small border town of Columbus, New Mexico, killed 18 American citizens and destroyed part of the town. General Pershing had been dispatched to form a punitive force to head into Mexico to capture or eliminate (with extreme prejudice) the Mexican revolutionary leader, Pancho Villa.

During the ensuing months, the US forces crisscrossed the border many times in pursuit of Pancho Villa. Often times at night the two camps were in sight of one another, the campfires burning. Apparently, there was not much animosity between the two factions, as they would often assist one another. My grandfather once told me that they would overhear the Mexican camp mentioning the fact that they needed medical supplies. When the Army would pull out in morning the needed medical supplies were mysteriously left behind. In kind, my grandfather, being the 1^st Sargent, would be the one to try and find provisions on the march. Water was a major issue. At one point water rations were dwindling terrifyingly low. That night, over the campfires, he exclaimed that they needed to find water soon. Directions to the nearest drinkable water were found in camp the following morning. The force went to the water and all were sated.

One night, around the campfire, my Grandfather, who loved flowers of all sort, was talking about locating the most beautiful flower in all of Chihuahua, Mexico, the State they were in at that point. Apparently, a Mexican revolutionary overheard the conversation (sound travels easily and quickly through the desert night) and came across the short expanse of land and began talking to my grandfather. He told him of a flower so delicate and beautiful that could be found nowhere else in Mexico, only in the mountains of Chihuahua, in the Sierra Madre. Well, coincidentally, my Grandfather felt sure that Villa must be up in the mountains and that they should give the area at least a cursory scout.

Long story short, my Grandfather found the flower high in the Sierras. A delicate yet tenacious flower of varying hues of blues and purples. Grandpa didn’t know what it was, other than it looked like a member of the orchid family. He dug up the flower, roots and all, and carried it the rest of the expedition. He brought it back with him when the United States decided that it was time to disband and return the soldiers to the States. World War 1 was in the early stages and hadn’t involved the United States yet … but soon would. He returned with Company I to East Jordan (Actually Camp Grayling) where he planted the remaining roots at my other Grandfather’s house in East Jordan, Ed Kamradt’s house on Mary St. (the old original location, east of the house now standing).

Grandpa Griffin never did learn the name of the flower. But in the spring of the following year it grew. It didn’t bloom that year, but did the following year. As beautiful as ever. Grandpa Griffin was very proud of that flower; he’d been to Hell and back to get it. Even had to dance with the Devil, as he termed it. He simply called it “My Special Flower”.

So, the flower you see originally came from the Mexican State of Chihuahua, up in the Sierra Madre mountain range, near where Pancho Villa grew up … and was ultimately assassinated in 1923. My grandfather once told me that if it hadn’t been for Pancho Villa’s troops many of the US soldiers would have died. When Pancho Villa died he said he shed a tear for the old soldier, remembering on past times, past adventures and far away places. A far cry and a far piece from northern Michigan. I remember as a small boy leaning over to smell the flower, very fragrant by the way, and my grandfather saying to me that it was the smell of “Pancho”.

I’ve got some pictures of it in my computer here, and if anyone out there would like to fill me in, I’d greatly appreciate it. Just email me at mkamradt@sbcglobal.net and I’ll send the picture.

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The Great Fall of ‘06

Wednesday, April 19th, 2006

We’ve all been reading recently about the Earthquake in San Fransisco that created such havoc and pain amongst the population there, and the Hurricanes that have destroyed so many lives in the South over the years, but no mention has ever been told of the Great Fall of ‘06 in the Northwestern corner of Michigan. I think it’s about time that the truth be told so we can join in the pain that those people seem to enjoy.

Even as far back as 1906 there were many people who’d had their fill of “Civilization” and wanted to live in an area that was void of violence and hate. They packed their wagons and boats in the Spring of that year, and headed North. They left the Gulf coast where such storms ravaged the shorelines, and returned from out West where occasionally the earth tremored and felled thier homes. They left the cities back East where the people over populated the environs and destroyed the land, and they left the Mid-west where tornado’s would yearly destroy the crops and forever change the landscape.

They all came to a land where you couldn’t see the air, people would wave and speak to each other, gentle rains would fall in the Spring and flowers would carpet the forests. In April of that year, the winter ended early and instead of the usual snow fluries, they had days in the 60’s and nights with just a hint of frost. By May of that fatefull year, the trees had allready leafed out and instead of the wind howling through bare branches, there was the sound of leaves rustling in the gentle breezes. That Spring was very much like the one we are experiencing now; there was a group of people in Ellsworth who claimed to have seen a pack of wolves but the government denied it all, they were afraid they’d have to spend what money they had counting them, and the indians were spearing spawning Walleye near Pickerel lake. They would talk in all the area meetings of how much they were doing to preserve the local resources but behind our backs, would help destroy it.

