TURNING STAR

 

IN 1964 NCR SENT ME TO A NINE MONTH SCHOOL IN DENVER. WE RENTED A SMALL HOUSE ON S. UNIVERSITY BLVD.

WHILE I WAS THERE I BOUGHT A SET OF WEIGHTS, AND WORKED OUT DAILY.

ONE SUMMER NIGHT, AFTER A SET OF BENCH PRESSES IN THE FRONT YARD I LAY RESTING, GAZING UP AT A CLEAR NIGHT SKY. I SAW WHAT I FIRST THOUGHT WAS A SHOOTING STAR.   MOVING NORTH TO SOUTH ACROSS MY FIELD OF VISION, IT PASSED DIRECTLY OVERHEAD AT HIGH SPEED.

THEN, AT AN ELEVATION OF ABOUT 45 ABOVE THE SOUTHERN HORIZON, IT ABRUPTLY CHANGED DIRECTION. IT TURNED LEFT, BUT NOT A CURVING TURN - A SHARPLY ANGLED 45˚ TURN. NO METEOR, OR CRAFT OF MAN’S DEVICE COULD EXECUTE SUCH A TURN.   AND THERE WAS NO COLLISION TO DEFLECT THE TRAJECTORY.  IT JUST MADE AN IMPOSSIBLE TURN.

YOU TELL ME. I DON’T KNOW.

Orange Fireball

  

recent headlines:

Sunday’s meteor that blazed across the Texas sky

213 reports were submitted to the American Meteor Society of a fireball in the sky Sunday night. Published: Jul. 26, 2021

A witness description:

It was a bright glowing orange circle that was on its way down, like falling, like an orange full moon. …. I have seen shooting stars and this object moved slower.

Details released by The American Meteor Society:

• The fiery streak lasted about 4 seconds

• This was likely NOT part of (a) Meteor Shower because it was…. “going too slow”

• The “slow” speed suggests it was a small piece of an asteroid

******

The news report (above) reminds me of a sighting of mine in 1944:

It was summer.. About an hour into the soft darkness of full night. I was walking north, along the sidewalk in front of my house in Sheffield, Alabama.

For some reason – I didn’t hear anything, but I seemed to sense something – I looked up.

There, almost directly above me, was a large orange fireball, traveling northward through the cloudless, dark night sky.

This fiery object made no noise. There was no trailing tail of flame. Just the glowing orange of a ball of fire.

Color? a little more distinctly orange than the sun.

Brilliance? equal to a bright full moon.

How big was it? How do I describe the size of an object in the sky? With no immediately adjacent reference to compare it to, it becomes a matter of degrees of arc subtended by…, aw, heck, it was about as big as a tennis ball held at arms length.

How high was it? Same problem , no reference … but regarding the remembered image, I’d guess it was high. Is that vague enough?

It was moving fast, and lasted about a second – its travel covered about the distance of three or four times its own diameter. Could I suggest forty degrees of arc?

Then it simply vanished.

Gone.

No flash, no smoke, no embers, no falling debris. And no noise.

The image of that ball of fire remains ever with me, and I ponder occasionally … and will ever wonder.

You tell me — I don’t know.

Visit to a Galveston Brothel

 From 1962 through 1965 I worked for the National Cash Register Company in Galveston as a cash register serviceman. One of the routine chores for me was to install a new ribbon on a merchant’s cash register. The charge for this was the cost of the ribbon plus the hourly rate charge of $15.  One day – I think it may have been in 1963 – I was assigned a call to install a new ribbon on a cash register at one of the notorious establishments on Galveston ‘s notorious  Postoffice Street. No name was give for the destination – just the street address. It could have been something like “2710 Postoffice Street.”   

I knew what business was conducted there.

I drove to the location, found 2710, walked up to the front door and knocked. The door was locked, and nobody responded. I stood there, knocking repeatedly, and feeling frustrated and puzzled.

A man walking along the sidewalk took pity, and explained to me:

“Ain’t nobody gonna answer – that doe’s been locked fo’ years. You gots to go ‘roun back.”

(You will note that this was in the “colored” part of town – where residents and most businesses were Black.)

I thanked the gentleman, and drove around to the alley. 

(The city blocks in Galveston are divided by an alley, running parallel to the letter-named Avenues, providing access to the rear of every property for various services, and to provide access to garages and apartments – many of which faced the alley).

