Found this one on the Web:

AWAY YOU SANTEE, MY DEAR ANNIE, OH YOU NEW YORK GIRLS
YOU LOVE US FOR OUR MONEY.

We know the track to Auckland, the light at the Kinsale Head,
We’ve crept close-hauled while the leadsman bawled the depth of the Channel bed.

We’ve panted in the tropic, while the pitch boiled-up on deck,
We saved our hides, little else besides, from an ice-cold, North Sea wreck.
We know the quays of Glasgow, the boom of the lone Azores,
We’ve had our grub from a salt-horse tub condemned by the Navy stores.

We’ve drunk our rum in Portland, we’ve thrashed through the Bering Strait,
We’ve ‘toed the mark’ on a Yankee barque, with a hard-case, Down-East Mate.
We know the streets of Santos, the river at Saigon,
We’ve had a glass with a Chinese lass in houseboat in Canton.

They’ll pay us off in Liverpool then after a spell ashore,
Again we’ll ship on a southern trip in a week or barely more.
So – Goodbye Sal and Lucy, it’s time we were afloat,
With a straw-stuffed bed, an aching head, a knife and an oilskin coat.

Sing: TIME FOR US TO LEAVE HER, sing: BOUND FOR THE RIO GRANDE
As the tug turns back we’ll follow her track for a last long look at land.
As the purple disappears and only the blue is seen,
Commend our bones to Davy Jones, our souls to Fiddler’s Green.

The Cold Iron Watch

By: John Petersen

You’ve been at sea for months, your routine has become a rut.

Get off watch, eat, sleep, train, maybe a shower,

then back on watch, but there’s that weird feeling in your gut.

Home port is near, time to prepare and arrange your brain,

for all those months at sea have been nothing but a drain.

Finally, the last line is secure, all shore services connected!

Another successful switch, your friendly EM has shore power selected!

The main engine is locked, evaps brought down, and then as a closer,

“Test the over speed trips on the SSTG’s, this pm was due in October”!

As luck would have it, (or maybe not), guess what? You have duty tonight!

Checking the watch bill you realize the night will not be alright.

You’ve been awarded after all the months of hard, sweaty work,

the first cold iron watch, from midnight to four,

No homecoming party with your buds to attend, no night on the town,

just you, lonely snipe, touring now silent spaces that cool down to their core.

Remember that feeling? The one in your gut?

You’re reminded of that as a door somewhere above is slammed shut.

As you check these spaces now growing cold and still,

you stop at each ladder and entrance, and get this uncomfortable chill.

There’s no more noise, no constant and steady hum and mechanical beat,

of all the things it takes to ensure this vessel is never in fear of defeat.

Descending several decks to the port shaft alley for readings and such,

that long narrow space can’t possibly be that bad, for some four hours back,

this huge shaft was turning strong, giving no slack.

Now it is still, as is your heart,

for there is no noise, until that pump down the ally,

goes into auto start!

Down in the aft engine room, things get really strange you see,

for every screaming turbine is now still and rumored boogums are unleashed and set free.

Every sound is heard, every creak, groan and slight squeal,

you swear you saw something move, upsetting your previous meal.

Roaming the upper level can be enough to give anyone a start,

yet that lower level in an engine room when cold will stop the saltiest heart.

Four hours of anxious, nail biting watch standing, in the middle of the night no less,

Does nothing for your sense of wellbeing, not to mention your shorts, you confess!

And as if things weren’t bad enough, in the port shaft alley towards the end of hour three,

Whatever sense of security you have left, decides it’s time to flee.

While checking the shaft seal, several decks down and all the way back,

The lights start to flicker, suddenly the world goes black.

Now for all the sailors of this mighty vessel who live life above the waterline,

A loss of power would be a mere inconvenience, it’ll come back on in due time.

But when you’re the poor snipe stuck deep in the bowels of this storied ship,

The sudden darkness and silence stokes fear and quivers the lip.

It matters not what your rate, rank or level of seniority, I will tell this:

Standing the cold iron watch will make you a man, and those shorts you will not miss!

MM1 Petersen

A native of Nebraska, I have lived in Southern California since 1970. I graduated high school in ’81 and went straight into the Navy, Machinist Mate being my trade, all commands I served on were Pacific theater. After 12 years active and 22 years inactive reserve, I now manage a dry ice plant for Airgas.

