Monkey Tales

A Chase Bank Dilemma

In order to save writing checks, the Monkey went online to request whatever was required to set-up a monthly automatic bank draft.  J.P. Morgan Chase Bank responded that the appropriate forms and instructions would be sent within a week.

When they arrived, the accompanying instructions included the following:

“Enclosed are two copies of our ACH (i.e. automatic bank draft) agreement.  After reviewing the agreement, please complete and sign both copies and return one copy of the signed agreement to us, along with a voided check.  You should retain the second copy of the agreement for your records.”   After reading these instructions, the Monkey searched for the two copies of the agreement, and discovered that these two copies of the attached form were printed on opposite sides of the same sheet of paper.  Actually following the Chase bank instructions was impossible, and required major modifications.  The following letter was attached with the form returned to Chase Bank:

Chase Bank Instructions

Hi Chase:

I received your ACH setup application and instructions as requested.  Your instructions specified that you had enclosed two copies of your ACH agreement, and indeed you had.  Unfortunately, both copies of the ACH agreement were printed on alternate sides of the same sheet of paper.

Your instructions suggested that I complete and sign both applications and retain one copy for my own records.  I struggled with this suggestion for a short period of time, and finally gave up on your instructions.

I trust my altered instructions are OK.  I completed only one side of the two forms, signed that side, scanned a third copy of that completed side for my own records, and am returning both copies of the original form to you for your review and approval.  You will notice that only one side of the two forms is completed, as I could not figure out how to detach one side of the form from the other side with the same form.

In this revised process it was necessary to have a fully functioning computer, scanner, and printer.  Your mailing saved you one sheet of 8.5 by 11 paper.  It cost me the same sheet of paper, but I did manage to save two signatures through this revision.  Our signatures are, unfortunately, only copies, but I assure you that the original signatures on your two forms are now in your possession.  I saw little need in signing both copies you submitted to me initially.

By the time you receive this, I will have posted these altered instructions on http://monkeytales.net for other Chase customers to follow when they receive two copies of your form as I did.  The posting will be found under both the “Evil Chase Monkeys” and the “Uncategorized” category.  Thanks for sending the great stimulus material.

Sincerely yours,

@#$^%$&&*^%TY^%$

The Monkey

Beauty and the Beast

 After touring Bulow Plantation State Park ruins just south of Palm Coast, we were returning to the park’s exit on a narrow dirt road.  In the middle of the road in front of us was a large snake slithering to the left side.  As soon as it was off the road I pulled alongside, and readily identified it as a mammoth diamondback rattlesnake, probably 3-plus inches in diameter.  I grabbed my camera, jumped out of the car, and started taking pictures of this rare find.  The snake moved about ten feet off the road, then coiled on a slight rise pointing straight back at me with the camera.  For several minutes the snake posed for many pictures, as if to dare anybody to come challenge his territory. 

 This four to five foot snake is shown in a tight coil with his head perched directly over his six or seven rattles, which are visible right below the fangs.  What a beautiful and fearsome beast.  After taking ten or more pictures I was satisfied and left, while the snake continued to monitor my exit remaining perfectly motionless.  Never a rattle did I hear.

 One of the most frequently taken pictures at Cabo San Lucas. 

While walking along the waterfront in Cabo, we were approached by two native gentlemen who were interested in earning some U.S. dollars.  Before I could cry uncle the two men loaded a giant iguana on each shoulder.  Then it occurred to me that iguanas are meat eaters, have long, sharp teeth, and it was almost lunchtime.  The iguana on the left had already spotted my right ear and was about to strike when this picture was taken.  Then they ate me, Kansas University hat and all.  Goodbye dog-eat-dog world.  Or whatever! 

 During a short visit in San Jose Los Cabos we were perched on a roof-top watering hole near the central plaza square.  We were seated along the north wall of the building not more than five or six feet from a flowering tree that rose almost to eye level.  Two magnificent blossoms on this tree are shown on the right. 

 While the beauty of these blossoms is sufficient for any photographer, as we sat there drinking beer and eating food, a sleek little yellow and black oriole decided to feast on the blossoms, enhancing the yellow trim on the red blossoms in a way that can only be imagined.  For a full ten minutes the little bird came and went, and continued feasting on the luscious blossoms, allowing the camera monkey to take a large selection of amazing pictures.

