1945

    I turned two in 1945.

    I was living with my mom, Aunt Irene and my grandparents on Rue de Lafayette in Shanghai. Formerly, the French Section, now of course occupied by the Japanese. My dad was still in prison camp, where he remained until the end of the war. All things considered, we had an easy life (with the obvious exception of my dad). I visited my dad with my mom and was apparently doted over by all my dad's mates (and the Japanese guards). [For those of you who don't know or don't remember, my grandparents left Russia in 1916. Because the Soviets took over Russia to form the USSR, my grandparents and my mom were considered stateless. My dad was an American Merchant Marine, making me an automatic US citizen, although the Japanese were not so informed.]

    Mother liked to tell the story about one day, walking with me in a stroller, being stopped by a Japanese officer. A Japanese general got out of the car and gathered me up in his arms and was oohing like a new grandfather. Mother had heard of the Japanese using chubby American kids in propoganda films. This was what she feared, as all the officers were so impressed by my "cuteness". After they had their fill, they put me back in my stroller, thanked mom and drove off. My chance at a movie career left in the exhaust of their German car.

 
1955

    I began 1955 as an eleven-year-old whose interests were sports, sports and sports.

    I ended 1955 as a twelve-year-old who had experimented with tobacco, who had played spin the bottle, who became a lifelong devotee to R & B music and who had begun friendships which continue 50 years later.

    I enjoyed being a Safety Patrol Lieutenant. I would get out of class early to make sure the streets were staffed by a Safety Patrol kid on each corner. My best friend, Ronnie Jenkins, was the captain. My "girlfriend", Cindy Stanton, was the other leiutenant. Woodrow Wilson Elementary in Arlington, Virginia, a suburb of Washington, DC, was built in 1906. The apartments I lived in were built in the mid-forties to house families of soldiers stationed at Ft. Meyers. Most of the streets around my apartment had no sidewalks. There were wooded areas, vacant lots and all the other trappings of a tranquil suburb.

With God On My Side

    I lived two blocks from Ronnie Jenkin's. Halfway down the block from his house was "The Open Door Chapel", a one-room Baptist church. I would sometimes see the minister when I walked by and he kept inviting me to join the Jenkin's on Sunday. Ronnie's mom went and so did some of his brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, etc. that lived with him. There was a cherry tree in the vacant lot next to the church. One day we were climbing the tree and we heard music coming from the church. It was choir practice. They were preparing to go to Washington, DC, to sing for some politicians. They were going to get a free lunch too. We decided to join the church.

    Now my mom and dad let me go to church, but neither of them wanted me to go to the Open Door Chapel. Mother didn't like the church and its teaching. My dad didn't like any church, temple, mosque, etc. My mom was educated in a Catholic Convent. "A good education and a miserable way to spend a childhood" was the only comment from my Jewish mother. As to my Jewish father - he had experienced three years of a Japanese prison camp. There was no room in his life for religion.

    The Snyder twins were in my fourth, fifth and sixth grade classes. They were Lebanese Jews and their mom lobbied my mom to take me to Temple any time. Thankfully, Mother declined. She had as much patience with Saturday services as she did with Sunday services. The Snider twins were olive-skinned and had middle-eastern features. They were short and chubby and had mustaches. They had breasts - not a positive attribute but soon to become one.

    I had a great time singing in church. I didn't understand most of the stuff I sang about but it felt spiritual to sing. We visited senior homes, hospitals and other churches. We had bible study as part of choir practice. I took home my newfound knowledge. And preched to my folks. At first I was probably cute. Then I came home and explained to them that they were going to hell since they were Jewish. And anyone who disagreed would go there too. What broke the detente with my dad was when I tried to explain the fact that "Niggers were an inferior race." I had evidence. I also had to go to Temple

    I pleaded with my dad but he insisted. He asked my mom to call the Snyder's. That Saturday, I went to Temple. It was Purim. Purim is a fun holiday on the Jewish calendar. It commemorates a time when the Jewish people living in Persia were saved from extermination. The Purim holiday is preceded by a minor fast which I got to miss. The Jews are commanded to eat, drink and be merry. Purim is the Jewish Mardi Gras and there was a play performed on the stage of the Temple. There was a special treat called a hamentaschen (hoomantash). They are triangular fruit-filled cookies. Music and prune danish - this was even better than singing.

    I decide to go the next week. Before the next service, Albert Einstein died. He was a major hero among the Jews. Temple was different, not only because it was not Purim, but because everyone was in mourning. It was horrible. People crying, wailing, talking in tongues (Hebrew of course, but I was Baptist-trained.)