Jake Buys a TV Set

By: Garland Davis

The era is in the late nineteen fifties.

It was getting on toward evening.  Hank and Jake had arrived at the country store simultaneously.  The store sat back off a dirt lane.   The store was a house that old man McGregor had converted into a one-room store. His clientele consisted mostly of the farm families that lived nearby.  A front porch ran the width of the building and usually had two or more men in overalls, brogans and a variety of caps or hats sitting around on the two chairs or pop crates.

A widow woman that lived over on Dippen Road had started calling the store the “Buzzard’s Roost.” She said that when you drove up to the store, it was like a venue of buzzards sitting on a tree limb watching you.  Sometimes it was akin to running a gauntlet, just getting into the store.

As they arrived at the porch, Willard came out carrying a bottle of RC and a Moon Pie.  He was wearing denim pants, a logger’s shirt, and a straw Mexican sombrero.  He said, “Howdy Jake, you too Hank.  How’s you fellers doin’?”

“I jist stopped by fer a drank and a plug a t’baccer.  I gotta git home fer supper.  Mah Ole Woman gits kinda persnickety if Ah’s late.,Jake answered.

“Me too said, Hank. I wonder iffen thay’s got tha Beechnut t’baccer yit?,  Said Hank.

Jake said, “Ah hopesthey got’s that Beechnut floor sweepins.  Ya ‘bout chewed up all mah plug t’baccer. 

Hey, Willard, whar dji git that there Mescan hat?”

Ah got it throwin nickels over at tha Stokes County fare.  It is real good fer shadin yer eyes.” Willard answered as he stepped off the porch heading for an old rusty ’49 Dodge. “Ah, got to be goin’. Ah tole Miz Ferguson I’d come by and split some far wood fer her.  See ya fellers tomorrow.”

Hank and Jake move into the store, make their purchases and return to the porch, pulling the two vacant chairs near the edge so they could spit into the dirt.

Hank says,  “Jake, ya been complainin’ bout me borrowing your plug t’baccer.  Here ya can have tha first bite a my Beechnut.”

“At’s okay.  That ole Beechnut jist ain’t got no taste.  Ah gots me a fresh plug.  Ah thank we gots time fer a chew ‘fore time ta go home fer supper.”Jake replied to the offer.

“Jake, some feller told me yistiddy that you done gone and got one of the television movin’ picture thangs.  Is that so?”

“Yeah, mah Ole Woman’s cousin was gonna buy him a new one, so he let me have the old one fer twenny dollars.  I had ta give him one ole Duke’s and Sadie’s puppies ta boot. We got that television thang last week.  Ah declares, Ah spent haf a day on tha roof a tha house ‘justin tha antanner thang ta make the pi’cher right.  Ah was hanging on ta tha chimbly an mah Ole Woman and dotters was all hollerin’ at me to ‘turn it more, turn it back, turn it more.’  Ah swear womens cain’t make up their min fer squat.” Jake went on at length.

Hank asked, “What kinda stuff ‘ave they got on it?”

“Well Sattidy night tha Long Ranger and Tonta was on and they was some rasslin.  That was purty good.  Sundy night that Elvis feller was sposed ta be on a show by some feller name of Ed somthin’.  Well we had that big thunderstorm and tha  electric was knocked out an’ we couldn’t see hit.  Mah dotters carried on somethin’ awful.  They was cryin’ lak somebody died.  An mah oldest one was mad at Duke Power.  Ah din’t know that girl knowed all them cuss words.”

 “ Tha Gran’ Ole Opry is sposed ta be on at eight ‘clock tonight.  Why don’t ya brang your woman and younguns over ta watch it.  But tell them boys, I won’t put up wi’ no foolin’ round with my dotters. I’se got mah eye on them, specially that oldest un.

Hank said, “I might do that.  Iffen mah wife wants to.  Iffen yore girls ud stop cuttin’ their eyes at mah boys, they wouldn’t be no problems.  You watch yore gals and Ah’ll watch mah boys.

“Allright.  Ah tell ya younguns takes a lot a lookin after.  ‘Specially dotters. Not like when we was younguns. Mah Pap would ware mah ass out with a plow line iffen Ah didn’t do right.  Mah Ole Woman says it ain’t right ta be whoopin’ no girls.  She tells me ta talk ta them.  Ya tells em right and it jist goes right thru their empty heads.” 