The summer proceeded as one would expect, having the Spring they had; the day’s were hot and the rains came only at night. Even then the weather seemed to be controlled by the local chamber of commerce. The tree’s of the forrest grew and grew and there were few spots where the sun shone upon open ground. The “summer visitors” came from the South where the sweltering heat was even worse than that found here, from the cities back East with people tried to escape the congested cities and roads. They even came from the West, where shade could only be found from Cottonwoods growing along their dirty rivers. As a whole, they all found our villages and towns “quaint” with picturesque parks, and our rivers clean and cold. They seemed to enjoy telling the population here of how slow thinking and dim-witted we were, all the while licking ice cream cones, and munching on fudge. Every one of them greatly appreciated the fact that they didn’t have to worry about hurricanes, or earthquakes, or the occasional tornado. Little did they know though that as in all places, the Fall follows the Summer.

It was on the last day of September that year, that the catastrophe of the century was soon upon them. The morning awoke with sparkling blue skies which seemed to accentuate the deep reds of the swamp Maples and the yellows of the sugars. The bronze’s of the Oaks, and the coppers of the Beeches. The night before had been clear and still and the temperatures had plummited into the twenties. Now on this day, it warmed up to the fifties and all the peoples of the towns and villages flocked out into the woods to celebrate such a wonderfull day. They gathered under these huge trees and talked and laughed of all those days of summer when the fudgies made such a mess of their land. They all told stories of how gratefull these people were to be there, but treated the locals with such distain. Now all of those fudgies were back where they belonged, there were two hurricanes; one in the Gulf and one off the Eastern seaboard, poising to flatten them all. An earthquake, and the fire that followed had all but destroyed a large city out West but where they stood, the land was firm. Around noon of that day, when the families were about to enjoy their picnic lunchs, it all began.

At first only a single leaf fell, and the children watched it flutter and fly and swrill as it made it’s trip to the Earth. It was followed by another and then another, and then all hell broke loose. As if on cue to some sick and sordid movie, every leaf in the North fell as one. Small children were grasped by thier mothers and held close to their breasts, as they made their way to safety. Fathers yelled and formed lines to find the stragglers as they tried to make their way back to protection. Soon the leaves were knee deep but they kept falling and falling and falling. Piles of yellow’s and reds and coppers were seen everywhere as they began to quake and move. At first the only sound to be heard was that of rustling leaves but soon the sound of laughter was heard. Mothers and fathers and all the children began to laugh as they made their way back out of the woodlands. They, as one, were eternally gratefull that they had survived; THE GREAT FALL OF ‘06.

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East Jordan’s Honey Hole

Sunday, April 16th, 2006

The following is an article I wrote for a newspaper that didn’t seem to think it was worth printing. Well, I do so I’m going to use this venue to make sure people know about it, and Tom.

East Jordan’s favorite honey hole

This is a fishing story, so all you pervert’s can get your mind out of the gutter now. A “HONEY HOLE” in the fishing sense, is a spot where we go when we want to catch fish, not just fish for them. It is a spot where you can take a friend, or a child, to show them how it’s done, and how well you can do it. Most honey holes, are kept secret, and rightly so. We don’t want everyone to fish there, or soon, it’ll be just another hole, just like the millions that are out there now. This hole is different, in that Tom Durecki want’s as many people to visit as possible, but with one condition; a young girl or boy must be involved.

Tom owns Tom’s bait in East Jordan and is the local intelligence resource in town. He’s had a shop here in town since 1994, first with Arnold’s bait, and now he has the store he’s in now. He’s been in the business for almost 25 years, in one form or another, and as a fervent fisherman, he’s watched the business from both sides of the counter. I met him back in ’95 when I moved back here, and as a fellow fisherman, I needed his intelligence and resources. I suppose I could have dug a hole in my back yard to find any bait I’d need, and remembered a couple of spots on the Jordan river, that I fished. I soon discovered however, it’s not as much fun digging holes as it used to be, and the holes I used to catch the Brookies in, are now full of sand. It was during one of my visits that the topic of his most recent project came up.

