Catch on Slow, Don't I?

Digressions of J. Charles Catch on Slow, Don't I? © December 2003  By J. Charles Cheek   Earl Nightingale said, "Success is the progressive realization of a worthy ideal." He also said, "You become what you think about." Both these statements apply to whatever successes I have managed to attain in my 71 years of existence on this planet. I expect to live a few more on this planet and forever thereafter (whatever that means). I was born in a farmhouse in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas on a hot July day in 1932. My birth certificate name of "J.C." occurred because the family doctor remembered initials only when he filled out my birth certificate some three weeks after birth. I attended 1st grade in Cowan Barens, AR; 2nd grade at Yellville, AR; 3rd grade at Rush, AR; 4th, 5th, and 6th grade at Lower Naches, WA; 7th grade at Mesa, AZ; 8th grade at Castroville, CA; 9th grade at Salinas, CA; first ½ of 10th grade at Albion, ID; then the remainder of high school at Yakima, WA. Each time I registered at a new school and told them "my name is J.C." they asked, "Is that spelled JAY CEE?" or similar questions. Each time they made me bring my birth certificate to prove my first and middle name was just the initials, J and C. Finally, when registering at Yakima, I told them my name is John Charles Cheek and they had no further questions. Catch on slow, don't I? My goal was to be a radio announcer until the high school drama and radio instructor, a former New York showgirl named Muriel J. Burke, broke my heart by telling me that I didn’t have the voice for announcing. A subsequent vocational test suggested I become a bricklayer. I turned down an offer to pitch professional baseball for the Yakima Bears. Then the dumbest move of all, I turned down a full baseball scholarship to Pacific Lutheran College. My "worthy ideal" at the time was to get a job, get a car, and chase girls. Catch on slow, don't I? Two years later, Uncle Sam ruined my successful girl-chasing career by drafting me into the Korean War. This is the point in my life where the quality of my decisions began to improve dramatically. Offered the opportunity to enlist for three years in the Army Security Agency instead of getting drafted for two years as a Grunt in the Infantry, I opted for the three-year enlistment. In the ASA, I associated with several college graduates and observed first hand the benefits of a higher education. Nevertheless, after my discharge from the Army, I went back to work at my old job on a survey crew for the Bureau of Reclamation. Catch on slow, don’t I? Finally, fifteen months after leaving the Army, I packed up my infant son and pregnant wife, and began a four and one-half year stay at Washington State University. Graduating midterm in January 1961 with a BS degree in Civil Engineering and a wife and four sons, I went to work for Pacific Power & Light Company and participated in designed high voltage transmission lines for almost thirty years. A highlight of my career involved managing a 550-mile long 500,000-volt transmission line project that took eight years to complete and cost $240,000,000. My last job before retirement was Manager of Transmission Engineering for PP&L and UP&L. I also was cofounder, and chairman for eight years, of an organization called the Western Utility Group. WUG represented seventeen western utilities in land use regulatory issues with the US Forest Service and US Bureau of Land Management. WUG had the distinction of being the only private organization ever referenced in a Bureau of Land Management planning regulations. I took early retirement in 1990 and my wife and I started playing golf and traveling. During the winter of 1999/2000 we left home in Vancouver, Washington on October 11 and returned April 12. I towed a 27 foot travel trailer over 10,000 miles - Oregon, Idaho, Utah, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska and Wyoming. We played oodles of golf and my game improved until I scored in the mid- eighties to low nineties. Tiring of the travel trailer life and having mastered the game of golf (yeah, right!), I turned to writing for fun and profit. My first writing effort was just for fun. I spent a couple of years of research then wrote a 56-page genealogy document of my Cheek family lineage. Then I embarked on writing a for-profit book based on my experiences during the Army and specifically during the Korean War. The novel is titled STAY SAFE, BUDDY and most of the story takes place during the last six months of the Korean War. The book centers on a young 19-year-old soldier’s bonding with comrades and facing his mortality on the front lines of the war. Nearly all the characters are based on real people I knew and many of the scenes in the book actually occurred as described. Released by Publish America, in May 2003, the book is available at the publishers web site, www.publishamerica.com, or most other Internet book sales sites. Also signed copies are available directly from me while my small remaining supply lasts - contact me by clicking on the E-mail tab. Jackie, the first to review the book, said: "The book STAY SAFE, BUDDY really shows how men from all walks of life can meld together and look out for each other. Why does it take being on a battlefield to make people get along? Being in the state of alert as we are at present it makes us think twice of what we would want to sacrifice. The Korean War was such a thankless war and we would not want to repeat that again. I really liked the human aspect of the book and the characters are so real." Another reviewer had this to say: "I found the novel STAY SAFE, BUDDY to be thoroughly entertaining. It is funny, yet heart wrenching. The author has made the characters and events exciting and believable. I laughed and cried each time I read it, and I have read it several times. I give STAY SAFE, BUDDY two thumbs up." Presently, I am almost through the 1st draft of my second novel that is tentatively titled "Hobo." It is about the adventures and loves of a young man that ran away from home at age twelve. After four years as a hobo he goes to work as a gofer for the secretary of a powerful U.S. Senator. The Senator and his sexy secretary befriend him for their own selfish purposes. Although I spend a career in the technical field of engineering, I always wanted to write and consequently kept notes on ideas for books that I might write someday. As I said in the beginning as a quote of Earl Nightingale, "What you think about you become." Now, here I am at this advanced age – author of a novel and many short stories. Catch on slow, don't I? E - N - D

