Home-again

By: Garland Davis

In the distance sea birds fly toward the far shore,

Above the bay and beach through the mist majestic Fuji-san,

As numerous ships and fishing boats ply Tokyo Wan

From above hidden nests Cherry Blossoms drop quietly

On those that rest on limbs outstretched above the stream

This scene is real, a paradise, not a wild dream.

Go with me there, to the land of home-again,

Where we will quietly and slowly regain

Perspective for the years that yet remain

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Old Sailors

By:  Garland Davis

A walk through the old ship before she goes to the breakers,

A single white hat hangs from a hook on a locker door,

In tribute to a sailor’s sweated brow,

And a thousand times he swabbed that deck all scuffed now,

A pair of boon dockers left behind a locker door,

As if they are ready to walk these decks once more,

Shoes that left footprints that we dared to walk on,

But now, all the old sailors are gone.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

The Bilingual Sailor

By:  Garland Davis

The North American Bluejackets of the past developed a unique language that we all learned starting with “Boot Camp.”  There were universal terms that everyone understood and there were terms that had meaning to individual ratings.  This language evolved a little differently on each ship.  Example:  Midway did a 113 day I/O cruise from Subic to Pattaya.  During that trip everything became SERIOUS.

“Man when we get into port, I am going to drink some SERIOUS beer.”

“I am going to get me some SERIOUS pussy when we get to Pattaya.”

“Man that is some SERIOUS beer.” When the beer was VERTREPed aboard for the beer day and steel beach cookout.

One sailor to another while looking down on the flight deck, “Dude, this is a SERIOUS fucking airport.”

Whatever the word or phrase of the moment, we understood it.  Some of the new words became part of the lexicon, others were forgotten.  As we transferred to different ships and stations the Language of the Sailor became pretty much standardized.  We understood each other.  Well at least us Asia Sailors did.  I cannot vouch for those LANT FLT dudes.  They were always a little out of sync.  And they have always been jealous of us because we had Subic.

When dealing with civilians we sometime have difficulty communicating.  Primarily because civilians are a little slow.  You must remember that civilians live a sheltered life and have no idea where Subic is located or the entertainment and activities offered at the Subic City amusement park. The following glossary is to help you deal more effectively with them.

Skivvies:  Civilians don’t understand this.  It will not work to go to Victoria’s Secret to buy a gift your wife or girlfriend and say, “I want some of them fancy crotch less skivvy’s for my shack job.”

Skivvy Check: This is an inspection held by shipmates to determine who buys the next round (the dude wearing skivvy’s does). It is not proper to hold a skivvy check on the patrons of the lounge at the Holiday Inn while on leave.

Shack Job:  Another term that civilians are unfamiliar with.  You would introduce your shack job to a civilian as, “My companion, or my roommate.”

Skank: Same rules as those that apply to “Shack Job”

Skag:  Same rules apply.

Bar Hog:  In the civilian world female employees and patrons of bars and clubs are not referred to as Bar Hogs.  They are genteel young ladies unless they are old and over the hill then they are Bar Hogs.

NOTE:  The Bar Hog capitol of the world is Norfolk, Virginia, if you can believe a fucking thing those LANTFLT pussies say.  In my opinion, you have to go to National City, California to meet the elite of the Bar Hog world. END NOTE

Bar Fine:  We all know that a bar fine is a scam cooked up by the Mama-sans to separate a sailor from his money.  We paid it grudgingly but willingly. In the civilian world, the proper way to meet a genteel young lady in a bar or club is to offer a seat or ask if you may buy her a libation not. An improper way to start a conversation with her is,  “Hey baby, I ain’t seen you here before.  You still cherry?  You do BJ’s? How much is your Bar Fine?”

Rug Rats, Crumb Crunchers, Curtain Climbers, Tricycle Motors, Snot Eaters, and etc.:  All terms that apply to a Shack Job’s children.  Probably not a good idea to use any of these terms to refer to your sister’s kids.

War Club:  We all know that it means the largest container of an alcoholic beverage.  Usually the cheaper the booze, the larger the bottle, in other words, War Club.  When you ask a civilian clerk for a “War Club” it is not unreasonable to think that he may a bit apprehensive.  The proper request is, “Gimme the largest bottle of the cheapest shit you got.”  He will understand, especially if you are in uniform.