My immediate challenge was to identify the door that belonged to the address I was given. There were no street numbers on the many doors to the alley.

I selected one that was half hidden under a stairway to the second floor. I knocked, and a sliding panel at eye level opened and a face asked “Yes?”

“Is this 2710?”

“What do you want at nine in the morning?”

“I’m from NCR. I’m here to put a ribbon an a cash register.”

The panel closed, and the door opened. The bartender led me to the deserted bar-room, where the register sat behind the bar.

“There it is.”

The register was a Class 100, the least of NCR’s product line. Installing a new ribbon required only opening the printer door, lifting out the old ribbon and placing the new one on the spindles. It would reasonably take about thirty seconds.

The minimum service charge was $15.

Many merchants bristled in anger at a $15 charge for less than a minute’s work. So I made a show of cleaning around the type wheels of the printer, and trying to make it look like I could justify the exorbitant fee.

“Bill” – from his name-tag – was working nearby. In casual conversation I asked him “How much do the girls charge a man to take him upstairs?”

“A dollar a minute.”

I immediately slammed the printer lid shut and handed him a bill for $16.50.

In a local bank a book-keeping machine that NCR maintained required work, and there was no one available in our office to handle the chore. So NCR sent an expert from the Houston office to do the work. Somehow I was assigned the responsibility of escorting the out-of- towner to unfamiliar locations.

When his day’s work was done the expert turned to me for help finding his supper. I took him to Hill’s seafood restaurant – NCR was picking up all tabs – and afterwards to Omar’s. This was a small barroom run by a lady who dressed in belly-dancer costumes to serve drinks to the gentlemen who danced to the music of the juke box. We sat at the bar and ordered drinks. He sipped his Scotch, and I drank a bourbon and coke. He inquired about the “houses” on Postoffice Street. He said he’d like to visit one.

Having just two days previously made a service call in one, I knew the way.

At the under-stairs door I knocked. The panel slid open. The face was cautious. We looked like Law!

(All NCR servicemen wore white shirts and neckties)

I told the doorkeeper that I worked for the National Cash Register Company. He asked me for the name of my manager. I told him, and he let us in. I regarded it as “cool” that my boss was well known at a brothel, and his name got me admitted !

We were seated at a table beside the dance floor, and the waiter took our drink order.

The drinks were delivered by a beautiful young woman. She asked if she could provide any other service. Our NCR expert left me at the table to sip my bourbon and Coke, while he sought stress relief upstairs in the expert hands of the gorgeous practitioner.

Another young woman approached my table and offered. I declined, explaining that I was just baby sitting an out of towner. She understood, and accepted my offer to buy her drinks and share some trivial conversation.

In a half hour my “out of town expert” returned, content, and we left.

So I have twice been in a Postoffice Street brothel in Galveston. And emerged unscathed both times.

THE BIG FISHERMAN

 

This picture of the Galveston ship channel was taken in December 2014.

I responded to the irresistible “Pull” of Galvezemories¹ and took a trip to celebrate my 78^th birthday.

I appreciate and respect the advice given to me by my good friend Dale Lockwood — “There is value in solitude.”

But value be damned — my existence is lonely.

And nostalgic reminiscence, centered on Galveston, seemed on that day of December 27^th, 2014 to offer solace. So I got into my truck …

When I crossed the causeway onto the island I felt like I was returning home. When I reached 61^st Street, coming into town on Broadway, I naturally turned toward the Beach.

As I crossed the bisection of Offat’s Bayou — East Bayou on the left, West Bayou on the right — I remembered the many times that John and I bought bait at one of the live bait stands along the west side of the road. A quart of live bugs for a dollar.

How many shrimp in a quart? I don’t know – now, or then. But there seemed to be enough. We seldom ran out — and if we did we’d simply switch to working artificials. Many times when John and I ended our early morning quest for the speckled trout that we so eagerly sought, there would be enough live shrimp left to take home for table fare.

When I got home and emptied the remaining shrimp into the kitchen sink to prepare them for the skillet, at least one of them always did an athletic cartwheel, straight up into the air — to a height level with my eyes.

And my five year old daughter Elizabeth, watching in fascination, always screamed in fright at the spectacle.