Remembering Corporal Byrd

Digressions of J. Charles Remembering Corporal Byrd By J. Charles Cheek © June 2004  To all my young comrades in harms way around the world, this old veteran is thinking of you. Stay safe, buddy.   A GI.s version of The Night Before Christmas By Cpl. Richard Byrd 6 December 1952 It was the night before Christmas, and all through the tent Was the odor of fuel oil (the stove pipe was bent) The shoe pacs were hung by the oil stove with care. In hopes that they'd get a new pair this year. The weary GIs were sacked out in their beds. And the visions of sugar babes danced through their heads. When upon the ridgeline there arose such a clatter. A Chinese machine-gun started to chatter. I rushed to my rifle and threw back the bolt. The rest of my tent mates awoke with a jolt. Outside we could hear our platoon sergeant, Kelly. A hard little man with a little pot belly. Come Yancy, Come Clancy, Come Conners and Watson. Up Miller, up Shiller, up Baker and Dotson. We tumbled outside in a swirl of confusion. So cold that each man could have used a transfusion. Get up on that hilltop and silence that Red. And don't come back till you're sure he is dead. Then putting his thumb in front of his nose. Sergeant Kelly took leave of us shivering Joes. But we all heard him say in a voice soft and light. Merry Christmas to all...May you live through the night. [Cpl. Byrd was a soldier in the Korean War. He died in battle the day after writing the above poem]