Head:  Due to its use in many movies, most civilians actually know the meaning of head.  They think it is “cute” when you ask for the head.

Pisser:  We know that means urinal but civilians are perplexed when you remark, “You know your head would be a lot nicer if you put in a couple of pissers.”

Shitter:  Again a perfectly good description of a toilet stool but your host may be a little upset when you tell him, “Boy, I wouldn’t go in there for a while. That one was really a stinker.  It smelled so bad that I thought it was going to wreck your shitter.

Ass Wipe:  A self-explanatory and accurate description of its primary use.  Civilians refer to it as toilet tissue which opens it up for many other uses.

Happy Sock:  This term is understood solely by sailors and its closest equivalents in civilian life are Bounty Towels and ass wipe.  (Never ever pick up a single sock in berthing!)

Fart Sack:  A big ass sack you put your mattress in.

Shit on a shingle:  Any of a myriad variety of creamed of or other sauces served for breakfast, usually over toast.  Civilians look upon these as generally unpalatable but then they have never been hungover, starving, and need a stick to your ribs breakfast in order to make it through the day until “Liberty Call.”

Buzzard Puke over a hockey puck:  A sailor’s quaint euphemism for Creamed Tuna or Turkey Ala King over Biscuits.  Not a popular civilian dish either.  But again, it will get you through a hangover and on to “Liberty Call.”

Horsecock: Usually a term used to identify cold cuts.  Not a proper way to order a sandwich at Subway!

Set the Special Sea and Anchoring Detail:  Either a happy or a sad occasion.  It depends on whether leaving or entering port.  This is one where civilians think, “Oh don’t they look so cute in their sailor suits, standing up there on the ship?”

And let’s not forget “Fuckin’ A” or “Fuckin Aye” for emphasis on the positive or you bet your ass.  When the subject is serious sailors often use, “Fuckin’ A Ditty bag” to convey the seriousness of the moment.

Another confusing term for civilians is “Geedunk”.  This is a term used to describe the place where you buy “Pogey Bait.”  If you don’t know the meaning of Pogey bait, you will probably have to ask a LANT FLT sailor, I’m not going to explain it here.

“Two Blocked” or “Tube Locked” for snipes:  Meaning there ain’t no more room in this two-pound sack for another five pounds of shit.

Tell a civilian that you are going to “Hit the Rain Locker” and they will look at you with a total look of stupefaction.

Traveling around Asia, sailors have incorporated foreign words and terms into their everyday usage. Some of the following come to mind:

Itai:  Japanese for “Ouch.”  A sailor may use it, “Stop fucking around and get that deck finished or I am going to lay some “Itai’s” on your ass.

Beaucoup:  French for much or a lot.  Used by sailors of the Viet Nam area to mean “a whole fucking lot”.  For example: “When we get into port I am going to drink beaucoup fucking beer.”

Mama-san:  Slang Japanese term for Mother.  A sailor uses it to refer to the proprietor of a bar or Skivvy House.

Skivvy House:  A brothel.  I always envisioned going into competition with Victoria’s Secret by opening a chain of lingerie stores called “The Skivvy House.” I figure our clientele would consist of Shack Jobs, Skanks, and Bar Hogs.  Probably go over well in National City.

Damn, I almost forgot Honey-ko:  The proper way of addressing your Shack Job or any other Bar Hog you meet.

I could probably go on with many more.  But you get the gist.  Just be thoughtful when dealing with civilians, and LANTFLT sailors.  Remember they are pussies who have led a sheltered life.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Scapegoat
The story of Ass Whippin’s

By: Garland Davis

Growing up, I was the oldest in the family of three boys and one girl. The sociologists will tell you that an older sibling will take a leadership position among the other children. A male sibling will attempt to emulate the father while a female as an older sibling will try to act as a mother would. That emulating the father thing didn’t really work for me. My dad had one position when it came to child rearing. He figured that an ass whippin’ was always needed in almost every situation. I tried that tact with my brothers and, of course, they fought back which resulted in ass whippin’s all around.

Instead of being a sibling leader, I was more of a scapegoat. They learned early on, that if my dad became upset with something we did or something they did, they could lessen the severity or possibly remove the threat of an ass whippin’ by blaming it all on me.