Golf Like a Chicken

As an old golfer who has taken lessons from two different pros, I was both startled and amused when they both said that actually watching the ball during the golf swing is unnecessary! While I have heard that blind golfers may do very well, they also have a full-time attendant-caddy who sets them up for each stroke. One might even envision that after the proper set-up is achieved, actually watching the ball beyond that point is not really necessary. If watching the ball serves no particular purpose, then one must have a swing that grooves through pure habit without any distraction. I have yet to see a golfer with a pure groove. But then what do I know? Cluck! Cluck!

The notion smells like a preposterous and off-the-wall suggestion designed to startle the student or gain his undivided attention, right or wrong. It served its purpose in my case, and for the past decade the idea has been bouncing around in my mind like a ping pong ball. For better or worse, I have a totally different notion of its importance.

As a kid that grew up on, or visited farms on a regular basis, I take my first clues from watching and handling chickens. No, chickens don’t play golf, but when they are in the yard or the henhouse feeding, they always watch where they are pecking. Careful scrutiny of their uncanny accuracy suggests that they never miss their target. Each peck generates a winner, a seed, a grain of corn, a crawling thing, or a worm that strays into range. If it’s good enough for chickens, it is good enough for me!

Other birds are exactly the same. Hawks are able to skim a lake like a dive bomber and snatch a fish near the surface with incredible accuracy. It would be the wildest conjecture to suggest that the hawk was able to complete such a maneuver with his eyes closed, or that the target did not need to be in sight. Their target is always in sight!

The second thing of central importance is the automatic stability of the chicken’s head when the body is in motion. Because chickens are visually oriented, when you pick them up some bird-like instinctive behavior takes over when you move their body around somewhat randomly. This is not unlike the golf swing, as the body must rotate while the arms cock back into a full swing, then forward again tracing the route directly to the ball without error. When you move the chicken around in this manner, rotating and twisting simultaneously, the chicken’s head remains fixed like a rock on whatever is the focus of the chicken’s visual field.

I contend it is the object in the visual field that stabilizes the head from a full backswing through contact with the ball, exactly like the chicken. Close your eyes, alter your thoughts, or consciously and deliberately try something new with your swing, and whatever groove you have goes astray.

From years of dedicated focus upon the golf swing, I have noted one invariable rule. When the golf club begins the backswing, the eyes better lock onto the ball like a lazer beam. When they do, all other variations in the golf swing are minimized. One common tendency is to focus (the mind) on the backswing rather than the ball. When this happens there is a strong tendency for the head to go back with the club. This almost invariably produces a slice, because the swing is not fully completed. The eyes are not locked on the target, but rather is locked on some swing-thought attached to the club’s motion or action.

And what is the most common ball trajectory error? You know it! The slice is the most common swing error of duffers.

The answer: Lock your eyes on the ball, and golf like a chicken. Chickens are born with this talent instinctually. Man is not capable of pure chicken golf, but locking your eyes on the ball is the first step to keep the ball in the fairway.

Cluck! Cluck!

That Sucking Sound

After being home a few short weeks in the summer of 1951, it was time to return to Oregon State for my sophomore year. With enough bags and boxes to last through the school year, I bid the folks goodbye in Hays and settled into a Union Pacific coach. We were not out of Kansas when I experienced the first signs of a toothache. It was in a lower molar on the left side of my mouth. As this was my first toothache, I was totally ignorant about what might be done to alleviate the pain. The forty-hour trip to Corvallis was not destined to be a leisurely walk in the park.

As the tooth was in the lower jaw, I made my first startling discovery. The decay was apparently quite substantial, and there was a space between the teeth at the site of the decay. I learned that most of the pain was secondary to saliva, which collected around the tooth. When I parted my lips, and sucked air through the left corner of my mouth, directing as much air as possible through the hole between the teeth, the pain was almost eliminated. The wind sucked the saliva away from the decayed area, and I returned to almost pain-free status for several seconds. This was an exciting initial discovery.

Then I made a second, equally startling discovery. My salivary glands were stuck on maximum output, and produced a flood of fluid on a continuing basis. I would suck the fluid away from the teeth, and my salivary glands would fill the space back up in the next few seconds. I would suck, and it would fill. Suck and fill. Suck and fill. I had become totally obsessed with these chemical, organic, or bodily functions, which were never a part of my conscious state up to that time. I was also painfully aware that this process was destined to continue for the next 35 hours, day and night, until I could get off the train. I was confident the Union Pacific would not stop the train while I visited a dentist. The whole miserable scene was not a pleasant prospect.