“All they thanks about is buyin dresses and shoes.  An Dam’ if they don’t want ta buy a record player so’s they kin buy them Elvis fellers records.  Ah tole them they kin listen fer them on tha radio. Ah told them Ah would blister their butts if Ah ever hear ‘bout them doin’ that rocky roll dancin’. An Ah told them that Ah better not ketch them doin any a that belly rubbin dancin’. That’s tha kind that gits ya in trouble.

 Square dancing’s okay, Ah tole ‘em., Jake finished.

Jake went on, “I fergot ta tell ya ‘bout Square Curly and Aunt Beccer up in Possum Holler.  Square had him four gallons a moonshine that he had done made up at his still and was brangin’ it down that mountain ta sell in Possum Creek.  He seed tha revenuers comin’ up tha path.  He knowed iffen he got caught with that much white likker, tha jedge would give him eighteen months on that road gang. So he ducked down a path b’hind Aunt Beccer’s cabin, what was all tha way up tha holler.  One a tha revenuers seen him and started down tha same path. Ta git rid a tha ev’dence he poured all four gallons a likker inta that sprang where Aunt Beccer gits her drankin water.  He lost his likker but din’t git locked up.

‘Bout a quarter hour after all this, Aunt Beccer come out with her water bucket ta git water.  She dipped a bucket a water an’ then took tha dipper and had her a drank.  Tha water was different.  She had another little taste an then another.  After five er six tastes, she run back ta  tha house an got ever bucket and empty jar she had.  This was tha best water she had ever drunk.

After she had all that wunnerful water put in her kitchen, she d’cided to go down ta Possum Creek.  It was ‘bout a month since she had been down ta tha store. She put on her Sundy dress what she wore ta church an started down tha path that led outta tha holler.

Well people knowed that sumpthin’ was different ‘bout Beccer.  They said she was smilin’ and sayin’ howdy ta everbody.  You’da thought Beccer’s face would break iffen she ever smiled. It was Satidy, an as thangs went, hit seemed they was having a square dance in Possum Creek that night.  They said that Beccer was completely scandalous.  She was dancing and throwing up her dress so high, that ya could almost see her bloomers.  Beccer was sick tha, next mornin’ and missed church fer tha first time anybody could remember.  They said tha preacher preached on the thang ‘bout demons gittin’ inside a people and making act different then normal., Jake finished.

Hank jumped up saying, Ah got ta go.  Hit’s almost supper time.  Mah woman’ll be madder than a ole settin’ hen if ah’s late.  She’ll be accusin’ me ah drankin’ white likker er sumthin’.

Me too.  Ah’ll see ya after while fer that Grand Ole Opry.  Bye.
The two farmers went to their trucks and left the lane, one turning left, the other right.

 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:  David ‘Mac’ McAllister

Padding into the house, shaking off the cold, after our daily walk; I found my favorite place near the wood stove and laid down for my afternoon nap. It was fall here in the Ozarks and getting cold. As I stretched out, my eyes caught his as he eased himself into his favorite spot, an old armchair next to the blazing fire. As I drifted off, my subconscious guided my dreams returning me to the day we first met.

My brothers and sister were standing on tip toes peering over the edge of a cardboard box just outside the 32nd street gate in San Diego. Having been there most of the day we were restless and wanted out to run and play when he appeared. Staggering out the gate he spied us as we bounced up and down with excitement in anticipation of the stranger. Smelling of bourbon and tobacco smoke, he reached down and picked me up by the scruff of the neck holding me at arm’s length for quarters, muster, instruction and inspection. Our eyes met; his liquid blue; mine large and brown as I plied his heart with my best puppy dog look. Oh you know the one, ears at half-mast and head down looking up just enough so that a very thin amount of the white of the eye shows. Instantly, I was in love.

Tossing a few bucks to my little masters, tasked with getting rid of me and my litter mates, he stuffed me into his bridge coat pocket slurring “You’re with me, Sailor”. We swayed to and fro, like a ship upon the sea, down the street until we finally reached a small split level walk up apartment. Here he straightened up as best he could, placed a hand upon me for reassurance and entered the place with as much dignity as drunken Chief Petty Officer could muster. Once inside he snatched me out of his pocket, placed me on the floor and commenced to lay down the rules and regulations of which I didn’t understand one bit. However, there was something about not crapping on the floor and a bitch of a landlady that didn’t like sailors or dogs.