The L-19 Courier Run Experiment

Digressions of J. Charles The L-19 Courier Run Experiment. © June 2004 John C. Cheek Someone said, "Flying is hours, and hours, and hours of complete boredom, interspersed with brief moments of stark terror!" I can personally attest to the truthfulness of that statement. Here’s why. For a time during the Korean War, I ran the message center and mailroom at the headquarters of the Army Security Agency’s 303rd Communications Reconnaissance Battalion. We were located some 15 miles south of the MLR (Main Line of Resistance) near the little village of Uijongbu. One day the CO, Major "Head Honcho," had a brilliant idea for an experiment. He decided that someone should fly the daily mail and classified material to our Detachments located in each Division on the MLR. I was relieved when he informed me that I would be riding in an L-19 airplane rather that being fired from a 155 howitzer. Major HH didn’t care much for me and later shipped me off to a listening bunker in the 1st Marine Division on the MLR. He had failed in an attempt to court-martial me for following his orders. But I digress, that’s another story that I told in my novel, Stay Safe, Buddy. We landed at one airstrip that had boulders in the runway the size of cantaloupes (OK, apples). The runway ended at the edge of a cliff along the Imjin River. The pilot was a redheaded cocky devil-may-care fellow who delighted in scaring the hell out of me. He would aim at the cliff then pop the L-19 airplane up at the last few seconds and drop onto the runway. He would taxi the airplane down the runway, turn around and pause briefly while I exchanged packages with a man from the Detachment. He said we couldn't stop long for fear of getting some Chinese artillery zeroed in on us. Then he'd charge down the runway and drop over the edge of the cliff as we went airborne. He liked to skim along the ground to give me a good view of the terrain then pull up suddenly and hang the L-19 on its prop for awhile. Then he'd dive at the ground and skim the surface again. Laughingly, he claimed these maneuvers were necessary to avoid being shot at by infiltrators. For the entire flight that had five landings and takeoffs my stomach was in my throat or my throat was in my stomach. Fortuantely, I never got air sick as I was too busy dealing with the fright. After a half dozen white-knuckle flights I decided to "share" the scenic flying duty with the rest of the men in Battalion Headquarters and sold the idea to the Major Honcho. He probably approved my sharing idea only because he had though up a better way to punish me – transfer me to a front line Detachment. But again, I digress. You’ll have to read Stay Safe, Buddy to hear the full sordid story on that. Suffice to say for now that Major Honcho "allowed" me to transfer to the front and participate in the war from a spy bunker. I fooled him again and survived that assignment also. I don't think it was any more dangerous than flying in the L-19 with that wild red headed pilot and it paid much better - $50 a month extra for combat pay. As for Major Honcho, he left the Far East Command in a straight jacket. But I digress. That’s another story that I also told in my novel. E-N-D Editors Note: J. Charles (John) Cheek is a new author. His 298-page highly acclaimed novel STAY SAFE, BUDDY is based on his experiences during the Korean War. He can be contacted through his website at www.jcharlescheek.com (Click on the ABOUT tab)

My Boating Buddy, Floyd

Digressions of J. Charles My Boating Buddy, Floyd © May 1990 J. Charles Cheek NOTE: J. Charles Cheek has written dozens of short stories under the general heading of Digressions of J. Charles. He wrote the following tribute that was published in the May 1990 edition of the boating newpaper, Freshwater News. He is also the author of the novel Stay Safe, Buddy – A Story of Humor and Horror during the Korean War, 300 pages, Publish America ISBN # 159286631X   Freshwater News,  May 1990 This letter is written as both a tribute to my buddy and to ask on behalf of his many friends, "Why?" I am sad. My boating buddy is dead. His final words were written and they haunt me; "I’m in the basement. I committed suicide ---Floyd." Floyd would not have wanted his words to trouble anyone. He was that way. Quiet and cordial, he was especially cautious to not offend anyone. Those haunting words were just his way of simply announcing the end of his cruise through life. No explanations. Just the announcement. If Floyd was physically ill, nobody knew it. In his third year of retirement, after 42 years with a Portland metal working company, he should have been enjoying himself. Now I can look back and recognize a few ever so subtle hints that he may have been traversing troubled waters. Several others also say they can now recognize a few subtle clues from the past. The subtle hints and clues now disturb us. Could we have altered his course by being more alert and concerned at the time? Should we have tried to persuade him to open up and share his troubles, whatever they were? We knew he was quiet, reserved and most unimposing so why were we not more sensitive to his apparent psychological needs? Haunting questions for which the answers will never be known. Nor will we ever know whether our efforts could have changed his course. One aspect is clear though. Floyd was a positive contributor. Throughout his life he gave a lot more than he took. He was a veteran of World War II, having spent four years in the Navy. He was a member of the Gresham Elks Lodge for 28 years and the first Commodore of the Elks Afloat Yacht Club. An active member and past Commodore of Willamette Yacht Club, he was for many years their elected delegate to the Columbia River Yachting Association. Although he could not swim, he loved boating and contributed many hours to the betterment of the boating community. Lost in a psychological storm on the last leg of his cruise through life, Floyd lost his grip on the wheel and broached in the violent waves before he could recover his course. Good bye, good buddy. I’ll see you at that big dock in the sky. (A tribute to Floyd Croghan, 1921 – 1990) E - N - D

