War diaries: Connecting with my uncle again

I finally did it! I can check off the item at the very top of my “bucket list.” Reading my uncle’s World War II diaries. (In fact, it was the only thing on my bucket list.)

I had always wanted, in theory, to go through these tiny books that I looked at briefly at my cousin John Gee’s  house on the West Coast. But I didn’t have time to examine them further—you know, we never do.

But I was inspired after seeing my Clarksville friend Holly Stadtler’s PBS production of “The Green Box,” about the diaries of a war veteran discovered by his son.

So John and his wife Susan Rumsey agreed to send some of the diaries of Fred B. Gee to me just a few months ago.

When they arrived I was wondering  how I was  going to read them.  The handwriting was clear, but it was very small, and my vision has been getting worse.

Well, I found an app for my iPad called “Pen to Print” that can take cursive handwriting and translate it into printed text. It is far from perfect, and a lot of the clearly written pages produce fairly garbled text. But it was good enough that I could get the point of his notes.

The diaries follow him from his entry into the Army in 1942 through his voyage across the ocean to his stationing in England, France, Belgium and Germany past V-E (Victory in Europe) Day in 1945.

My uncle appears to have worked mainly as a supply sergeant near the front, rather than out in the field through most of the war. But he frequently describes the bombings, the fireworks and the historic events going on around him as the war progressed.

But I have to admit I did not get many first-hand battle accounts I might have seen in a war movie. No hand-to-hand combat or life and death rescues from foxholes. No John Wayne.

In fact, most of the accounts are of daily barracks life and the men he went to war with.

And there are some references to love: “ Geneva Lee's letters are increasingly sweet and they now have priority over all except Dad's - in opening and answering.  I've let all friends and relatives know how I feel toward her - and everyone heartily approves.

 

There is passage after passage of good times with our English relatives and tourist sites such as  Stonehenge  and  Kaiser Wilhelm’s destroyed statue in Germany.  You’d think the war was great fun.

But there is one entry in 1945 that stands out. He says that military censors had banned soldiers’ diaries and that he would face court martial if he wrote any more. Understandably, the brass were afraid the enemy would get ahold of the diaries and a soldier would give away positions and battle plans. Yet, he did continue writing in smaller books but with more innocuous messages.

So I may never know what really happened. John recounts his father telling him toward the end of the war in Germany that he had to step over many dead German soldiers, but I could find nothing in the diaries about that.

Here are some good examples though of memorable moments in the war:

--New York: “We march from our section to the depot, thousands of us, with a 130-pound load on our backs. The bands were all lined up, playing martial music.”

--On the Atlantic: “We are jammed everywhere on board like in the slave trade before Civil War days. We were in the lower level and nervous about torpedoes.”

--England: “Events are swinging toward the invasion day. Last night an estimated 150 German planes rained bombs around us and a German plane crashed near us and the pilot was apparently uninjured and hiding somewhere nearby.

--France: “We got hopelessly lost and found ourselves in the heart of Paris (before other Americans) with people mobbing us and kissing us and shaking hands.”

--Belgium: “A Canadian bomber crashed in flames into a house after the German night fighters hit a huge, allied formation. We saw tracers and heard the roar of a 2,000-odd formation and then suddenly the bombers fell, turning into flames, and four airmen and five civilians were killed.”

--Germany: “We crossed the river on a pontoon bridge and a buzz bomb hit right behind me and blew some apartments sky high. The shock was terrific.”

--Germany:  “We saw hundreds of German soldiers being checked in as prisoners from the front. We saw a big airfield full of German planes, some wrecked but most in good flying condition but no gas.”

--May 8, 1945: “The greatest day in European history,  meaning the end of six years of vicious warfare.”

My uncle was an extrovert and enjoyed others’ company. I don’t think he came out of it badly damaged. But I can’t believe the war was one big moving party as the diary seems to convey in parts I left out.

The biggest thing I got out of these diaries was the resumption of a close bond I had with this man over the years. As a toddler, I used to follow him around the house. Once he took me with him as he called on businesses as an insurance salesman.

He had always wanted to be a journalist, and when I went into that profession, he sent me letters several times a week along with local newspaper clippings before he died in 1981.  His writing was superb, in the style of the famous San Francisco columnist Herb Caen. Man, if he was still alive I could have used him as a correspondent when I ran the Kiplinger California Letter.

Reading through these diaries brought back my memories of him. I was re-connecting with my favorite uncle all over again.

Then I thought: What was the purpose of these diaries? Was he writing just to let off steam? Was it a historic recording for posterity?