While I had never taken a course in chemistry, I became my own test tube, experimenting and recording the results. I was trapped in a process from which I could not extract myself. I concluded that the saliva was a catalyst, which triggered the nerve. Removing the catalyst through a blast of fresh, cool air, had the effect of drying the exposed nerve, and interrupted its message to the brain. Now that I had figured it out, the problem became the myriad of ways to prevent moisture from entering the area. I discovered there are dozens of ways, all of which are temporary. Salivary glands are relentless robot-like workers, and gravity was their co-conspirator in producing my pain. Just what can you do about gravity?

I learned to breathe through my mouth, as the airflow produced a continuous drying effect. It was not as efficient as a forceful sucking, but it prolonged the dry state, delaying the moment required for the next suck. Then I learned that I could use gravity for my own purposes, by cocking my head to the right. This diverted the saliva to the right side of my mouth, leaving the left in a drier state. I learned to lie down on my right side for the same reason. This combination of influences, sucking, breathing through my mouth, and tilting my head to the right allowed me to endure several minutes without sucking. This process of experimentation went on for several hours.

It was at about this point that I became aware of the other people on the train. There were not many, but they seemed to believe that I had a chronic tic, mannerism, or other aberration. They were right. They tried to figure out exactly why I was sucking and tilting my head to the right. They would glance at me, but as soon as I would suck, or tilt, they would look away. There were clearly social consequences from my dilemma. For them, it was the sucking and tilting that called attention to my plight. To minimize this influence, I wanted to suck as little as possible and tilt as little as possible, yet when the pain achieved a certain level, I had to suck again. When they thought I was not looking, they would glance back at me.

My next discovery was that acute conditions, like a toothache, tend to become chronic. What works initially loses its effectiveness, and the acute discomfort returns. I found that I needed to suck harder, and more often. That sucking sound became a pervasive quality of that specific train car, and I was the one doing the sucking. I sucked, and sucked. Every few seconds I sucked. One at a time, the folks on the car migrated to other cars on the train, leaving me to suck and tilt without an audience. At each stop, new folks would settle into the car, and shortly thereafter I would hear someone say, “What’s that sucking sound?” Then they would locate the sound and the curiosity would begin again. As soon as they saw the head tilting with the sucking, they would gather up their things, and move to another car. It was fine with me, as I could then suck and tilt in peace as needed for pain.

Throughout this trip I reviewed why this might have occurred. My dental history was unusual, as I had never previously had a cavity in any tooth. I had arrived in Corvallis a year earlier with perfect teeth, crooked lowers, but perfect. The first year as a student was spent in the fraternity basement, which included a recreation area with couches, chairs, a ping-pong table, and a Coke machine. That was where I did most of my studying. That was where I drank several Cokes every day. I calculated that I had consumed nearly 1000 regular Cokes during my first year at Oregon State. Coke machines at the time dispensed one beverage, in a bottle. I was living on regular Coca Cola, complete with sugar, six ounces at a time. It was not just the drink of choice, it was the only drink dispensed from the machine. It cost a nickel. I had bathed my mouth in nickel Coke for nine months.

I arrived in Corvallis during regular working hours, and checked immediately into a dentist’s office. His said the molar was in an advanced state of decay, and could not be salvaged. He pulled it, root and all. Then he examined the rest of my teeth. He said that 13 additional cavities were all in need of immediate attention. Over the next several weeks, I spent more time in the dentist’s chair than in my entire life prior to that time. In those days, pain-killers had not yet been developed for dentists, requiring that I spend another dozen hours of pain in the dentist’s chair. His bill was several hundred dollars, an amount equal to ten times that spent on coke the previous year.

My conclusion was inevitable. For every nickel I spent on coke, I would spend another 50 cents at the dentist’s office, and another minute of pain in his chair. The cumulative effect was a miserable payoff for quenching your thirst.

That 40-hour train ride was the longest seven days of my life, but the sucking and tilting was finally over.

Sure-fire Snore Stopper

This story is about the misguided and thoroughly malicious wives’ tales that have been circulating on the many ways to prevent snoring husbands from interfering with their wives sleep.  There must be hundreds of such solutions in circulation.  Pity the hapless husband who suffers the indignity of being the guinea pig in these experiments to cure him of his snoring.  In particular, this story deals with one, sure-fire method of stopping snorers from snoring completely, thus eliminating snoring from a disturbed wife’s environment.  What a marvelous idea!!! 