We fished hard, John and me. At least twice a week, sometimes more, we’d have a line in the water somewhere.

The beachfront, working spoons in the surf — especially alongside the groins, where the deep erosion produced by the currents provided the cline the fish favored.

If the specs were not responding, then we’d move out away from the groin and throw our silver spoons into the surf, seeking and finding schools of ladyfish. While not table fare, they were a delight to catch. Invariably, within a few seconds of taking the hook, they would begin an acrobatic aerial display that would be worthy of any tarpon.

One Sunday morning we were enjoying the ladyfish in the surf, when I hooked one that didn’t jump.

“I notice he’s not jumping” John said.

“Yeah, I know…”

And I pulled in the only spec of the day — a nice one of about three pounds.

Other times we’d wade the flats of West Galveston Bay. Except for the occasional flounder, I don’t recall much success there.

While there, one morning, I ate the second of the two raw oysters that I ever ate in my life.

The first had been at home in 1952 when Pop was enjoying a mess of oysters. He invited me to try one — and I declined. He offered me fifty cents to eat one. I did — but I didn’t enjoy it.

On that morning a dozen years later, with John in West Bay, I did it on a dare. I watched him reach down into the shallow reef we were fishing to take an oyster, which he proudly opened and ate from the shell. He offered me one. I declined.

He dared me. I accepted the challenge.

And remembered why I found no pleasure in the earlier experience.

After we built our boat, we worked the Spanish mackerel that schooled off the beach just beyond the outermost row of breakers.

While it took some effort to get our little boat through the waves to get beyond the last breaker, once we were in the smooth water we could guide the boat in circles to work our bait through the schools of the tasty mackerel.

The only tarpon that I ever hooked followed my silver spoon as I worked it along the bottom. We were anchored near the outer end of the jetty, just twenty yards out toward the ship channel from the rocks. We fished, from our boat, in the deep clear water alongside the ship channel. The water was about twenty feet deep.

I watched the tarpon come out of the depths of the ship channel, to overtake and inhale my spoon. I could see it clearly.

As tarpon go my tarpon wasn’t a big fish, probably about twenty or thirty pounds — but the thrill of watching it take the bait, and the fight that followed is memorable. I had the fish close to the boat — it was probably about twenty feet away, and near the surface when it spit out the spoon and swam away. I was disappointed — but what a thrill !

And a lasting memory.

But sometimes we liked to wade out from the jetty, within a half mile of the seawall, to stand in waist deep water and fish out toward the channel.

In the 2014 photograph of the channel, with ships anchored in the distance, there is a dark line running parallel to the channel about three quarters of the way from the rocks of the jetty to the horizon. That marks the drop-off to the channel. John and I would wade out to approach that drop-off, and fish toward the depths of the channel.

Problem was that just alongside the jetty there was a deep gut, all along the rocks, which I was just able to wade across — with my chin held high.

John was rather heavy, but quite a bit shorter than me. I called him “the big fisherman.” The water in that gut was well over his head.

No problem — we worked out the “buddy system”.

I took his hand and supported him, and while I walked across the bottom of the gut he floated across.

Yeah, we fished a lot. Good memories. I expect to live to a ripe old age — purely because of the old adage, oft repeated among fishermen — that the time spent fishing does not count against your allocated life span.

1 The relevant word is neologism.

Galveston Memories

Galveston, oh, Galveston — I can feel your sea winds blowing ...

In 1949 I stood, often and long — on the seawall at 39^th street — gazing out over the rolling surf. Breathing the clean air, massaged by the gentle breeze that caressed my bare arms. Seagulls floating, mysteriously, gliding without wingbeat, parallel to the shoreline, patrolling the edge of the water.

Traffic behind me on Seawall Boulevard was a matter of indifference.. The occasional tourist strolling along the sidewalk was ignored.

My world consisted solely of the wind, the water, the birds and my immersion in the marvelous universe of the Gulf beach.

After an indefinite time, when my soul had been restored, I turned and walked the three blocks to my home near the corner of 39th Street and Avenue S.

I waved to the operator of the Magnolia gas station on the southwest corner, and promised him that I would return to help him later that afternoon. With no compensation other than the joy of experience I pumped gas, wiped windshields, aired tires, checked “under the hood,” swept the driveway — generally taking care of the customers.