Tom had noticed that the area didn’t have many spots where he could send the area kids, or summer visitors, who’d ask where they could go. His business is dependent on the people he serve’s and it’s been getting harder each year. We were talking about some of his locations and he mentioned that he doesn’t send people like me, to the same ones he would, to a single mom with her son. Neither one of us would have a boat, but I’m already sold on the sport, they aren’t. He wants the kids to have the advantage, and develop the same memories and responsibilities that he did as a boy. Tom started fishing when he was 5, and grew up in a family that enjoyed fishing, as much as being with each other. He remembers growing up in Roger’s City, and fishing on Lake Emma, for pan-fish. We’re talking about the years before level wind bait casting reels, and long before Shakespeare came out with a push button reel.

Tom talked about the years that he enjoyed fishing with his dad, his mom’s dad, and all the uncles. He was saying that he’s noticed over the years, that the family has changed too. Now he’ll see a lot more mother’s with her kids, rather than a father with his. Another factor that I’ve noticed over the years, is children in general don’t play outside as much as they used to. Between video games, the internet, and parents fear of the outdoors, the youth of today don’t spend any time living where Tom and I did.

Since the 80’s, when the cormorant began its rebound from the DDT years, and the lowering of water levels in the Great Lakes, his options of where to send people has been greatly reduced. He decided a couple years ago, to do something about it and began talks with the City of East Jordan, the D.N.R., and some local people who felt the same as he. The city offered the use of a channel that was built back during the C.C.C. and W.P.A. years as a trout rearing pond off the Jordan River, in Sportsman’s park. He contacted D.N.R. biologist Tom Rozycki for his opinions as well as Gary Lapeer, Steve Burneer, and retired D.N.R. biologist, Jim Truchan. With these people he put together a plan where the kids could catch blue-gill as well as trout, and he was on his way.

Tom was able to get some much needed support from the East Jordan Community fund, the Charlevoix Community Foundation, and the people who run the Charlevoix Trout Tournament. He will be getting the fish from the D.N.R., and from the Jordan Valley Trout Pond, on M66, just south of town.

As funds were made available, he has started with construction on the pond and so far it’s looking pretty good. The channel was dredged to 12’, is 30’ wide and 450’ long. He has plans to install culverts that will allow water to continue flowing through the channel. Along the other side, where the bottom was dredged up, he will seed it to prevent any surface runoff. The seed has been installed by the Boyne Valley Hydroseed Co. On the near side, he is going to install a boardwalk that will run the entire length of the site and make it available for wheel chairs. He has the funds to build two piers, of the four he’s planned, and by the end of this summer he’ll have the fish planted.

When it’s complete, he plans to use the site as a training ground for those who want to learn. He’ll be sponsoring classes on techniques, methods, and means for all the various ways we use to catch them. He’s considering holding tournaments as the word gets out how well it’s doing, and maybe a barbecue or two, on cooking them. As anyone in town will tell you, Tom knows how to cook them. As often as not, when I go in there to get some bait, he’s cooking, and it drives me crazy. This will not be a predominantly “catch and release” program, the fish these kids will catch can be taken home, to either camp or home, and eaten.

Tom still has a long ways to go, to see this “HONEY HOLE” come true, and could use some help. If there is anyone who would like to contribute to this program, please contact the East Jordan branch of the Charlevoix State Bank, and tell them you’d like to contribute to the “Jenni Kenny Memorial Kids Fishing Fund”. You can also contact Tom at his store at 231-536-3521. I can assure you that the money will be put to good use, and there will be many kids years from now, that’ll remember the days fishing in their favorite “HONEY HOLE”.

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14 April 2006

Friday, April 14th, 2006

It is absolutly beautiful out there today. Last night we had some thunderstorms roll through here and shot 2 bags worth of Nitrogen into the soil and the grass looks it. Outside the window here, I can hear two different types of Finch’s, a pair of Redwinged Blackbirds talking to each other, a Bluejay bitching at something, and a dozen or so Robins having a contest on who can sing the loudest.

Tomorrow, I’m going over to Tom’s bait here in East Jordan and buy an application form for next fall’s bear hunting. I have three points now, so I’m allmost assured that I’ll be getting a permit. I’ll find out in June I think, and then the real fun will begin. If I do get one, I’ll be making weekly runs up to Eckerman to bait the pile and probably stop off at one of the local lakes to take home a couple trout for dinner.

Two weeks from tomorrow, is THEE holiest day of obligation, and Doug Frye and I will be trolling along the shore of Lake Charlevoix looking for some Walleye. After he drops me off, I’ll probably grab my steelhead rod and head down to the Jordan and see if I can pick up a Steelie or two.

This morning, Ralph Lemieur and I finished painting my dining room, so my wife is going to be a real happy camper, and therefore, I will be too. We’ve been working on it for a month now and she’s been very patient with our progress.