It all began one evening, I guess, in the middle of the night.  I was dead asleep, and was deep in dreamland.  Suddenly I found myself immobilized in the middle of a forest, laying on the ground on my back with a wolf baring his sharp teeth, breathing his hot breath on my neck with his wet nose pressed against my juggler vein.  He was ready to bury his teeth deeply into my tender flesh.  His growling, snarling, and slobbering left no doubt that he was ready to do me in.  I was deathly afraid.  Suddenly I heard a loud snorting snarl in my ear, and I knew I was a dead-man.  Then I realized I was no longer asleep, but had been frightened from sleep back into full consciousness.

Immediately I realized that the wolf in my dreams, sharp teeth, hot breath, and growling snarl, might have been induced by my wife, who was breathing directly on my neck no more than an inch away. 

“What are you doing?” I asked. 

She was obviously startled, as she was speechless for a longer period of time than I had witnessed in ten years of marriage. 

Because of her clearly disoriented state, I continued, “I just had the most horrible dream,” I said.  “I dreamed that a vicious wolf was breathing on my neck, baring his sharp teeth, and was ready to finish me.”

“Lets not talk about that right now,” she responded.  “Why don’t you go back to sleep, and we can discuss it in the morning.”

“After this death-defying experience,” I said, “I am completely awake, and will be unable to get back to sleep for some time.”

“Did you just snort like a wild animal in my ear?” I asked. 

“Well!” she started sheepishly, “I was told that if I snorted like a wild boar right in your ear precisely when you snore, that you would stop snoring.”

“And it certainly worked well, didn’t it,” I replied.  “Here I am wide awake.  It turns out the dream I had about a wild animal ready to tear me limb from limb was actually my wife, who just snorted in my ear while I was sound asleep.  It worked really well, didn’t it?” I repeated.  “I am no longer snoring!”

“In fact,” she continued, “I have been snorting in your ear for over six months, and it has worked perfectly.  It stopped your snoring each time I did it,” she added. 

“And it worked perfectly this time, too, I suppose!”

“For six months,” she continued, “you never were awakened.  You just stopped snoring.” 

“Now you are telling me,” I replied, “that for six months, it stopped my snoring perfectly.”

“That’s right,” she repeated, “And only on rare occasions did I actually need to snort in your ear more than once or twice a night.” 

“You mean to tell me that you snorted on more than one occasion during an evening, while I was sleeping?” I asked.  “Has it ever occurred to you that the horrible nightmare I just experienced was so bad that it was what awakened me from my deep sleep, and not you snarling and slobbering on my neck each night.”

“You have never told me about any dreams like that before,” she admitted.

“But you have acknowledged that on occasion while I was asleep, you experienced me moaning, or running, or shivering and quaking, isn’t that right?” I asked. 

“Yes, I have noticed that on several occasions.”

“And you never considered that what you were witnessing was me moaning from fright, and running from wild beasts in my dreams.” I added. 

“No,” she added, “I never considered that.  I always just knew that each time I snorted in your ear, you stopped snoring and I was able to go back to sleep.  It worked real well for a long time.”

“I really don’t know what is worse; being chased by meat eating animals each night in your dreams, or knowing that your lovely wife is hovering near your juggler vein as you sleep.  Then at just the right moment, she snorts like a wild boar in your ear.  Awake or asleep, it seems I just cant find much peace in either state.  My wife has induced horrible nightmares into my sleep, and when I awaken as it turns out, she is the horrible nightmare.  How can I win under these circumstances?” I asked. 

“Well, I guess you can’t,” she responded.  “It was your own sister, Deane, who told me about her experience with this.  She showed me a clipping from the Minneapolis paper under Heloise Hints, which described the process in detail.   She said it worked really well for her, too.  All the wives have discussed how to get their husbands to stop snoring, and some of the tricks have worked really well.”

“I know one trick that is foolproof,” I added.  “If I sleep on the couch in the living room, I can rest assured that I will not be attacked by my wife for the rest of the night.  I would even bet that the wild animals won’t be able to find me in the living room, because the only wild animal in this house is sleeping in my bed.”

With that, I was so miffed that I moved to the couch in the living room.  I spent the rest of the night in a sound sleep, secure with the knowledge that I would not be attacked by my wife, a truly wild animal if ever there was one. 