My Writing Mentor

Digressions of J. Charles My Writing Mentor By J. Charles Cheek © June 2004 He was a buddy I never met. We were e-mail friends. After reading his novel, In the Shadow of Glory, I wrote him and told him that I enjoyed his book. It brought back a lot of memories. I told him I had written some notes many years ago in anticipation of writing a book, as he had done, based on my experiences during the Korean War. He became my mentor as I embarked on my novel. Periodically, I e-mailed my progress to him and he always sent back words of encouragement. Regrettably, he died unexpectedly on November 27, 2002 just a few days after I finished the first draft of my novel. The story below is one he posted on the Internet for all to read. I am proud to reproduce it here in his honor. THE OLD MARINE ON 9/11 By Robert B. Campbell The old Marine lay motionless on the narrow bed in a veterans hospital. Despite the oxygen flowing into his lungs from the plastic tubes inserted in his nostrils, his breathing was labored and painful to watch. His sunken eyes were open, fixed on the softly murmuring television set mounted high on the wall at the foot of his bed. He didn't need to hear the sound; the captions scrolling across the bottom of the screen were more than adequate to explain the ghastly pictures flashing on the screen. As he watched the horrifying scene playing over and over, tears slowly formed in his eyes then coursed down his hollow cheeks. His mind was in turmoil. This can't be happening, he moaned to himself. No! Not here in America! He winced as the big jet flew into the second trade tower; this time the footage was shot from a different angle, showing a rearview of the plane as it plowed headlong into the majestic structure. His heart lurched violently in his chest, just as it did each time the grisly, mind-boggling scene was repeated on the screen. Now the station shifted back to live coverage. Both towers were burning fiercely, sending huge gouts of greasy black smoke into the blue September sky. The minutes passed in agonizing slowness. Each scene on the television was like a hammer-blow to the old man's soul, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the screen, no matter how deep and painful the hurt. His almost hypnotic attention to the newscast was snapped when the young nurse quietly slipped into the room. Her normally sunny face was a pale and grim mask now, her eyes reddened from crying. "I'll just turn the television off now," she said softly, reaching for the remote lying on his bedside table. "Leave it alone," he rasped. His voice, though weak, still had a tone of command that stopped her from turning off the set. "I- I'm sorry. I thought it might be too disturbing," she murmured. "I ain't no baby," he growled. "Now leave me alone." With that, he turned his attention to the disaster playing out on the screen. He was no longer aware of the nurse who stood watching the television a moment before leaving the room as silently as she had entered. Just then one of the burning towers gave up the ghost and began to collapse onto itself, blanketing the entire area in a boiling shroud of dust and smoke. To the old man, it almost seemed to be happening in slow motion. When the second tower collapsed not long after, he moaned and gasped for air. It took several long minutes before he could suck enough oxygen into his tortured lungs. Omigod! All those people. Dead; all dead! his voice shrieked in his mind. Now he could no longer bear to watch the mesmerizing scene of chaos coming from the television. He moaned again and slowly rolled his head on the pillow until he was staring at the stained wall a scant few feet from his bedside. Though open, his eyes were painting nothing on the canvas of his mind. Ohh, God, he groaned inwardly. If only I could do something… anything. The tragedy he had spent the morning watching had saddened him deeply, but it had also angered him as nothing had angered him before. The worst part was knowing that he was totally helpless to do anything about it. This was almost as unbearable for him as watching the terrorist attack unfold before his eyes. "Jesus. Oh Jesus," he muttered. "I'd give anything to be there now." He didn't know what he could do, but just being there ready and able to pitch in and lend a needed hand was something. It wasn't as though he'd never been in the thick of things before, by God. He became aware of the wall in front of him. It was bare except for the glassed shadowbox frame containing medals, ribbons, dogtags and other small bits of military memorabilia-- mementos from his hitch in the Marine Corps a half century ago. He was so proud of them and of what they stood for. His wife had brought in the framed collection and hung it by his bedside, hoping the sight of it would cheer him a little. The old man squinted his eyes, focusing them on the gaudy display of cloth and metal. Though his sight was a little dimmed by age and infirmity, he saw the ribbons and medals as bright and shiny as the day he was awarded them for his service in the Korean War. Yeah he'd done his duty for his country back then, and by God he'd willingly do it again today if only he wasn't bound to this damned bed. The image of the two magnificent towers crashing to the ground played in his mind again. He felt his heart constrict as though some giant hand were squeezing it. Pain, piercing, agonizing pain shot through his entire body. He couldn't breathe. Frantically, he tried to suck air into his starving lungs but to no avail. Just when he thought he couldn't take it any longer, the pain suddenly lifted, and he could breathe easily now. He became aware that he was standing at the foot of the bed looking at the old man lying there. He glanced up at the television set mindlessly playing away high on the wall, then returned his gaze to the man in the bed. There was a rictus of a smile on the wasted face, but life had mercifully departed from the old Marine. The young Marine heaved a sigh of relief, then drew himself stiffly erect and saluted the old Marine in the bed. With a look of grim resolution on his lean face and with a firm step, he marched out the door. The old warrior was on his way to New York City to report for duty one last time.