I remember once, they were hitting a baseball toward the house and broke a window. I didn’t know about it. I arrived home just before Dad came home from work. They asked me if I wanted to play. Having dreams of making the baseball team when I started high school, I jumped at the chance. They offered to let me bat. There I was with the bat in my hand as dad pulled into the driveway. As soon as they saw him they ran leaving the ball by the broken window. Result: ass whippin’ for the guy with the bat in his hand.

Even when I had been up to no good and gotten away with it, they would jump at the chance to shine the light of truth on my shortcomings. There was the incident of the Billy goat. The doctor had prescribed goat’s milk for my grandmother so my dad came home one Saturday morning with three or four nanny goats and a Billy. Look up worthless in the dictionary and you will see a picture of a Billy goat. I can tell you, they really get pissed if you cut their beards off. Ass whippin’ for that one. But that isn’t the story I am trying to tell.

I had seen a TV show where the hero roped a wild bull and saved the damsel. I had a rope which I fashioned into a lasso. I was roping anything I could. My brothers went along for a while. They would run and I would chase them swinging my loop and try to rope them. Finally, one of them said, “Why don’t you try to catch the Billy goat.”

Now this seemed like a good idea to me. I chased after the goat trying to swing the loop. He would either outrun me or turn and chase me. I came up with a brilliant plan. I would tie the rope to a fence post and my brothers could chase ole Billy past me and I would rope him. Fantastic plan! They got ole Billy up to a dead run and as he approached I swung the loop and floated it out toward his head. Now I tell you, neither Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, nor Hopalong Cassidy ever threw a more perfect loop. Right over ole Billy’s head. He hit the end of that rope at a dead run; his feet flew out from under him; bam he hit the ground and didn’t move. Stone cold dead.

We knew we were dead too when daddy found out. I gathered the rope and hid it in the barn. We ran off and volunteered to hoe mama’s garden, trying to build up as much good will as possible before the storm hit.

Right on time daddy came home from work. We had a routine, as soon as he got home we would go to the barn, milk the cow and goats, clean the stalls and feed them and the pigs. We dreaded going to the barn. Dad was in a hurry as usual and rushed us toward our doom. As we turned the corner of the barn, we saw ole Billy standing out there eating grass. I was suddenly convinced that prayers were answered and vowed to be more attentive in Sunday School. And of course, one of my brothers had to say, “Ole Billy don’t look too bad, I really thought Buster (my nickname) had killed him with that lasso.” Then the story came out how I had threatened to beat them with the rope if they didn’t run him by me so I could lasso him. They told how I had threatened them if they told on me. You guessed it, I got the ass whippin’.

When my brothers knew they were in for an ass whippin’, they attempted to lessen the severity by including me in whatever they had been up to. The tobacco Hornworm is the larval stage of the Carolina sphinx moth. It is a large green worm that can grow as large as two and a half to three inches long with a girth of an inch. It plays in the story of how an innocent act on my part ended up with me included in the nefarious deed and the punishment.

Most farm boys in my area hated ‘Show and Tell’ in school. We didn’t have anything to show or tell about. We all lived on farms and had seen all the farm stuff. So we had to be inventive. I remember one spring a classmate brought a set of pig testicles. They were castrating pigs that morning and he was desperate for something for show and tell. Needless to say, he probably got the ass whippin’ that time.

I was working after school and on weekends for one of the tobacco farmers in our area for nickels and dimes. Kept me in the latest Superman and Bat-Man comics. One brother asked me to bring him a couple of tobacco worms (known colloquially as “Backer Worms”) for show and tell. I caught three or four and put them in a bag with part of a tobacco leaf and gave them to him.

The next morning at school my two brothers and a couple of other idiots were chasing girls around the playground threatening to put the worms in their hair. The principle gave all four of them an ass whippin’ and sent a note home to Mama by way of the school bus driver. By the time daddy got home from work, the story had morphed into how I had brought them all these Backer Worms and told them it was fun to put them in the girls’ hair. Result, you guessed it, ass whippin’.

They never missed an opportunity and would tell on me at the most public and embarrassing times. In a couple of other stories, I have mentioned the Rising girls. They were four sisters who lived about a quarter of a mile down the road. Two were older than me the third was the same age and one younger.