Sure-fire snore stoppers!  Humbug.  To this day, she remains an ardent advocate for this particularly devious plan, and has threatened to write a sequel to this expose.  Fortunately for me, she also switched to earplugs, a solution which worked flawlessly for the next 40 years. 

The next night, after a promise that she would stop snorting in my ear, I moved from the couch back into the bedroom.  At the same time, my snoring became heavily suppressed, owing to the constant fear that the wolf was not only at the door, – she was lurking at my side, hot breath, wet nose and all.

Mama: Asleep in wolf’s clothing

Surprise Ashore

For a six-week summer training cruise with the U.S. Navy in 1951, several hundred midshipmen from all over the country boarded the Iowa class battleship USS Wisconsin (BB-64) in Norfolk.  Besides the heavy training schedule, the travel and shore leave itinerary included Halifax, New York City, Colon, Panama, and Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.   

For all sailors shore leave provides a change of pace from the shipboard routines.  For those who are single, shore leave is an exciting opportunity to meet with the ladies, as there were no ladies aboard ship in those days.  The midshipmen aboard the Wisconsin consisted of several hundred beginning sophomores and seniors in college and the Naval Academy.  Early on in the cruise they were not aware of the heightened sense of competition they provided on shore leave.  The regular sailors aboard ship tended to see the midshipmen as an irritating impediment both aboard ship and on shore leave as well. 

The senior midshipmen wore uniforms which emulated that of prospective officers, while the underclassmen wore uniforms similar to that of the enlisted men below the Chief Petty Officer levels.  The underclassmen were also provided traditional white sailor hats with a one inch wide navy blue strip along the top edge of the rim.  This hat is pictured below on a midshipman from this lower class, who should remain nameless.

Throughout the cruise the underclass midshipmen found it increasingly difficult to strike up new relationships with any of the ladies ashore.  Eventually it was learned that the regular sailors were spreading rumors ashore about those folks with blue stripes on their white hats. 

The rumor was that the blue stripes mark the guys with venereal diseases, known nowdays as STDs.  This revelation explained many surprises ashore, and why otherwise eligible ladies on seeing the blue trim would cross the street or scatter like chickens running in all directions. 

All is fair in love and war.

Nationalist Navy: 1954 Edition

The two ships at rest in the menu picture are the primary combat units of the Nationalist Chinese Navy in 1954.  News highlights at the time reported weekly, if not regular attacks by Chinese gunboats on the mainland of China.  For the listening audience, it was assumed that the attacks were deadly, and struck fear in the hearts of those who remained on the mainland.

From the look of the ships sitting high and dry at low tide one may infer that any attack will not be launched at least until after the tide comes in.  This old navy salt learned early in his career that the tide may be an awesome force when he rode the battleship USS Wisconsin aground in the Hudson River in the summer of 1951.  This was a crisis for the Wisconsin, which almost became a competitor of the Statue of Liberty for spectators.  These nimble Nationalist gunboats were in no hurry to weigh anchor and get out of port before the tide goes out.  All hands may be on liberty until that time.  What a bummer!!

The picture does not do justice to what remains hidden from view.  The sailors from three vessels were eating lunch on the boat on the right.  There seemed to be at least fifty sailors sitting on the main deck.  What is not shown are the 50-caliber machine guns which may be manned all over each of the little boats.  Their speed and maneuverability was greatly enhanced by Gray-Marine Diesels powering each of the boats, making them an elusive target.

These little boats were at rest in the off-shore islands of Quemoy and Matsu, which are located about fifty miles from the Chinese mainland.   While each attack to and from this staging area may take one or several days, these warriors were not without strategic support.   Pictured below is the Nationalist Navy’s supply ship which accompanied each attack to the mainland.  From its appearance, the supply ship is a coordinated match for the pair of fearsome gunboats.

In any war, supply is a critical feature.  Food, ammunition, repair parts, and who knows what else is always needed at the least opportune moment.  Hopefully the Nationalist Navy’s Supply Ship was capable of providing everything needed.  What a magnificent beast!

New ‘Bug’ Infects Computer Center

Computer centers have known and dealt with ’bugs’ for many years, and go to great lengths to control their damage.  When Sufferin College officials were told bed bugs were being transmitted to their center’s users, the common response  was “you’ve got to be kidding!”   This started a new chapter in exactly what it means to be a Sufferin student. 