You know, I am even mentioned in them, first on my birth in 1942 and again on one of my birthdays.

Maybe he was writing these for me?

Loving and hating AI

There is a lot to dislike about AI: it eliminates jobs, it uses up energy, kids use it to plagiarize papers, it makes mistakes, it steals other people’s work.

But face it: it’s here to stay. We might as well make use of it. A lot of us resisted switching from typewriters to computers, too. But would we still want to be using white-out, the bottle of stuff used to cover up mistakes?

People who refuse to try Chat GPT and others say their search engine is just as good. Well, surprise: they are starting to use it, too.

Want to know what time the show starts at the local theater on Saturday night? Instead of combing through its  website, you ask AI and it comes right up quickly. I asked it a few weeks ago to gauge the reaction to the World Cup Finals half-time show only an hour after the game was over. It came up with numerous details. How did it know? It told me it combed through Facebook and Instagram accounts by people who let anyone read theirs.

I’ll admit that some of it is scary. Having trouble reaching my doctor, I have been asking AI medical questions, and it has done a pretty good job. But it remembers details that I’m not sure I want. “You’re getting old. You probably should not be trying that pill,” it tells me.  Or: “With your history of back trouble, you probably shouldn’t do a lot of heavy lifting.” Yes, Mom!

It keeps asking me questions back, and the conversation can go on and on. Well, how am I to argue with something that has access to the combined knowledge built up of all human history?

I’m not keen on AI-written  books, however. I had it write my column once and it did a terrible job. But if I trained it with some of my past columns, it might have done better.

Change is hard for people. I’m sure blacksmiths were telling motorists in the early days: “Get a horse!”

If you haven’t tried it, just go to www.chatgpt.com and ask it any question at no cost (for now anyway.)

 

 

Cutting through the nonsense

Some of us are gullible and believe everything sent to us in letters and emails. I am here to act as a translator, to explain what companies and so-called friends really mean. Here are some expressions to look out for:

“We are pleased to announce.” We are about to rip you off big time, you fools!

 

“Kids today.” I am about to tell you how superior I am to anyone born in the last 30 years.

 

“Just checking in.” I have nothing else to do, and I have nothing to say really but just thought I would waste your time to make myself feel better.

 

“Hope you are well.” I don’t care about your health but I will pretend to care about you personally before I go in for the kill.

“This too will pass.” Stop bellyaching, and let’s talk about my problems.

 

“Is there something you would like to tell me?” You are about to get fired.

 

“Frankly…..” Everything I’ve said so far was meaningless. Now I am going to drop the bomb.

 

“Just fyi.” We have no business telling you this, but you’ll be mad if we leave you out.

 

“Just sayin'” I’m about to utter something totally outrageous and thoughtless. This way I can plead that it was just words, not something I believe.

“I'm a good Christian but...” Now I’m going to say something horrible or blasphemous, but this way you’ll think it’s OK.”

 

“That said….” I am about to completely contradict what I just told you.

 

“The check is in the mail.” Yeah, right!

 

“Have a  happy spring (summer or fall)” I don’t know how to end this letter. “Sincerely yours,” doesn’t cut it any more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What did you do in the war, Grandpa?

“Why weren’t you in the Vietnam War?” my 11-year-old granddaughter asked as she looked at me accusingly a few weeks ago. Wow. Blindsided!  I didn’t know that Aria knew anything about the war. After her history lesson in school, I guess she figured out that I was aged 22 to 35 during our major involvement.

What did she think I would say?  “I fled to Canada.” Or “I stayed in school so I wouldn’t get drafted.” Or “I faked a physical deferment?”

My answer: “I was in the Army Reserve from 1964 to 1970. We never got called up.”

That question and answer were worth the six years, first six months of basic and advanced training, then weekly meetings and summer camps. This is nothing compared to the dangers and sacrifices of the people who were on active duty two or three years, but her question did not put me on the defensive.

I could have avoided the draft in April 1964 with a deferment for asthma if I had pushed it. But I didn’t want to be a coward. If I had known of the debacle to come, I don’t know if I would have made the same decision. I’ll never know.

I did avoid the draft, which was creeping up on me, but my boss knew the local unit commander, who got me into the Army Reserve in Dover, Del.

I told my granddaughter I did not know many friends who went to Vietnam, but maybe we were a sheltered group. Many were in college. Even if I was sent there, I probably would have been a clerk typist or a reporter on “”Stars and Stripes” rather than in combat. I also probably should have gotten a deferment because my allergies affected me badly in Florida. Maybe they would have gotten me before the Viet Cong did.