It was a Saturday morning. My dad and uncle had went hunting early and arrived back home about eight. Mama and my aunt had breakfast ready as they came home and we all sat down to eat. That’s when the younger brother says, “Me and Johnny was playin’ in the hayloft yesterday evening (evening in the part of the country I grew up in is any time between noon and dark) and Buster and Sylvie come in. They was kissin’ and huggin’ and he stuck his hand in her britches.” Well, by this time, I am probably redder than a pickled beet. Mama gets all upset and tells daddy, “I want you to whip that dirty boy.”

I heard my dad say to my uncle, sotto voce, “I ain’t gonna whup the boy for that.”

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Danger

By:  Garland Davis

He’s afraid yet not afraid

of the force he knows is coming.

His butt and liberty are the issues here-

He protects it at all costs with

an impenetrable wall of

competence that wraps around him.

No biting bullets, no clamoring excuses

of fear meant only for other ears.

But he does know, and there is no reason to fear

Yet still he perceives danger,

The Chief, this way, comes.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

By: Garland Davis

On an August Night, I seek

a place on deck to watch

the annual lights from the Perseids.

Surprised each time

by the brilliance of fireworks

as the lights arch across the sky

Their fire is not to fear,

but fear this warship

moving westward toward war.

August finds us here

under a rain of falling stars

lonely far from home.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

This is a rewrite of the lyrics to the Bellamy Brothers’ song Old Hippie by my good friend and shipmate David McAllister.

Old Sailor

By:  David “Mac” McAllister

(Song sung to the tune of the Bellamy Bros. Old Hippie)

He turned sixty-five last Sunday

Now his hair has turned to Gray

He sailed with the U.S. Navy

Away Back in the old days

Now he tends a little garden in the backyard by the fence

Consuming beer and whiskey nowadays in self defense

He gets out there in the twilight zone

When the bullshit makes no sense

He hangs out with his old shipmates

Cause the new Navy leaves him cold

Nothin’ looks the same to him

I guess he’s just too fuckin’ old

So he dreams at night of WestPac, and all the things he tried

How the liberty made him happy while the sea time got him dry

Yeah, he thinks about it a lot these days

And he’s not afraid to cry

He’s an old sailor and he don’t know what to do

He hangs onto the old

Cause he just can’t hack the new

He’s and old sailor…still living by his wit

He don’t wanna offend nobody

But if he does, he don’t give a shit

He remembers in the sixties, while everyone else was hip,

He was shootin’ up Vietnam, from some ol’ rusty ship

Learning to become a man while he was still a boy

In spite of all the tragedies, he can still find some joy

While others cut and run to hide

He chose to serve with pride

He’s an old sailor and he don’t know what to do

He hangs onto the old

Cause he just can’t hack the new

He’s and old sailor…still living by his wit

He don’t wanna offend nobody

But if he does, he don’t give a shit

You can find him at the VFW, or the American Legion Halls

He’ll be thinkin’ while he’s drinkin’

Of the days when sailors had some balls

Now it’s breathalyzers, PC, diversity and gays

It ain’t no friggin’ wonder that he’s stuck in his old ways

All he can do is sit and watch

As his species fades away

He’s an old sailor and he don’t know what to do

He hangs onto the old

Cause he just can’t hack the new

He’s and old sailor…still living by his wit

He don’t wanna offend nobody

But if he does, he don’t give a shit

David “Mac” McAllister a native of California, now resides in the Ozark Mountains of Southwest Mo. Having served in Asia for the majority of his 24 year Navy career, he now divides his time as an over the road trucker, volunteer for local veteran repatriation events and as an Asia Sailor Westpac’rs Association board member and reunion coordinator. In his spare time he enjoys writing about his experiences in Westpac and sharing them online with his Shipmates.

Good Hearted Woman

by: Garland Davis

To paraphrase Willie and Waylon:  ♫She’s a good hearted woman in love with a sea-going man♫

Much has been written about the Navy.  About the men, the ships, battles, piers, WestPac, bars, hookers and heaven knows what else.  Asiatic sailors spend an inordinate amount of time reflecting on and telling tales about all these things.  But, we don’t talk a helluva a lot about those who really loved us.  The girls we married. Loving a crazy-assed WestPac sailor took a Good Hearted woman.  They are and will always remain among the greatest of God’s creations.