Sufferin students and facullty alike started boning up on the life and times of bed bugs.  When Sufferin students are the hosts, correcting the problem becomes a magnificent who-done-it.  The center itself had to be thoroughly sanitized of these largely nocturnal vampires.  As bed bugs are reportedly capable of living between meals (blood) for up to a year, any furnishings in the center which might harbor these evil monkeys has to be destroyed.  

The center was closed for sanitation. All stuffed and upholstered furniture was removed and burned.  As staff, students, and bed bugs all cavort on the floor, the carpets were removed and destroyed.  What remained in the center was thoroughly sanitized.  The bugs’ habitat was now cleared of such vermin at one moment in time. 

The rest of the problem, the who-done-it portion, is far more complicated.  As any warm blooded creature is a potential carrier, all people, cats, dogs, or four-legged night crawlers could re-infect the center.  Little could be done about student users.  Four legged creatures are rarely admitted to the center.  The center’s employees, however, required a careful screening to validate their pristeen nature as regular inhabitants of the Sufferin Center.

Through employing the State Department of Health, the center’s employees were thoroughly screened for telltale signs and symptoms of complicity.   Through this process and through checking Sufferin gossip, one of the center’s employees rose head and shoulders above all the rest as a potential carrier.  

Even the irregular visitors to the center would do a double-take on encountering Ms. Modeen Jones-Grunch, who had worked  at the center for some time.  Modeen fit the old hippie stereotype to a T.  From a distance her hair half-way down her back matched her flea market wardrobe perfectly.  The absence of any trace of makeup and plain appearance completed her first impression. 

Up close and personal added several features that tipped the scales beyond belief.  Modeen did not believe in deodorant, and when upwind from any observer one could readily envision the Sufferin landfill.  At this point, her hyphenated name and basic competence as an employee were incapable of overcoming the aura she created.  Modeen’s clients at the Sufferin Center often learned what they needed to know within a few minutes, and several excused themselves to go to the restroom, and failed to return. 

 Whether she showed evidence of bite marks or old scars is not generally known, as health records are confidential.  What is known at Sufferin College at present is that Modeen seemed to disappear from the Sufferin Computer Center. 

Word on the street is that the State Department’s discoveries were sufficient to advise Modeen to discontinue reporting to work, and to focus all of her effort on sanitizing herself and her place of residence.  Through consultation with Sufferin officials, it was suggested that Modeen not be allowed to return to work, or anywhere else on the Sufferin campus until she can produce an appropriate “Certificate of Health” by the State Health Department. 

To avoid a possible repeat of this new bug in the computer center, Sufferin officials elected to replace the carpets with tile, and all the over-stuffed chairs and couches where students and faculty lounge were replaced by hard surface furniture.  For several weeks now, Ms. Modeen Jones-Grunch has not been seen on the Sufferin College campus.

Blackie’s Brainstorm

Some of Wakefield’s more prominent local characters included a Mr. Cool who sold refrigerators. Mr. Shivers was the ice man, and A. Butcher was the town doctor. That was Dr. Butcher, A. W. Butcher. He was the only doctor in town. Had there been a town prostitute her name would surely have been Miss. Hooker. There must have been hookers in those days, but the boys I ran around with were mostly a lot of talk.

During my junior year at Wakefield Rural High School, I ascended to quarterback on our six-man football team. In this position, I may well have been as notorious as the other town characters. I was the only quarterback in the world to receive the snap from center from a rear-to-rear position. In today’s kinky world there must be a name for this position, but the folks in Wakefield didn’t know it. Mostly, they just snickered when they first saw it. After they got used to it, it seemed to be an almost normal thing for a quarterback to do. It should be mentioned that I am also the only person in the world who ever stood rear-to-rear in public with both Bob and Dick Elkins, the centers on our football team. These hefty and hard working centers have probably made every effort to forget.

This rear-to-rear position was the brainchild of John D. Blackie Lane, Wakefield’s football coach, basketball coach, track coach, softball coach, girls and boys P.E. teacher, and shop instructor. With these school duties, he spent every waking hour around sweaty bodies and noxious locker rooms, an environment which may have altered his figuring ability. Blackie figured that in football it was more important for a quarterback to know where his own players were than to be watching the opponents. Rather than to run backward, he figured you could start faster and run faster if you were facing that direction, – backward. Nor was he particularly concerned with the social consequences of assuming this position in front of a crowd of people on both sides of the field. He also figured that the novelty of the position could have startling powers over the opponents, who would say things like, – “does that quarterback even know which way to run?” So it was born, the rear-to-rear quarterback ball snapping position.

