My adolescent behavior was just that – exploring, testing, and not getting caught at having too much fun. At sixteen, I was one of a few guys in our small town to have a car. My ’53 Ford was shackled with hooded lights and custom grill – kind of cool for a teenage budget. It was a hot July evening; my folks were expecting me to go to a friend where I sometimes stayed over. I left having second thoughts, went uptown to see what was happening, and chatted with the local guys. At a lull, Ron shouted, “Hey, let’s go pick up the Dailey Girls.” I smiled and nodded my 
head for the two to get in. They knew I had a connection with the older Judy, and my brother had dated Joan. Judy was 21. She had called me several times that spring, and we had met for a movie once. I was not quite sure how to handle the situation. She was far more voluptuous than the teenage girls whom I was familiar with. Rumor had it she had been in prison for passing bad checks. This was not the kind of person you took home to meet the parents, so I left the advances to her.
Three sisters lived out in the sticks of Ray Road. Their father was said to have a shotgun loaded for those that disturbed his household. Ron said we just had to drive by slowly to attract the girls, wait around the curve, and the girls would sneak out after dark. The first pass proved they were home, but no one was getting our signal. I rebuffed their tactic, dropped the guys around the curve, drove into the driveway, and Judy came out to talk. She said they could sneak out in half an hour and join us around the bend.
My car was filled with suppressed giggles as we sped away in a party mode. The first stop was to let Judy buy a case of beer, and I drove to the safety of our known wheat field to frolic in the moonlight for some underage drinking. The ration was four beers each, which left the younger girls very boisterous. I was content, but Joan insisted on a hamburger. My thought was that the Domino Drive-in had little business, so we might get by without too much trouble. I pulled up to a speaker in the second row and called in our order. My transmission had been stuck in third gear since drag racing on Woodward Avenue a few weeks before, so I needed to be aware that reverse gear was not available.
Suddenly Joan pushed on my seat and exclaimed she needed to go to the bathroom. She and younger sister Sonja got out went into the restroom in the side door of the building. I stood leaning on the open car door watching the lightning on the horizon so typical for a hot July night. Then came a ‘crash-bang’ from the bathroom, and Joan walked out with the Kotex machine in her arms. Stunned, I fell back as she dropped it onto my front seat. I looked to the building, and the owner was strutting towards us. I grabbed the machine and booted the girls back into the car. Perspiration overtook me on the long walk to the bathroom. I babbled something about returning the next day to repair the damage to the owner, who said nothing but glared right through me. The carhop met me with a taunting grin at my return to the car, “Please don’t leave the tray. We cannot stay.” My third gear takeoff seemed more arduous than usual.
By the time the others consumed the burgers, the rain was upon us. Soon all but Judy and I were asleep in the backseat. Visibility was terrible, and it was a slow-go down Ray Road. I had forgotten about the approaching hill and did not have enough speed to reach the top in third gear. I had let it roll back for another start but not enough to make it to the top. Then Joan came alive in the silence of the car and torrent of the rain, “What’s going on here?” She was quick to get out in the pouring rain and push my car farther back for a better start. Good enough to get us over the hump. By the time we reached their homestead, the rain had lapsed, and I stopped beyond the curve. We had a few head-shaking laughs to say goodbye, but the young Sonja was out-like-a-light. Judy said that I would need to carry her to the house. Gulp! “What about your dad’s shotgun?” “No worries, he starts drinking at nine, and by eleven, he’s unconscious till morning.” I was not convinced, but being the only able-bodied guy awake, duty called. With Sonja in arms, I crouched as low as I could to the fruit cellar door. As it opens, the sound would awaken any old drunk, but they insisted I carry her into the basement. Once there, Judy asked in the most tender way to help take her to bed. At that, I laid Sonja on the basement floor, scurried out, and made evasive maneuvers to my car. No shots were fired, no virtues lost. Would we be who we are without such times ‘growing up’?
Maybe it was Monday or just one of those days when you do what you want to do -- because. It was a good productive day at the office. I good friend stopped by to discuss a project. Another buddy called to tell of his lover's quarrel. I secured my visa for China so it was good to go on Saturday for ten days. A girlfriend gave me a pass on seeing her tonight. My daughter had good tidings to talk about.
I could go home and throw together some dinner but it was after seven. The local Gus O’Connor’s had not seen me for a while. After a couple Boddington ales and a bowl of mussels, I was feeling at ease. Contentment was not coming easily because I neglected to mention a phone call from my business partner in Germany. Klaus is dealing with some paranoia that I refuse to get wrapped up in. Such efforts I can find within myself. After dinner, I was toying with sampling some good Irish whiskey but I drove home. A Cuban Cigar came to mind. 