I don’t think I was meant for the Army anyway. I was not Sergeant York. Maybe Beetle Bailey. The sergeant in basic training at Fort Gordon made me a squad leader because of my two years of Reserve Officer Training Corps classes. But I had been sitting at desks before entering the Army all the time my fellow soldiers were fixing cars or plowing fields, and I wasn’t in good shape. A hairline fracture in my leg sidelined me for two weeks. Rather than make me start over, they just let me finish the eight weeks of basic.  The commanding officer in Dover told my editor that enlistments dropped sharply in there  afte he published  my unhappy training experiences in in training. This was my contribution to the war effort? (Advanced training was in supply school at Homestead Air Force Base in Florida.)

In the six years of meetings, I was stationed at a public relations unit in Pittsburgh, a searchlight unit in Las Vegas and a civil affairs unit in Portland, Oregon. The Las Vegas unit was filled with skilled bartenders and blackjack dealers. If we had decided the Vietnam War at a poker table, we would have won hands down!  Our not-so-tough Portland group’s training was to attend two weeks at the University of Washington to learn Cambodian history. Hardly dangerous duty!

The idea was that we would run the Cambodian government if we ever invaded the country. We actually did invade Cambodia but did not run the government and were not needed.

Few reserve units were called up back then. I have since concluded that we were a paper force intended to scare the Russians or prepare for a second war but were not in any way prepared for battle.

How times have changed. I doubt that I would have been involved today in an all-volunteer army for which reserve units are frequently called up. I salute those who serve our country so bravely.

 

 

 

 

This film no longer grabs me

By all rights, “American Graffiti” should be one of my favorite movies. It’s about teenagers cruising the streets and coming of age  in 1962 Northern California.

The timing is close. I graduated from high school in 1959 about 90 miles from director George Lucas’ home in Modesto. It was filmed mostly In San Rafael, 10 miles from where I lived in El Cerrito. I even went several times to Mel’s Drive-In in Berkeley, part of the local chain shown in the movie.

At the film’s release in 1973, I really enjoyed it. I liked the nostalgia for a bygone era, familiar songs of the time and satisfaction of having moved beyond that silliness.

Watching it again 52 years later, I hated it. How could these stupid kids simply ride up and down the street in cars and agonize over who liked whom and who didn’t? Who cares? I hated the drama of teen-age romance. Maybe because I had struggled through it later as a parent.

And why was the star character really agonizing over whether to stay in town or go to college? Of course he should leave town. His parents needed to give him a talking-to!

What I did like about watching this idiocy is that I must have moved on from the first time I saw it. This movie may have been about my era but not about me. I did not cruise up and down Macdonald Avenue in nearby Richmond (Calif.)  on Saturday night. . . I’m not sure who did.

Well, maybe I did once or twice.  When I was 17, I took three of my 15-year-old friends to a movie. When we left the show in our car, one kid  insisted on going back to the theater to pick up a girl. When I refused, I let him out but the theater manager wouldn’t let him back in,  so he walked aimlessly on the streets. The rest of us cruised the street until I picked him up again and we all went home in silence.

This was fun? Not for me. The kid I let out of the car told me several years later: “The only reason we hung out with you was because you could drive a car.”  Thanks a lot, buddy! I should have left him on the sidewalk.

Another problem I had with the era: what ever happened to the real-life cruisers and drag racers? Did the boys skip college or vo-tech training  and have kids and become “ditch-diggers,” as my parents threatened me? Did the girls get pregnant and have a messed-up life afterward?

I could not identify with any of the characters. I guess I liked Lucas’ “Star Wars” better. Fantasy can be better than reality.

 

""We have no openings. Thank you."

 Job search professionals  tell you to forget about money when seeking employment. Just find something you love to do.

That’s easy to say, but what if you have a family and need a steady income? When I was between jobs for five months at age 50, I reached out in all directions.

In fact, I interviewed with the epitome of the business establishment in one morning and its arch-enemy, organized labor, that afternoon.  That shows you how nonpartisan I can be: a hired gun. A mercenary!

The U.S. Chamber of Commerce (publisher of Nation’s Business) and the AFL-CIO News were literally across the street from each other.

Well, it was hard to be two-faced and bluff my way through, especially on the same day. The word from the chamber: “Your test article just didn’t hum.”  From the AFL: “You’re a nice guy. Not tough enough.” What? They wanted Tony Soprano?

That’s OK. They were both out of business a few years later. Probably because they didn’t hire me.