The picture on the right, from the fall of 1948, is a rare shot of the rear-to-rear quarterback position. It has been enlarged, placed into relief, and designations added to depict exactly what is meant. On the far left and middle top are the running backs (RB). In the lower center and far right are the ends (E). The dark vertical line has been drawn to show the point of demarcation between the quarterback on the left (me), and the center (C) on the right (Bob Elkins). As you can see, Bob is watching the camera and has his hand on the ball. I am standing rear-to-rear with Bob, facing the other direction, and waiting for the snap of the ball. This should clear up any possible misunderstanding. Five are facing one way, and I am facing the other. This was the way Blackie figured it.

Throughout my junior year, it really didn’t seem to matter whether I was facing the front or the rear, so I adopted the rear-facing position, or rear-to-rear position to be most precise. Blackie figured I was also better equipped to keep my eye on our scat back, Vance Lumb, because if I took my eye off him, he could end up somewhere else. Sure enough, he ended up on the Kansas All-State Football Team. Facing aft gave me the perfect view of Vance and the other running backs. What Blackie didn’t figure was that from my perspective, all the other men on the field were out of sight until I got turned around. By that time it could be too late! That day was not long arriving.

In our third game in the fall of 1949 we were playing Bennington. It was a home game Friday afternoon to accommodate travel time for Bennington. We knew nothing about the Bennington team, as we had never played them before. One outstanding feature of their team was their center who played either just to the right of, or left of my rear. He was about six feet tall and weighed 300 pounds. I called him Paul Bunyan.

I could not see if he lined up to my right or left because I was facing the other way. As a result, I did not know which way to go to get out of the way. I discussed this situation with the center, Dick Elkins, who was no small fry himself. When we would get set for each play, Dick would say “right”, and I would know that Bunyan was lined up to Dick’s right side. If he said “left” I would know that Bunyan was to Dick’s left side. The system worked perfectly except for one small detail from my perspective. As soon as I turned around into the rear-to-rear position, Dick’s right side became my left, and Dick’s left side became my right. It was an accident waiting to happen.

On one of the first snaps of the game Dick said “right” and I went wrong. I ended up face down on the ground, and Bunyan fell like a redwood tree, knee first, in the middle of my back. After regaining the ability to breath I discovered a sharp pain in my low back. I was dragged off the field and spent the rest of the game on the sidelines. By that time it was late Friday afternoon, and Dr Butcher’s office was closed with a long weekend immediately ahead.

Over the weekend I could not do anything without sharp pain. If I was flat on my back on the floor doing nothing, I was free of pain. Getting up or down from the floor was impossible. Then I discovered a miraculous cure, an old roller-type ink blotter. If I put this rigid blotter, curved side inward, inside my belt on the left side, the pain in my back was almost eliminated. After that the rest of the weekend was tolerable until Dr. Butcher’s office opened Monday morning.

Following a short examination, Dr Butcher supposed that I had injured something. Rather than jump to any conclusions, he opted for a second opinion. and referred me to a chiropractor in Clay Center with the nearest x-ray machine. I managed to get onto his examining table, complete with swivel joints. His x-rays showed fractured 4th and 5th lumbar vertebrae on the left side. As the cracked bones were still attached to the main body of each vertebrae, a cast was all that was needed. The cast would prevent movement until the bones healed, and hopefully would eliminate all pain during the process.

The doctor asked me to sit up straight on a metal stool with no back, naked as a jay bird. Until a metal stool seat gets warm, you sit up pretty straight. First he pulled a sleeve of heavy stretch muslin over my entire trunk. Then he got a huge box of plaster wrap to fashion the cast. He wrapped round and round, roll after roll, until I was covered with plaster wrap half an inch thick from shoulder to rear. Following a few adjustments here and there, the plaster dried, and I was entombed from tail to breakfast. As this was my first such experience, I really didn’t know what to expect, but I knew it was going to be exciting.

The instructions were quite simple. No exercising. No running or jumping. No bending over. But keep the cast dry no matter what you do. No bathing or showering. After the first few weeks when others are nearby, always stand down-wind. Follow these instructions until the cast is removed. Little did I anticipate the consequences which followed. There is no air circulation in a cast for either heating or cooling. Like a snake, the skin seems to shed completely every day. When it sheds it has no place to go, so it collects in the cast. On a hot day you sweat. The sweat converts the accumulated skin in the muslin to a moist goo. Then the itching begins. Oh! the itching, the itching.