Homework. Drudgery. Mere routine, valueless to me, but demonstrating to my teacher at Lovenberg Junior High School that her teaching was not in vain. Closing the books, I got the mower — the PUSH mower — out of the garage. Fifteen minutes of chasing it around the yard, and Pop would be satisfied when he got home. He liked his yard neat. Me, too.

I got my bugle — a Christmas gift from Mom — and went into the garage to practice. The music book that came with the instrument had all the bugle calls that anyone could want. With the musical knowledge and skill imparted by my band director at Lovenberg, I had no problem mastering the music of the bugle. I practiced “To the Colors”, so that I could play it at the flag presentation ceremony at the next Boy Scout meeting.

To The Colors. Used to render honors to the flag and the nation. The bugle is used when no band is available to render honors. To the Colors commands all the same courtesies as the National Anthem.

Mom called me, and sent me to the grocery store for a loaf of bread. For this I went to the neighborhood grocery, run by Mr. Bertolino. In the next block, at 3818 Avenue S, his was the preferred grocer for small orders.

His was the store I went to with the beer bottles I scavenged from the trash where workers were cleaning out the closed bar on 39^th street. He willingly paid me two cents apiece for the bottles — and I made several trips over the course of two days, redeeming the deposit for five or more bottles at a time. On the second day he said “Hey, this is found money for you — and I’m not getting anything for it. So from now on I’ll just give you one cent for each bottle. You’ll still make money, and I get something for my trouble.”

Seemed reasonable. So with the next batch of “found money” beer bottles I went to the other store, Rosenbaum's, around the corner on 39th.

For the family's weekly grocery shopping, I went to the Evan’s Supermarket, on 39^th Street  —  I think it was at about Avenue M.  How can I remember? It’s been a long time.

But I remember shopping there. I filled my cart with items on the list prepared by Mom. And supplemented the load with choice items from the damaged goods and marked-down assortment in the SALE baskets placed around the store. It was a challenge to deduce the contents of canned goods with the label missing. There were times when I bought canned dog food, thinking it to be vegetables for our table.

Outside the store, I loaded the groceries into the canvas newspaper bag draped on the upturned handlebars of my bicycle. If the load was not too heavy, I’d ride the bike home with the week’s groceries. If the load was so heavy that it interfered with control while riding the bike I pushed it home. Still easier than carrying a double arm full of groceries.

Along the way I passed Davy Crockett Elementary, where I had attended 4^th and 5^th grades while we lived over Klater’s drug Store at 42^nd Street. Memories remain of the horrible Texas City disaster of 1947, which jolted Mrs. Wade’s 5^th grade class out into the morning sunlight.

On one memorable occasion I bought a load of groceries, and lacking the services of my faithful steed — my bicycle was undergoing repair — I was faced with the prospect of a long walk home with two arms heavily loaded with groceries. Choosing what I thought would be the less painful alternative, I walked across the street and caught a city bus — which deposited me just two blocks from home.

I was smugly pleased with my resourcefulness — until Pop got home. He rebuked me, thoroughly, for wasting a dime for bus fare.

I quickly returned to the garage, and completed the repair on my bicycle.

The bike’s New Departure coaster brake was seizing, and needed cleaning, adjusting, and lubricating. Intimidating, as I initially regarded the problem. Simple enough, when I disassembled it and learned how it worked. The experience of maintaining and repairing my bicycle, there in the garage of our house on Avenue S, was the beginning of a lifelong effort — with notable success — of maintaining and repairing just about anything. I still have some of the tools I used in my early efforts.

BRIGHT ORANGE

 After we moved from Alabama to Galveston in 1945 Pop would occasionally take us for an evening stroll on the beach. Mom walking, holding Connie by the hand, Pop carrying Mary Sue, and me tagging along or running in front. From our apartment over Klater’s drug store, we walked along 42nd Street south to Avenue T. Then east to the Lovenberg Junior High School campus, which we walked across to the intersection of 39th Street and the beachfront. We’d descend to the sand on the stairs at 39th, and explore the beach between 39th and 37th.

At low tide, we examined the flora and fauna, the marine life adhering to the nether parts of the groins, and dug for shells on the sand which was uncovered by the receding water.

We found ear shells, olive shells, whelk, jingle shells, sea beans and more. We saw jellyfish and Portuguese Men O’War, a few dead fish, and sometimes a skate egg pouch.