A good friend from Germany had sent a Cohiba, La Habana Cuba cigar along with other indulgent paraphernalia for my birthday last year. I quit smoking twenty-six years ago. Why should I think of that now? I found a box of matches from my Turkish Hotel Armada, reopened the birthday present, and sat on the backdoor stoop. Gosh, how I relished those seductive fumes. It was a personification of freedom. I could not permit my addictive character for a chance to inhale but the ghastly aroma was levitating. Sure I had to spit the damned saliva. I thought of uncorking a vintage Lafite Rothschild. Better yet, a bottle of Jack Daniels had been undisturbed in my cupboard for some years so I filled a glass of Waterford.
Was there the same taste for freedom at fourteen when I first took a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from my Dad? Not exactly but I remember sitting on the railroad tracks finding an exhilaration of just being a guy. Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.
In October 1962, a surly crew of sailors was stopped short of dropping off our Marines and vehicles at Morehead City, North Carolina. The USS York County LST1175 had been ordered to return to Norfolk, Virginia. 
An LST is a Tank Landing Ship renown for such assaults as the beaches at Normandy and Guadalcanal in World War II. A flat bottom ship with bow doors that open to deploy tanks and trucks ashore filled with Marines. Our amphibious fleet had been on maneuvers in the Mediterranean since May. I was still reeling from the enchantment of Europe but most of the crew had been looking forward to being home. Rumors abound in a military world where little outside information is received. When our diverted ship arrived at the docks of Little Creek, a fleet of supply trucks lined the pier. This could be an indication of some serious deployment. Common sense pointed to the fact that we were battle-ready with our complement of armament. They announced that Section One (of three) Liberty Crew would be allowed to go ashore until seven AM the next day. All others remaining aboard were required to carry stores from the waiting trucks. Given the luck of the draw, fourteen others and I in our Engineering crew decided it was better to play than work. At nineteen years of age, I laid no claim to maturity when a sailor’s mentality took over. In two overloaded taxis, we headed 
for The Strip, a string of sailor-class bars not far from the base. It was about seven in the evening when I broke the first rack of eight-ball pool and vowed to make a full night of it. It was not unlike me to toil all night to repair components in my realm as Interior Communication Electrician so why not give this parting shot a good try. We kept the pool tables filled and the beer or rum and coke flowing. At midnight they quite serving alcohol and half of our crew were fading. The Mole came to me and said he and six others were getting a room at the motel next door but needed us to roust them so we could all return to the ship in the morning. As a token of his submission, he handed me his duffle bag with a fifth of 151 proof Ron Rico Rum. I took the bottle to the restroom where I placed it conveniently in the ceiling tiles. Alerted, my dedicated Salts and we spiked our fountain cokes all night long. The conflict of our adventure was that the bars started serving again at seven AM and our ship was to get underway at that time. Priorities in order, I got our compliment of crew members from the motel; called for a round of beer; and summoned two taxis. That seven AM beer was ceremonial, not tasty. By half-past seven the taxis were awaiting us. In the lead taxi, we approached the end of The Strip. I signaled for one more stop and another round of beer. Satisfied, our crew of fourteen arrived at the pier; an enraged Chief Petty Officer Combs stood at the top of the gangplank shaking his fist, and we all stumbled aboard. Under normal circumstances, we would have been written up as AWOL. 
The Chief and others were just happy to have us aboard since without a complete Engineering crew the ship could not get underway. Within minutes we were off to the Caribbean. By the next day, we had recovered. Russian ships were encountered; battle plans were discussed, but fourteen sailors had a bond of irresponsibility that yielded a grin amongst us for the next three months at sea enforcing Kennedy’s Cuban Blockade.
My travels have sometimes left a child behind to hear of my adventure after the fact. In 1996, I thought to put the dazzle in the eyes of my daughter with her own involvement. As a single parent and with her at eleven years old, I would need a little help. My nephew, her favorite cousin, would give her a companion. Quintessential in my mind was to bring a lady friend to help my daughter to the WC and share a little parenting. One thought was that England would be comforting without language problems and other such confusion. Next, I needed a theme to promote their interest and convince my brother and his wife along with my ex-wife that their children would find security in my good hands. The Legend of King Arthur's theme should encompass that. An initial meeting with the kids drew excitement for the travel but my extended talk about King Arthur lost their attention after a few minutes. None the less, my plan was executed within three weeks and the four of us flew to England.