I’ve got a few medical conditions that would bring a few of you to your knees, but on a day like this, well, its just nice to be here.

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A brother in Main Comm

Thursday, April 13th, 2006

From the time I was six years old, which by the way, was the first time my mom made me eat cream chipped beef, I knew I wanted to go into the service. The Naval part of it came when I’d read a few stories about life at sea, and better yet, life in foreign ports. I was always a “News Junkie” so going into the communications part of the Navy was definetly a given. I wanted to be a radioman so bad, I took typing in High School, and joined the “Ham radio club” so I could learn the Morse Code. I graduated at the top of my class in “A” school, and went on to “High speed code school” upon finishing my other studies. I ended up on the USS COLUMBUS CG-12 due to an enlistment program that the Navy had during the Viet Nam war. The program was called “Brother Duty” and luckely I had a brother serving on a ship that WASN’T going to go to Viet Nam. I thought it would be cool to be on the same ship as my brother Carl, and together we could visit all the countries lining the Mediterranian Sea. It didn’t quite turn out the way I expected.

My brother was a Fire Control Technician, and being on a guided missle cruiser, the ship was lousy with those guys. They all worked 8 to 5 jobs, and for the most part, 6 days a week. I, on the other hand worked 16 hour days, 7 days a week, for the entire 6 month cruise. It was common to see these FT’s (Missile-eers we affectionetly called them), lounging about the ship with coffee cups perminetly affixed to their hands, shooting the bull. The only time these yahoo’s were actually busy, was during their live fire exercise’s of which they had maybe 3 or 4 during a cruise. The rest of their busy schedule consisted of telling each other how many times they got laid in Barcelona or some such port, or starting rumors. A couple of them would either go up to the bow, or up into the Weapons office and start a rumor. Then they’d go down to the mess decks and see how long it would take for the rumor to get back to them.

So, on one especially dull day, my dear brother goes up to the Weapons office, and tells one of the guys, who had just got married, that the ship was going to turn around in Gibralter, and head right back to the States. Peace had broke out unexpectedly and there wasn’t any reason for us to be there. He asked Carl how he could come upon such highly classified information, and Butch told him; “I’ve got a brother in Main Comm”. That’s all it took. That kid broke out of there and was telling everyone he saw that we were heading back 5 1/2 months early. As you would imagine, good news like that really travels fast on a ship full of horny fellas.

Unfortunatly, us Radiomen never heard it. We lived in a whole different world on board that ship. We were all cleared for “Secret” or above, and NEVER spoke to anyone else. We never had the spare time to sit around and visit with these guys, and because of our security clearances, we weren’t allowed to anyways.

I didn’t hear anything about it until that night at 1900 when the ships CAPTAIN made an announcement on the 1MC. “In as much as it’s fun to start rumors, and even more fun to pass them on, WE WILL NOT BE RETURNING TO NORFOLK, until our 6 month cruise requirment is completed”. “Wow” I thought, “I wonder how’n hell that ever got started?” and went about my duties. I found out the next morning when there was a Marine standing at the foot of my rack telling me the XO wanted to see me NOW.

At 0608 I was led into the XO’s stateroom and stood at attention until a very pissed off Commander looked up from his desk. “So Kamradt, I understand you have a brother in T-1 Division?”. “Yes Sir, I do”. “Did you or did you not tell him that we were going back to the states when we got to Gibralter?”. “NO SIR, I didn’t”. “Would you like to take care of this or do you want me to?”. “NO SIR, I’ll take care of it”. “OUTFUCKINGSTANDING SAILOR, CARRY ON”. Well, I got my sorry ass up to his computer room and read him the riot act. I’da hit him if he wasn’t laughing so hard.

That was almost as close as I ever got to spending some serious time visiting our Marine Brothers at Portsmouth Naval prison. In another issue, I’ll tell you about THEE closest I came to spending time there, and how I got even with my coffee guzzeling asshole brother.

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In spite of my face

Wednesday, April 12th, 2006

This morning at 8:45 I started a process that I’ve gone through once before, and I’m not looking forward to going through it again.

From the time I was 8 years old, until I joined the Navy ten years later, I spent every summer with my Grandparents on Union Lake in Oakland County. I’d get up early each morning and would rake the beach out front, or weed all the gardens that were around the house. Once that was accomplished, I had the rest of the day to do whatever I wanted. What I wanted to do was swim and fish and I did it all the time. I’d go out there the second week of June, and by the third week, I was burned to a crisp.