I have friends who have proudly made lists of all of the publishers or employers who rejected them. Here’s a tiny part of  mine:

San Francisco Chronicle: “I like your resume, but I would have to give you a pay cut. You won’t like me anymore.”

AP San Francisco: “I have been ordered to hire a black and a woman, and you don’t look like either one to me.” ( I did work here several years later without having  race or gender surgery. They had already hired one of each.)

Philadelphia Bulletin: “You are a lousy headline writer, but we’ll take you anyway.” I didn’t like this blunt talk and declined a job offer.

San Francisco Examiner: “I realize you have come a long way for this interview, but the managing editor isn’t here.”

National Association of Realtors: “We require everyone to take a spelling and grammar test.” (I felt like a fifth -grader.)

An international consultant: “At what rate is the yen trading today?” When I couldn’t answer, he walked out without saying a word.

AARP Bulletin: “I had high hopes for you, but you haven’t supervised anyone in years.”

USA Today: “You have a great background, but we can’t find a place for you.”

U.S. Commerce Department: “I hope you can write speeches as well as your predecessor.” (I read them and they were agonizingly boring. I dropped out.)

Student Loan Marketing Association: “I would just love having an editor around to talk to. Of course, we often work very long nights.”  Bye!

Washington Business Journal (after I trimmed my resume to hide my age): “Exactly what years did you work there?” “Oh, I don’t know. Before the next job, I guess.”  Rejected again.

Kiplinger Letter: “We’d love to have you! When can you start?” Bingo! I found a great job. I stayed there for 17 years before retiring in 2009.

 

 

 

 

A lage start as a jazz musician

 For decades I played piano just for myself, hammering out melody and chords from a “fake book” of jazz standards. If someone came into the room, I would stop.

I wasn’t getting any better. So my friend Ron Worthy invited me eight years ago to join a group of accomplished jazz musicians at the basement of someone’s home in Washington, D.C.

Every week, a drummer opened up his house to two trumpet players, a saxophone player, guitarist, bassist and Ron, a professional pianist. This was a pure, private jam session, the kind you hear about but never see.

I got to fill in on about every third song. It was an enormous thrill comping out chords to this great music. But these guys were too good for me. I couldn’t keep up.

I had heard of classes in the Virginia suburbs where you pay a jazz musician to assemble a group to learn to play together. I wasn’t sure I could get into Jazz Workshop in Tysons Corner, Virginia, at first, so I decided to go to Blues Alley and see the leader, Paul Pieper, play guitar in a group.

I was watching intently, hoping to chat with Paul, when I accidentally knocked over a glass on the small table and it shattered on the floor. The lady sitting next to me was Paul’s wife. As we commiserated over the broken shards and an attendant swept them up, I told her why I was there.

Somehow I was able to get into his next class quickly. Was I good enough to stay? Could I really  learn to play accompaniment chords differently than on a solo?  But  Pieper liked my playing on the easy “Summertime” and I participated for a year with this group. So thrilled, I wrote a front-page article in the Senior Beacon newspaper about these classes.

But after I took a summer break, my schedule didn’t work for the next fall, so I joined another group, Jazz Band Master Class, hosted by Jeff Antoniuk in Annapolis, Md. Despite the 45-minute drive on Saturdays, I really enjoyed this group.  Then the big moment arrived. I had only been there a few weeks and they were going to perform at Twins, a prime jazz spot in D.C. Did I want to join them with so little practice? Does a hungry dog want a piece of steak?

This was the thrill of a lifetime! A bunch of my friends came, two of them driving an hour to see me. (I guess that’s why the club let us play there.) Antoniuk introduced me as the newest member and too eagerly, I stood up. “Sit down, Mike!” he admonished me.

I felt like Dave Brubeck, Oscar Peterson and Thelonious  Monk combined. One friend was recording my improvised solos and they weren’t bad at all.

I would have kept this up, but the pandemic came, the club closed for good and a jazz group practice over Zoom became impossible. Meanwhile, we moved to southern Virginia.

That didn’t end things, though. The new Tunnel Creek Vineyards opened near Roxboro, N.C. and I asked if I could sit down and play their nice grand piano. When I plunked out a song, the owner, Larry Dale Holler, liked it.n“I used to play at Twins Jazz in D.C.,” I said. “Can you come back on Saturday?” he said. When I played there during the pandemic, Antoniuk  told me, “You are one of only 10 jazz musicians in the world with a job.” I gave most of my earnings to a foundation helping unemployed jazz musicians.

I stayed only a few months because my 80-year-old hands couldn’t play for hours as the job required. Now I just play for friends and B&B guests at our home.

But not just for myself anymore.