Cool Dave

True Stories from the 20th Century at Pacificorp By J. Charles Cheek © September 2005 Cool Dave Dave Beadle, Manager of Contract Construction, and I were on a flight from Spokane, Washington to Portland, Oregon via one stop at Seattle, Washington. We made the brief stop at Boeing Field to deplane one F-27 and board another for Portland. Dave was deeply engrossed in reading a paperback novel. He hardly took his eyes from the book as we walked from one plane to the other. Every plane seat on the leg from Spokane had been occupied but this F-27 was only about half full. As the plane charged north down the runway, Dave was again boring into the story in the paperback. The plane lifted off the runway and I watched the runway below us. Just as the plane was clearing the end of the runway I heard a loud boom then the plane shuttered violently for a few seconds. "Look," I said to Dave and pointed toward the ground. "Something is wrong with this plane. We’re loosing altitude." "Yeah," said Dave casually as he briefly removed his eyes from the book and glanced out the window. Then he returned to reading the book. At about 200 feet above the ground the plane quit loosing altitude. My heart was racing as the stewardess announced over the intercom, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we are having some problems with one of the engines so we’re going to return to the airport." I poked Dave on the shoulder, "See, I told you. There is something wrong with this damn plane. "Yeah, I guess so," replied Dave as he again briefly removed his eyes from the book looked out the window. "What the hell is in that book, Dave? Sex?" "Not much, its just interesting." "Look," I said as the plane began turning to the left. "Those radio towers are straight out from us." Again Dave looked briefly away from the book but didn’t comment. "Holy crap, Dave. Look at that. There’s red lights flashing all around the runway." I could clearly see fire engines and emergency vehicles along the edge of the field. It seemed clear to me that they were expecting us to crash. Again, Dave made a quick look away from the book but no response. I’m thinking to myself, This guy is really cool under pressure. Here we are in mortal danger and he keeps on reading his book. "Please be sure your seatbelt is securely fastened," instructed the stewardess. I pulled my belt tight. Dave didn’t move. "Dave, did you hear what the stewardess said?" "Yeah," he replied as he slowly checked his seat belt tightness. This guy is really cool under fire, I again thought. I breathed deeply as my pulse raced. The F-27 landed softly on the runway and taxied to the gate where we had departed. "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation. We apologize for the inconvenience. Please stay in the airport building while we arrange for another flight to Portland. We will notify you over the public address system." "Yeah, right." I said to Dave. Listen to her try and convince us that she wasn’t about to pee her pants like the rest of us." "Awwww, that wasn’t much," replied Cool-Hand Dave. As we stood up I noticed that the pilot came out of the cockpit and was the first to leave the plane. He did not have a pleasant expression on his face. "Did you see that, Dave?" I said excitedly. "That pilot left first and he really looked pissed?" "Yeah," replied Dave calmly. Man, this guy is really cool, I again thought. "I could use a drink, how about you, Dave?" "Okay," replied Dave. As the waitress delivered my scotch and water and Dave’s martini, it occurred to me that everyone on that plane might be here in the bar having a drink. I took a sip from my glass, turned and scanned the room. As I returned my gaze toward Dave, he was holding two fingers high in the air toward the cocktail waitress. That broke the tension for me. "You almost pulled it off, Dave." "What?" replied Dave with a mischievous look. "You had me convinced that you were Cool Hand Luke but you just gave it away. When I turned my head you threw down that martini in one fell swoop and immediately ordered two more drinks. Fess up, you were scared too." Okay, maybe just a little," replied Dave with a big grin. E – N - D

Como se llama – Oops!