    I got home Saturday morning and made a deal with my dad. I swore I would never go back to the Open Door Chapel if he didn't make me go back to Synagogue. "Deal" he said and we shook on it.

With God On My Side - Part 2

    My life was uprooted when my dad decided to go upscale and we move to a new apartment complex called Belleview. A planned community which had an elementry school, playgrounds and even a shopping center. The worst thing was that I was going to remain in elementary school. In Arlington, Junior High was grades 7 and 8. In Fairfax, there was no Junior High and elementary schools went to the 7th grade. Of course, after aclimating myself, I enjoyed the second year of being in the highest grade and "graduating".

    One of the new friends I made was Larry Arnett. He lived in Belle Haven, an area of old, large, stately homes in the woody hills. It was known to be off limits to the lowlife kids living in the apartments. Still, one of my new friends was Larry Arnett, whose dad was a doctor. In the first couple weeks of school, in late September, I was exposed to Rhythm & Blues. Fats Domino, Little Richard, The Clovers and Ray Charles were now part of my life forever. Larry's dad called mine and invited me to join the family next Sunday to attend the Washington Redskins football game at Griffith Stadium. I had been to many baseball games there but never to an NFL game. (I went to a 49ers game in 1949 when the 'niners were in the All American Conference - a year before they joined the NFL [I don't remember anything of course].)

    On Sunday my dad drove me to Larry's house at 8 in the morning. We were going to church before the game. I wasn't happy about that but Larry told me not to worry - he had a plan. But first we went to his room. "Roll Over Bethoven" was a new record. I had goosebumbs when I heard it and they didn't go away after another dozen playings. Then we had to leave for church.

    The church was on Washington Street in downtown Alexandria. Larry told me to hang back and go in last. I stayed close to him and we were the last two to enter the building. After the first two doors, there was an entrance hall and large wooden columns which began the actual worship area. On days when the church was full, they would put chairs in the entrance hall (sort of a standing room area for the sermon). We sat there. The large entrance doors remained open to provide some relief for the September heat.

    As soon as the preacher instructed us to bow our heads the first time, Larry nudged me and we snuck out of the building. I thought it was cool to get out of the church but where were we going to go. There was nothing to do on Washington Street. I followed Larry down to the other end of the block. Another church. The same layout, just a little smaller. Howeve,r the sounds coming out were like nothing I had ever heard. We just walked into the door and stayed right next to it. Just in case we had to make a quick getaway , I assumed.

    Before my eyes adjusted to the dark, I heard the most awesome sounds ever to enter my ears. The song was familiar, I sang in the choir in Arlington of course. The singing was like listening to R & B. My first foray into an African-American Baptist church. We listened, we swayed, if only we were less repressed, we would have testified. Thirty-forty minutes went by in a flash. We eased out of the rockin' connection with God, down the block to the temple of silence. No one missed us and we still each had the 50 cents that was supposed to go into the basket. Extra hot dog and peanuts at the stadium by Larry's design. Kid's of the rich know how to use the money.

 
1965

    According to the Naval Reserve Center, I had "disappeared". They found me in '65 and much of the year was involved with Uncle Sam. I was a fortunate one since my year ended with a career change which has now lasted nearly 40 years.

S. Klein comes to Virginia

    According to the Naval Reserve Center, I had "disappeared". Actually, I just completed my Management Trainee period and was assigned as the Camera Buyer for the new store S. Klein was opening in Northern Virginia.

Navy Blues

    Here is an excerpt from "Navy Blues", the tale of someone whose war stories are void of blood and bullets but full of post-traumatic syndromes.

Discipline Barracks ? Muster

    The single most unique characteristic of Discipline Barracks was the Muster. Seven times a day all residents of Discipline Barracks had to report for Muster, or roll call to you civilians. If you were late, or worse yet missing, all hell broke loose (which I will explain later). So after my shower, after breakfast, before lunch, after lunch, 3 pm, before dinner and after dinner, I got in an argument with whoever was calling roll. It seems that when the paperwork was filled out, in addition to some convenient lies on the report, they misspelled my name. Well, a copy of the paperwork accompanied me to Discipline Barracks. The clerk punched holes in it and put it in the official Disciple Barracks Roster loose-leaf binder. The half-hour before Muster, a clerk would go through the loose leaf binder and, after erasing the last roster, would write everyone's name on the blackboard. Gary Trashman would get copied from the binder to the blackboard. The clerk was not authorized to correct the spelling. Ten minutes before Muster, another clerk would copy a segment of the names on the board to a clean Muster Form. Not everyone had the same times; it depended on who your team leader was. So now, Gary Trashman would get copied from the blackboard to the Muster Form. That clerk also was without authority to correct the misspelled name. As the names were being read, everyone on my team waited in anticipation to get to my name:

       "Mingus, Charles"
       "Here"
       "Pepper, Art"
       "Yo"
       "Roach, Max"
       "Present"
       "Smith, Jimmie"
       "Here"
       "Trashman, Gary"
       "I thought you were going to fix that"
       "Answer the Muster"
       "Read my name and I will"
       "This IS your name, it?s just misspelled"

    Well, that?s a sample of what happened 7 times a day. Oh yeah, if someone was late, everyone who answered to Muster was excused. Anyone whose name followed the late person had to wait for that person to show up. I once waited, with two other guys, until the next Muster. We were lucky it wasn?t one before a meal or else we would have missed it. One guy split and never came back. He was the first guy on the list. While we waited, they removed the missing sailor?s paper from the loose-leaf binder. It, along with a report, was sent to points unknown. Then, the blackboard was erased, completely. The updated content of the binder was then copied to the blackboard. The names were then transferred to the muster sheet and we got back to our business.

Goddard Space Flight Center

    On my first day at Goddard, a Monday, I was assigned to assist John Conyers. John supported two NASA scientists, Mike Cartwright and Frank Rawlinson. The previous Friday, John got his draft notice. My boss (I worked for RCA) and the Lead Scientist we worked for promised to try and get a deferrment. By their standards, he was essential to the success of NASA. I was told to learn everything he knew ... if he left, I was to take over his duties.

    John apologized but said that in no way was he going to train me over the next four weeks. He was going to learn how to program. He had a book, J.L. McCraken's "Guide To FORTRAN". Mike and Frank used Fortran, so it was the logical thing to do and they volunteered to help as long as their work got done. Less than six weeks later, Frank asked me to modify one of his programs and get some tracking data for him.

    It took me two days to find where in the code to make the change. It took three days of trial and error, with my "fix". The next week, when I gave the results to Frank, he and Mike had a good laugh at my expense. I was now a part of the brotherhood. This August/September I will have been a programmer (off and on) for 40 years.

 
1975

Golden State Warriors

    In late 1974, Kellie Coyne and I bought season tickets for the Warriors. We went to a hockey game in Oakland (my first and last) and the national anthem was sung by the same guy who sang it at Candlestick (somebody help me remember his name). He was happy to see us and we had a cocktail with him after the match. He gave us the name of the Warriors ticket manager after we commented on how poor our seats were. I drove into the city and went to the Warriors office to pick up some game tickets. She gave me three seats in the first row behind the Warriors bench. Also she said she would hold these seats for us all year as long as we ordered them by the day before the game. We ended up buying the rest of the season. They won it all. That was the first time I lived in an area when a major sports franchise was the World Champs.

Vandenberg

    I worked for Philco Ford and was responsible for the diagnostic software used to test ground station hardware. Some pieces of hardware were built special for satellite tracking, telemetry and command. Some of the software was already written when I began work, other test systems I developed on my own. One software module always passed the test, so I didn't bother learning it. That, and it was too complicated. One day I get a call telling me of memory dumps sent to the printer when that test is run. I was forced to learn the module.

    Although it was easy after I learned it, when I began looking at it I had thought it was someone pulling a joke on me. After all, he named the files after mental disorders. Who was this mystery man? He still worked for Philco, somewhere outside the US. He was patient enough to hold my hand through the explanations and, after about the fourth time, I got it. I fixed the code which was necessary to accomodate a hardware problem. 20 years later, I had a chance to recall this incident. At Kim and Ruben's wedding I told this story and then introduced the author of the software, Kim's brother Peter. A small and getting smaller world.

    About twice a year, I would get called to Vandenburg Tracking Station at Vandenberg Air Force Base. I liked it because it gave me the opportunity to go to Santa Barbara and visit Jim and Bobby. This time I had other business. Before I left, I got a property pass which allowed me to carry classified stuff in and out of the site. Nothing secret, or dangerous; usually marked classified to make it more expensive to create and use. I got two passes after explaining that an entire deck of punched cards was included in the classified material.

    I went to the tracking station before checking into the hotel. The secutiry is real tight at Vandenberg and I was surprised when the security guard at the main gate asked to see inside my attache cases. I showed him my property passes, yet he insisted. Usually, the guard was someone I had met before and they would not go through this process. I asked what happened to Sgt. Jones (all names have been changed because I don't remember any of them) and was informed of an emergency appendectomy. I asked him to call Colonel Smith, who OK'ed my passing without a search.