My nose and ears would peel all summer, but fortunatly, I’d eventually turn brown on my back and shoulders. The shoulders were the most painfull part, as large blisters would form and a yellow fluid would ooze out. Then it would peel off, but after one or two more burns, I’d start to brown up. That never occured with my face, I’d just loose a layer and then burn again. This was back in the day when “Coppertone” was the only tanning cream, and SPF where just three letters in the alphabet.

Five years ago, I had a spot form under my right eye, that bled every day, when I’d towel off after taking a shower. I’d seen somewhere that this may be an indication of skin cancer, so I had it checked out. Sure enough, I had it, but it was Basil Cell Carcinoma, not the Malinoma which is a lot worse. On my first doctors appointment, just like the one this morning, the doctor removed some of the skin and had it tested. I was given another appointment to have it checked at a later date, but when I went in, a different doctor did the checking. He removed some more, but this guy scared the living hell out of me. His eyes didn’t line up right and he had a bit of a shake to his hands which when dealing with someone with a bad heart and a defibulator, can lead to disaster. I carry around a device in my chest that delivers a jolt equal to 700 volts, D.C. and I do WHATEVER it takes not to have that thing go off. Having this guy work on me was a nightmare, so I said the hell with it.

Later, when I went to an eye doctor to have a problem with cataracts in the other eye looked at, he immediatly looked into the right eye and said that would have to be fixed long before he’d fix the left one. He’s not only an excellent Opthamologist, he can do facial oxy-something or other and take care of the cancer. He cut away at it a couple times but even then it got to a point where he had to send me down to another doctor at Wm. Beaumont hospital in the Detroit area. During that process, I lost my tear duct that’s next to my nose, and had to have some skin grafted from behind my ear. There was a lot of talk in the family and friends where they were going to have to get the skin to replace what they’d taken out. Some suggested that they take the nice soft skin from around my scrotum, but then I’d be a little “Cockeyed” and I wasn’t up for that. When I got back from that, the Opthamologist still had to do some more corrective surgery to straighten up my eye so it looked right. Six months after that, the cancer had come back and I had to go back down-state again and have more surgery done. This time, they used a MOS procedure and this is the part where things got ugly. During the plastic surgeries up here, they would knock me right out, and I’d wake up all nice and fixed. There isn’t any of that with this procedure, you get to watch.

I had warned them of my condition and of the consequences involved with having sparks flying from my eyeball through their scalpel, so they loaded me right up with some feel-good pills and I was ready. They gave me a couple shots of pain killer, and then started cutting away the first grafting job. Not only do you get to watch, you get to feel and listen to the scissors cutting away your flesh. It feels and sounds like a ripping noise like cotton being ripped. After the flesh had been removed, it was sent down to the lab for analysis and I was sent back to the waiting room for the results. While your sitting there, the anesthetic wears off, and it hurts like hell, but there’s nothing that can be done. When the results come back, as they did three more times, I was taken back in, given another shot of pain killer and I’d go through the process again. On the fifth time, I was almost in tears when I saw the nurse walk into the waiting room with a smile on her face. I think she was suffering almost as much as I was, and this time they closed up as much as they could, and sent me on my way. The next day, I had to go back to Wm Beaumont and have the skin taken from the back of the other ear to graft onto what was left. The cancer under that eye has never come back and to that I’m very gratefull.

Now I sit here typing this up and thinking about all I’ve been through, and all that I’ll probably go through again.

So, if any of you folks have little blond kids who like to play outside, please, PLEASE, slather them up with as much SPF as you can get your hands on and spare them of what I just wrote. For all of you fair haired people who love to lay under one of those lamps or under the Summer sun, “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face”

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“Ethics” was the topic

Tuesday, April 11th, 2006

One of the responsibilities I had at Country Day, was directing traffic at their monthly “Collection”. A collection is an event there where the entire upper school gathered and as many parents as those who wanted to attend, would gather, and listen to a speech from an outside source. There had been many important and varying speakers and at times, the parking situation would get pretty involved. I would end up parking cars not only in all the parking lots, but also onto many of the athletic fields that I took care of.

It was during one of these events that a very telling insight happened to me.

I was standing there, not five mintues before the speaker was to start, that there wasn’t a car to be found. Not even the students showed up that morning. I was a little dumbfounded because the people associated with this school were always very involved in everything that happened there.

As I was leaving the parking lot, to go about my regular duties, one of the administrators walked by so I asked him what the topic was at the collection that day. He said: “Ethics was the topic”. I laughed all the way back to the garage, and I still do everytime I think of it.

I don’t want any of the alumni writing me any nasty letters, but it was you guys who didn’t show up, not me.

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