I know you have all seen them waiting on the pier whenever the ship returned to homeport, be it 0200, cold or wet, they would be waiting.  Rain…Snow… Hell, alligators could have been falling from the sky and they would have been there.  Waiting for what?  Waiting for an unshaven, smelly, raggedy-assed idiot who hadn’t showered for three days because of busted evaporators and limited fresh water, hauling a sack of dirty laundry and reeking of sweat and fuel oil.

Those girls couldn’t wait to embrace the smelly guys who poured off the gray behemoth that had just tethered to the pier or out board in the nest. Many holding babies their sailors had never seen in one arm and trying to keep track of a three-year-old waving a sign that says “Welcome Home Daddy.” She was an angel in a sun dress she had made or bought from the mark-down rack at the Navy Exchange. She waited with a smile that dimmed the sun. These girls welcomed their sailors when they came home and stood on that same pier with tears streaming down their faces when the ship left.

Sit back and think about it.  That lady in the kitchen doing the dishes was once the, barely out of her teens, girl who married a crazy assed Third Class North American Bluejacket.  All he had to offer was E-4 pay and a few bucks sea pay, poor housing in even poorer neighborhoods, long separations and duty every third or fourth day.  She put up with him when he showed up late with a couple of shipmates and two cases of beer.  She made them sandwiches and made sure they were up and on their way the next morning.

Later when you were at sea, trying to keep up with the carrier in heavy seas, she was at parent-teacher meetings, school plays, science fairs, little league games, and dental appointments; without you.  She carried them to the emergency room when they were sick and or hurt met with the principle when they got in trouble.  She did it all without you when it would have been really great to have you there.  When you got orders to Hawaii, she arranged for packing household goods and transporting the dogs all while you were at sea.

They should be eligible for sainthood. Think about it…they married guys who spent a good part of their time away from them.  They had to play second fiddle to another lady that he had a love/hate relationship with.  That lady was hard steel and gray and demanded much of him.

She dined on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before the allotment check came in.    She made homemade Christmas and birthday gifts for the kids.  Home permanents because the beauty shop cost too much.  Unable to visit her Mom and Dad for years because there just wasn’t money for travel.

Dude, do you know what a lucky bastard you are.  Do you know what it takes for a woman to put up with the bullshit sandwich that a sailor’s wife is handed?  Yet they were strong.

Yes, they were special ladies who loved us.  Welcome home with her arms around your neck.  Hell, with the fuel oil smell and the sack of dirty laundry, you couldn’t have paid someone to hold you like that who didn’t love you.  They actually ordered see-through pajamas and nighties that would make a stripper blush.  Just to welcome you home.

They were our angels.  Always will be.  There should be a statue alongside the “Lonely Sailor” statue of a beautiful young girl in a J. C. Penny’s bargain dress, holding a toddler in one arm and other reaching out to her sailor.

This is for the ladies.  God bless you.  You supported us, you loved us, and you put up with us.  We were crazy.  Had to be to live the life and do the things we did.  You were the sanity in our world.  You are recognized and honored by all of us who stood topside and watched you as we entered and left port.

Your life was hard; it was a hell of a lot rougher than any starry-eyed girl should have to deal with. Your sacrifices and personal hardships will be rewarded in the memories that all faithful and loyal women accumulate and in the deep regard and respect by which you are held by the men who stood on deck and regarded your bargain basement dress as a garment worn by an angel.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

John

By:  Garland Davis

I was five years old when I first met John.

In 1949, my dad bought a ninety-acre farm north of Winston-Salem, North Carolina.  The house consisted of a living room, kitchen, a large bedroom downstairs and a huge unfinished attic above.  We moved into the house in the autumn of ’49.  It had no electricity, no running water or indoor plumbing.  The power company refused to run electricity from the main line, (about a mile away) until the following spring. There was a well below the back porch.  Water was lifted out of the well by a bucket on a rope using a windlass and pulley system.  The privy (also known as the outhouse, the shit house, etc.) was located about a hundred yards behind the house.  There was a fireplace on each end of the house and my grandmother’s wood burning cook stove to provide heat.