    I placed both my attache cases on the counter for the security officer to check. He looked at the property passes and sent me inside. I asked if he would keep one of the cases as I would not need it until the following morning. I took the other one inside. Inside a conference room, I was met by two sergeants. I opened the case and gave the box of cards to one and two tapes to the other. We laughed and I went to my motel to sleep until 4 am when I had to be back at the base.

    At 4 am I went back to the tracking station. I picked up my other attache case and an envelope someone had left for me. I saw the Sergeant who took the case and he asked what the tapes were. I replied that one was "Deep Throat" and the other "Young Frankenstein" - someone transferred the movies to tape (an unheard of thing at the time) and asked me to deliver them. I opened the envelope: cash and one of the punched cards from the box. It was a bonus for me. The cards were the football pool for the entire 1975 season. The selection had already been made for me (the 'niners of course).

    I now delivered the second case. I was handed a case which looked exactly the same, including the seal for the property pass. This took a senior officer, Colonel Smith, I suppose. The content was one pound lighter and envelope with cash heavier. There was a launch coming that weekend and, when that pound was distributed, it would make for the best light show this side of Winterland.

 
1985

    After 4 years of working for someone else, Foghorn Systems, Inc. was a dream come true. A frightening dream and one I never thought would come true. At first, I thought about the multi-billion dollar company I would have. It would worker owned and operated. All environmental and human rights issues would be addressed (in favor of a clean and healthy environment and in favor of exercising the rights of customers, employees and shareholders of course). In the 20 years that I have been "on my own" I have had both success and failure as a Company President. I have had zero employees but if I did have any, what follows is the Company Holidays:

    The Super Bowl was played at Stanford in '85. The day before the super bowl, Brent and I went to scomas. The parking attendant was turning people away. There was a two hour wait for a table. The parking guy recognized us, told us to "just leave it" and he would park it for us. We went past the waiting line and oozed into the bar. When the other patrons heard that our table was being prepared and we had time for drink, the maitre d' winked and gestured towards us. "Forty-niners" he mimed so they had to read his lips. All grew silent. During dinner we had to sign a few autographs, but all were happy we got to be seated first (except the Miami fans of course!)

 
1995

    In an attempt to reproduce my 50th birthday extravaganza, I returned to Adam's for the party. Sherry joined us this year, along with Adam, Bill, John, Heather, David and Allison. We went to the Armadillo the night before as we had done in '93 and we grilled salmon at the Stone House, this year without the thunderstorm. Great wine, great food, great friends and a great place made for a great time

Jerry Garcia 1942-1995

    I was gradually lessening my Grateful Dead concerts. Too much time spent without the rewards of earlier times. Nothing to do with the band or the deadheads or the venues. It was me. That scale of concertgoing is for younger and more "in tune" bodies. My live music preference was in a bar. Or a coffee house. Or a living room. I loved Jerry at the Warfield. My social life was dictated by the bar I was hanging out in. The best house band ever was the Warfield when Jerry was the "House Band". Rather than sitting or standing to watch the musicians on stage, we visited, flirted, played footsie and drank. My drinkin' days were over, but I loved my new role as a "dirty old man".

    Jerry's death affected be more by how it affected my friends than how I felt directly. I have learned to use impermanence as a vehicle to weather the loss of a loved one. My friends who worked for the band and my friends whose lives revolved around them were more deeply affected. I was unsure how some would continue. I am happy to have taken from my experience around the Grateful Dead some of the best relationships I have ever had. I am also fortunate to get a taste of the wonderful folks I saw only at shows. Whenever I go to a show where the musician has the adjective "virtuoso", I can count on seeing a deadhead or two. Or more for Tuna or Dylan or any of the musicians who sat in with the guys over the years.

    The day of Jerry's Memorial in Golden Gate Park started with a group gathered here at the beach. We went in Terry Michels' vehicle (maybe an International, maybe a Jeep). Anyway, it held about 8 of us. I had a parking permit so we drove around the back of the Polo Fields by the stables. We spotted a lot of people walking in and it seemed when we would make eye contact a real connection and a bond was felt. There was a lot of sorrow but mounds of love for each other which sustained us. As we pulled into the stables, I spotted people I knew. I looked for the button to lower the window. Frustrated, I said to Terry: "Where in the hell is the button for the windows?" "On the door" he replied. "Where on the door?" I asked again, since I saw no button. Terry looked at me like a school marm would. "Just turn that crank counterclockwise and the window will go down" he said sarcastically.

 
2005

    This will be my first birthday without mother. She quit attending the parties a number of years ago, but she was always the first to call with birthday wishes. In my drinking days, I could count on her waking me up. As I got older and learned to pace myself, she would always wait until late morning, worried that she might wake me. Moms know how to get your attention better than a drill sergeant