Digressions of J. Charles Como se llama – Oops! © August 2005 J. Charles Cheek Several years age while wintering at Cocopah RV and Golf Resort in the Yuma, Arizona I took a short course in Conversational Spanish. It was taught for three hours once each week and after the fourth class I knew a few phrases in Spanish. Impulsively, while paying for a purchase of propane at a store named 5th Street Liquor, I asked the pretty young brown-skinned clerk for her name. "Como se llama usted, La Senorita?" Her quizzical look told me something was wrong so I said, "Oops, either my Spanish is really bad or you don’t speak Spanish." Her annoyed sounding response was, "I’m Lebanese!" Her emphasis on the word "I’m" told me she was not pleased with my assumption that she was of Mexican heritage. The Yuma population is mostly of Mexican decent except for the winter months when up to 100,000 Northerners nearly overwhelm the town. Every grocery store has long lines at the checkout and restaurants have long waiting lists at every mealtime. But I digress. Back to the pretty young lady. "Sorry," I said smiling at her, "I was just asking for your name." "My name is Rita," she responded in a friendly but somewhat defensive manner. Of course I was embarrassed. My actual thought was, Oh crap! you’ve stepped in it big time. Now what are you going to do, Mr. Show-off? In the panic of the moment I remembered a smidgen of my Dale Carnegie Sales Training. Don’t fail me now, Dale. I need to convert this pretty lady from an adversarial relationship to a friendly relationship. That was a platonic thought of course as I’m old enough to be her grandfather. Okay, Dale, you said everyone likes the sound of their own name. I also remembered Dale’s advise to, Give sincere compliments. Also, Dale said, To remember the name of someone you just met, repeat their name several time and associate it with something you’re likely to remember. The Dale Carnagie Sales Course I took early in my working career taught me things I used throughout my work life even though my profession was not in sales. I have never forgot Dale’s five great rules of salesmanship: Attention, Interest, Conviction, Desire, Close. But again, I digress. I smiled broadly at the pretty lady and cleverly said, "Rita, that is a nice name. You are a very pretty Rita, Rita. I’ll sure remember your name now, Rita. Pretty Rita." She hesitated. Oh, crap, I thought, I hope she doesn’t think I’m seriously flirting with her. If she does this already strained encounter could get worse. Thoughts of Dale left my head and was replaced with the old saying, When you find yourself in a hole the first thing to do is quit digging! So, I shut up and just tried to look like a proud grandfather. From the expression on her face she seemed to be a little confused. I was tempted to jump into her thoughts and say, "I hope you don’t think I’m coming-on to you, Rita." Don’t start digging, said the left side of my brain. I held my tongue and just showed a lot of teeth. Well, it might have been the smile on a face with furrowed brow and raised eyebrows saying, Please be my pretend Lebanese granddaughter. All the while she was holding my credit card in her fingers. Still looking quizzical she ran the card and handed me the credit card slip to sign. She was still holding my credit card. I signed the slip and suppressed the urge to dig some more. I held my tongue. I handed her the signed slip but she held onto my credit card. She never checked the signature side of the card. Instead she read my name on front of the credit card, handed it to me, smiled sweetly and said, "Thank you, Mr. Cheek." "You’re very welcome, Rita," I said while now smiling through a face showing relief. "I will see you next week, Rita, when I come in to get propane again." I purchased propane from her once every week during the entire winter and each time as I handed her my credit card for payment I’d smile and say, "Well, good morning, pretty Rita. I hope you’re having a good day." "Oh, Hi Mr…" Her face would turn slightly red while she peeked at my name on the card. "Hello, Mr. Cheek." I greeted Rita with the same comment each week and her flustered response never changed. She always had to peek at my credit card for my name before smiling and responding sweetly. Since she never remembered my name I must conclude that she never thought of me as a grandfather. She probably thought of me as a friendly and harmless old flirting geezer. Rita was the first and last person to hear me ask for their name in Spanish, or to impulsively say anything in Spanish to a stranger. Thanks for the lesson Rita. E – N - D