We lived that winter in conditions that would be considered primitive by today’s standards.  We used the fireplaces for heat and kerosene lamps and lanterns for light. The winter of ’49 was an extremely cold one.  At times I believed we would freeze to death.  That house was so cold that a glass of water would freeze over on the night stand.  The following spring, my dad and uncles learned that the main room of the house was made of logs and had been covered by oak boards.  During 1950, electricity, running water and an indoor toilet and bath were installed in the house and the attic was converted to three upstairs rooms.  A wood or coal burning stove was installed in the living room and the cook stove reigned in the kitchen.

There was another house on the farm.  It was a very small, one room log cabin.  It had a spring for water, an outhouse and a fireplace. John lived there.  John was an elderly Negro man.  When my dad bought the farm, one of the conditions of the purchase was that John would be permitted to live there as long as he lived or as long as he wished.

The farm had an allotment of ten to twelve acres for tobacco.  The allotment fluctuated yearly. There was a government agency that mandated the allowable acreage of tobacco that could be grown.  This was supposed to control the market price of tobacco.  My dad had no desire to farm tobacco and leased this acreage to “share croppers.”

John lived by working for my dad, the sharecropper, or other farmers in the area.  He had a one horse wagon and a mule that he used for transportation.  He had a garden and sold the produce in the colored section of Winston-Salem from his wagon.  He also sold catfish and carp that he caught in the creeks and the river. John was especially busy during hog killing time; he would help with the work for the intestines and feet.  He cleaned these and peddled them in town.

John was always available to help my dad with the chickens. There were eight houses of eight thousand chickens each.  My dad bought them as chicks; we fed them for eight or nine weeks and then shipped them to the meat packers.  John also helped my mother with the garden.  There were over thirty acres of woods on the place and the cutting and hauling of firewood was a yearly ritual. In 1951, dad and my uncles built a one room cement block building near John’s cabin and helped him move into it.  Over the years, John used the logs of the old cabin for firewood.

My dad was of the opinion that boys should have work to do to prevent them from getting into mischief.  I spent many days working alongside John with whatever job my dad had us doing.  John kept me working by reminding me, “Mister Buster (my childhood nickname) if’n you don’t git that done.  Yo Daddy gone take his belt to yo bottom.”  I also learned many things from John by watching him.  I learned how to forge a mule shoe.  I learned to make elderberry and dandelion wine.  I learned how to plow with a mule-drawn plow and how to drive a mule-drawn wagon.  My dad had about fifty bee hives and I learned beekeeping from John.

On Saturday evening, John would hitch his mule to his wagon, put on a white shirt and his best overalls and go to town. On Sundays, after my Mom and Dad were finished with the newspaper and after John had returned from church, I would take the paper to him and he would have me read the funnies to him.  He especially liked the Uncle Remus’ B’rer Rabbit strip.

I was thirteen when my father suddenly died.  John was a godsend to my mother during those trying times.  He took care of the work while she arranged to sell the chickens and rent the chicken houses to another farmer.  After she sold the bees to my uncle, about the only work left was to tend the garden, haul wood, and milk the cows.

By early ’58, John was moving slowly and could no longer do heavy work.  My mother asked me one morning if I would walk over and check on John, he hadn’t come to milk the cows.  I walked over, knocked on the door and when I got no answer, went in.  John was still in his bed; he had died in his sleep. I ran back to the house and told my mother.  She sent me over to the colored preacher’s house to tell him.  The congregation of his church collected John and prepared his funeral.

I wanted to attend John’s funeral but was told that it wasn’t fitting for white people to be going to a colored person’s funeral because colored people worshiped differently than whites. I guess the same applied to white peoples’ funerals.  I remember seeing John across the cemetery at my daddy’s funeral, but he was not part of the actual funeral party.

(I have substituted “Colored People” throughout this narrative for the word that was commonly used when referring to John’s race.)

I once asked John his age. He said, “Mister Buster, I don’t rightly know. I remembers we was owned by Mister Glenn and I was a little young’un and jist started workin’ with the hosses and mules.  I remembers Mister Glenn whoopen’ tha othas  ‘cause they was celebratin’ when Mister Lincoln wrote his paper sayin’ we was free.  I determined that at the time he died, John was between one hundred and one hundred two years old.

I grew up in an age and a society where the races were segregated and a family where bigotry was rife.  I learned early from a man who had once been the property of another man that we all have value.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.