Itching is only a problem when you can’t scratch, you can’t get wet, you can’t get dry, you can’t wash, and you can’t get rid of dead skin. I couldn’t. There were only two holes in the cast for scratching. The one at the top was filled with back and chest to the arm pits. The other at the bottom of the cast fit like an iron corset. During the last few weeks I was able to bend a metal coat hanger to reach and scratch almost anywhere in the cast. In spite of the suffering, the healing process had started, and I returned to school the following day cast and all.

As for the football team, Bill Ogg had been an attentive understudy for the quarterback position, and had witnessed the rear-to-rear ball snapping for an ample period of time. In particular he wished to avoid a body cast like the one I was wearing on the sideline at the next ball game. Bill concluded that the rear-to-rear ball snapping was not only socially awkward, but was fundamentally flawed. He refused even the thought of assuming this position while in public. With this astute and final decision, Blackie’s brainchild was rendered stone dead, and since that fateful fall of 1949 was never again witnessed in Wakefield.

Hong Kong’s Mary Soo

In 1955 Hong Kong was judged the absolute best liberty port in the world. This high rating is from sailors who have tested liberty all over the world. When sailors speak of liberty ports, it is accepted that the ladies are not far away, if only for the great scenery they provide. After spending several months in Hong Kong, one lady emerges who stands head and shoulders above all the rest. She was one of a kind, and provided an incomparable service for the sailors on extended stays in the city. She is known throughout the world, and in one magazine, was the featured centerfold. She is Hong Kong’s infamous Mary Soo.

Unlike other ladies, she was granted freedom to move around select ships in the harbor without restriction, plying her trade, and in the process, relieved many sailors aboard ship, whose duties were onerous.  Like many ladies, she was a shrewd businessperson, and never passed up a profitable deal.  And like most, she accepted no checks, no credit, and no promises.  She worked strictly under contract, and required payment for services as rendered.  Some claimed she was an artist, enhancing each sailor’s world with her special touch.  Others said she was a workhorse, dedicated to an incomparable service.  On the Gardiners Bay we knew her intimately.  We had an understanding with Mary Soo.

While Mary Soo worked well for her customers, she was also the head honcho lady, the madam working a bevy of like-minded and well-trained girls.  They arrived at the ship each and every day on their sampans, small boats that were perfectly adapted to working at the water’s edge.  Most surprising was that Mary Soo and all her girls provided their services free for our garbage, no questions asked.  Following the strictest of standards, the leftovers from the mess-hall after each meal were collected in individual containers and delivered to Mary Soo each day.  To receive such fine service for that which otherwise would be thrown away, was an unbelievable bonus value.  She is shown below with some of her girls, hovering next to the Gardiners Bay on one of her sampans.  

From top to bottom, stem to stern, all around, she painted the ship.  On this day, with long poles in hand, they are painting the ship’s hull with loving care.  We provide the paint, and they paint the ship for the garbage, no questions asked.  It was a big ship, and required long poles, many girls, and many days for a single coat.  Exactly how many coats of paint might have been applied is not known.  It was such a fine arrangement, the ship was painted over, and over, and over until it was just right.  Following is a glamour shot of the Gardiners Bay at anchor.  Sun covers on the bows main deck and 01-level are prepared for hanging out in style, while Mary Soo and her girls slave away.   What a novel way to relieve the sailors.

She kept our beautiful little ship in top shape, and carried off the excess food as a bonus.  It is understood that she gave much of the food to her many working girls.  What they did not want, she distributed on the streets throughout Hong Kong.  Through this process, we were feeding those many starving Chinese we had heard so much about.

In the late fall of 1955 we came to the end of our tour as Station Ship, and knew we would miss Hong Kong.   We knew that many tears would be shed.  For our departure, Mary Soo planned a mighty going away celebration.  She rigged a sampan with one of her many long poles, and from the high end of the pole suspended a twelve-foot long cluster of firecrackers.  Then she summoned four of her most loyal girls to follow us out of the harbor.  As we pulled away, she lit the firecrackers.  For five minutes the crackers swished like the tail of an angry dragon, almost blowing Mary Soo and her girls out of the water in the process.  Then we were gone. 

As we passed out of sight, Mary Soo shed buckets of tears, because she knew we were taking all our garbage with us.  What a deal!