The five of us were all children in a new wonderland. Pop enjoyed sneaking coins from his pocket and dribbling them onto the sand along the water’s edge, for his kids to find.

Then, as dusk threatened to rob us of our playground, he would herd his small group homeward. Usually I would lag behind, reluctant to so soon abandon the disclosures of nature so mystifyingly revealed.

On one such occasion we were on the beach near 37th Street. Mom, Pop and the two girls were leaving; they were already atop the seawall and heading toward 39th Street. I approached from the low tide’s murmuring caress along the darkening sand toward the granite rip-rap which protected the seawall. There in a small tidal pool was – life!

I walked forward, to better see.

Pop whistled, to summon me to join the entourage. I crouched, to compensate for my poor vision, for my glasses were safe at home.

The mysterious life form was at one end of the pool, which was crystal clear and about four inches deep by a foot wide and three feet long. It was bright orange – today we would call it fluorescent orange - , about three inches long, and of the proportions of a standard goldfish. The thing reacted to my presence, and shot to the opposite end of the pool.

Pop called out softly, “Come on Abe.”

I moved closer, to examine the phenomenon. It flashed back to the other end of the pool. I still could not identify it. My eyes were just too weak.

If I could just get another step closer!

“ABE!!”

The imperious roar commanded. I responded, and left behind, to wonder about forever, the bright orange mystery trapped in the tidal pool.

This is clear in my memory: the small fish-like life form moved in a manner since familiar to me in the various aquarium fishes enjoyed in many homes, including my own. I have watched them swim casually, and I have seen them flee in panic, rushing from one end to the other of their aquarium’s confinement.

Whatever that thing was in the late afternoon Galveston beach tidal pool, it was easily twice as fast as any “goldfish” I’ve ever seen. And in the 65 years since, I’ve spent may hours on the beaches, and fishing in small boats around the islands of the Texas coast. And I ain’t never seen nothing like I saw that evening.

You tell me — I don’t know.

Luddite

 

Luddite: a person opposed to new technology, or ways of working.

(DEROGATORY) – "a small-minded Luddite, resisting progress"

Well, now let me remember – it was in 1960 that I bought my first pickup truck. Half ton, long bed, three on the tree.

I like that combination, and have migrated through several newer trucks of the same configuration.

Recently considered trading in my current truck on a newer one.

Visited a dealer. Drove my old truck home and affectionately patted it on the hood after I parked it.

New models scare me. Apart from the outrageous price, the technology has run away from me.

It seems that the designers of the newest airplanes have taken over the design of new trucks.

With a lifetime of maintaining and repairing my vehicles, I raised the hood on a new truck and gazed – with wonderment – at the maze of confusion that is involved in propelling the vehicle.

And sitting behind the steering wheel I was intimidated – among other things, by the dash mounted television screen that dominates the driver’s field of vision. I await news coverage of the lawsuit ensuing from the collision that results when a driver is distracted by whatever show comes on.

Rather than spend $50,000 for an earthbound aircraft I shall search for and buy a decent 1975 model Chevrolet pickup with three on the tree -- and pay a good mechanic to install a new motor and rebuild the brakes and suspension.

My dismay at the evolution of automotive technology is matched by my frustration with my new computer. I have been driving a computer since 1985. I am comfortable with them. I have adapted to the newness of each succeeding new model, migrating from DOS though versions of Windows.

But never have I found a challenge to equal that of the newest.

Not only new hardware, with all of its oriental design of novel capabilities of questionable practicality – but complicated by the crazy nuances of Windows 10.

Would that I could buy a new computer with windows 7…. that I could turn on and drive, the way I could drive my old stick shift pickup.

Strange, that I should see a parallel between a truck and a computer – but the analysis, and conclusion, is that there are too many “improvements” that might better have been left on the cutting room floor.

And if that ain’t enough – I have, in addition, the privilege of getting acquainted with a new phone…

New, in the sense that I just upgraded from a 2014 model phone to a 2016 model.

But again, I long for the simplicity of a three speed manual transmission. Too many hidden features on this newer phone, many of them needing to be disabled. And responsible for performance problems if ignored.

I often reminisce, longing for the simplicity of days long gone.

While not quite a Luddite, I do remember the “good old days.”