Oxfordshire was our base and a rental car left us without restrictions. The area was famous for thatch roof houses that numbered 111 by the kid’s count after our second day. We had a small hotel in Faringdon that was close to the massive hill that displayed the Chalk Horse. It was not until Stonehenge that the kids caught on to the marvel of it all. After that came Salisbury Cathedral and the wonderment of Avebury. Bath was a good lesson on Roman occupation with their thermal reservoirs and aqueducts. Their fun was when we returned to get to our car. I had parked within the double yellow lines and it was towed away. An hour to find out what happened and a sixty pound fine gave way to laughter on our way back to the hotel.
Our Quest was about to begin. Glastonbury gave the kids little inspiration as the ruins had little to say. Tintagel was much more magnificent with its seaside setting. To venture on to Land’s End was grandiose in itself but not to our youthful counterparts. Lacking their enthusiasm we returned to our Inn at Faringdon. Dining at the Haunch of Venison, I told the innkeeper we may go to London in the morrow. He said you may find an Englishman there.
None the less, I bought rail tickets for the journey. Neither of the children had been on a train. Upon arrival at the central terminal in London, we sought another first, to take the Underground to Big Bend and hear it chime. From there, “Let’s grab a taxi” for another maiden voyage to Buckingham Palace. There was an assembly of onlookers for an occasion we were not sure of but we could spare a few minutes. Soon passed exiting limos; one 
was a shielded Princess Margaret but next more regal than any – Nelson Mandela. He sat high and waved pointedly to all in his wake. We were all very touched by his presence, more so than any royal figure before or after him. At that, a Double-decker bus awaited us for a trip to the Tower of London. Given that place at another point in time, Nelson would have been in shackles where the gems of South Africa would bejewel some crown. To further exhaust our day we caught a taxi to Windsor Castle. Beyond those walls and gardens was our distant relative Princess Di. By the time we returned to our Portwell House in Faringdon we had to carry the children and tuck them into bed.
Wales was within our reach and its stretch of the English language seemed like a good lesson for the price of a day. Reaching the Welsh border was a landmark for our tour yet our rental car fizzled on the first curve of a rural road. The contact and rescue cost us a few hours waiting by the side of the road watching dairy cows. It was not such a bad break. Our rescuer, the rental car bloke, got us back to the hotel with an entertaining demure and arranged for a new vehicle to follow. 
The next day was slow to get rolling but I had another mission. Years before, maybe twenty or more, my first trip to England led me by Bodiam Castle to the southwest of London. With its fairy tale motif, I thought my daughter would love it. A long day’s journey brought us there with a few hours of daylight remaining. Rushed, I took Katrina to the top of one of the majestic towers above the expansive moat. There I pointed to the ducks swimming below. 
With a massive twenty pence curled in my index finger, I cut it loose with a wild throw. Quack-quack echoed from below as the victim flapped across the murky water. Katrina swatted at the air between us to shame my deed and our laugh echoed all around.
The day was about to end when I asked the kids if they had enough of all this history and culture. An innocent grin came forth. An area guide showed a beach resort within an hours drive. The yeah’s were very resounding at such a thought. We all needed two days poolside and some beach combing. Given such a choice at eleven, I would have opted to frolic than have a history lesson.
head for the two to get in. They knew I had a connection with the older Judy, and my brother had dated Joan. Judy was 21. She had called me several times that spring, and we had met for a movie once. I was not quite sure how to handle the situation. She was far more voluptuous than the teenage girls whom I was familiar with. Rumor had it she had been in prison for passing bad checks. This was not the kind of person you took home to meet the parents, so I left the advances to her.
By the time the others consumed the burgers, the rain was upon us. Soon all but Judy and I were asleep in the backseat. Visibility was terrible, and it was a slow-go down Ray Road. I had forgotten about the approaching hill and did not have enough speed to reach the top in third gear. I had let it roll back for another start but not enough to make it to the top. Then Joan came alive in the silence of the car and torrent of the rain, “What’s going on here?” She was quick to get out in the pouring rain and push my car farther back for a better start. Good enough to get us over the hump. By the time we reached their homestead, the rain had lapsed, and I stopped beyond the curve. We had a few head-shaking laughs to say goodbye, but the young Sonja was out-like-a-light. Judy said that I would need to carry her to the house. Gulp! “What about your dad’s shotgun?” “No worries, he starts drinking at nine, and by eleven, he’s unconscious till morning.” I was not convinced, but being the only able-bodied guy awake, duty called. With Sonja in arms, I crouched as low as I could to the fruit cellar door. As it opens, the sound would awaken any old drunk, but they insisted I carry her into the basement. Once there, Judy asked in the most tender way to help take her to bed. At that, I laid Sonja on the basement floor, scurried out, and made evasive maneuvers to my car. No shots were fired, no virtues lost. Would we be who we are without such times ‘growing up’?