I was fine until the lights went out and with the darkness, I began to miss my brothers and sister. The only way I knew to express my despair was vocally. I started with small yips that gained momentum culminating in a fully-fledged squeaky rather high pitched puppy howl; after all, that’s how dogs cry.

Well now, that got the lights turned on, a scolding with something about the bitch from hell landlady and then lights out. More howling, lights on, more scolding, lights out; howling, lights on, scolding, lights out and so on and so forth until finally he picked me up tossing me on his bed. Gratefully I snuggled in, pressing my short length up against his leg and fell quickly asleep dreaming peaceful dreams of green meadows and un-chased rabbits; until the pounding on the door woke us both up that is.

Stumbling to the door he was muttering something about being in the shits and pointing an incriminating finger at me. Opening the door, he cast his best face forward upon the scariest human I had met so far in my young life. As I looked at this house coat clad, hair curler laden being I knew instinctively what he meant about being in the shits.

She started in nonstop, “Chief you know the rules, no pets. Now don’t tell me you don’t have any pets I heard that dog yowling all night.” Yowling? Are you shittin’ me, she can’t even recognize a fully-fledged howl when she hears one? Then I heard the Chief take control of the situation as only, I would come to learn, the Chief could do. “Madame THAT is no dog THAT is my shipmate and HIS name is Sailor. I am now retired from the Navy and WE will be leaving California for the Dust Bowl.” And so my journey through the Chiefs retirement years began – as his Shipmate.

Soon we were pointing the hood of an old second-hand pickup truck eastward. The Chief at the helm behind the wheel; me, as navigator, with my little rear feet, tippy-toed on the seat, front paws on the window sill, head barely sticking out the window and tongue in the breeze. We were footloose and fancy-free as San Diego, California as a former life for us both disappeared in the rear view mirror. Our happy travels took us across the Mojave Desert and through the wilds of Arizona. On to Tucumcari New Mexico and as we cut the panhandle of Texas, he seemed hell bent upon an unknown destination. When the deserts and flatlands of the west gave way to the lushly green and gently rolling hills of the Ozarks we stopped.

He went inside this exquisitely smelling restaurant while I waited outside scrounging around for whatever was causing that wonderful aroma. Returning he had that breathtaking odor all about him as he opened this grease-stained paper napkin and shared its contents with me. Bacon, it became the second love of my young life. As I horsed down the crunchy goodness he said, “Sailor, seems these folks here have no idea what a Navy Chief is, guess we’ll hang out here awhile”.

Seems the people of the Ozarks were as dog-friendly as they were sailor friendly; so from a seedy but clean motel room to a rather remote cabin back in the woods, that “awhile” stretched into years. Our days past by seamlessly as we explored the woods, enjoyed the seasons and grew fonder of one another in the process.

Oh, we had our growing pains for sure. I had to get this “No crapping on the floor” thing down; then there was the time in my adolescence.  Seems I took off after a rabbit that needed chasing and caught the scent of an unknown but strangely alluring fragrance on the wind. Abandoning the chase, I followed that bouquet to the most stunningly beautiful little French poodle I had ever seen. Several days later I brought my severely drained, tired and hungry ass back home to a stern inspection and retribution.  “Who gave you a 72hr liberty card, Shipmate?” was all he said to me. After that cool reception, some good ole’ chow, a little rack time and a few pitiful looks (Oh you know the kind, ears at half-mast and head down looking up just enough so that a very thin amount of the white of the eye shows) we were tight again.

Well now, he wasn’t perfect either. I came to know that whenever my food bowl was topped off, extra water bowls put out and my doggie door was left open I wouldn’t be seeing him around for a day or two. I guess he got a little whiff of something on the wind from time to time as well. After a few days, he’d sway through the door singing those stupid sailor songs of his with that ever familiar odor of bourbon, tobacco smoke, and perfume about his person. No problem, a little pouting, some pitiful looks (Yeah you know the ones, ears at half-mast and head down looking up just enough so that a very thin amount of the white of the eye shows) just to let him know that a 72 hr. liberty wasn’t appreciated, and we would be as tight as ever.

As the population of French Poodle mix puppies and the rate of recurrence of his relationships grew, he and I both floated effortlessly through the years. As we grayed and became ever more grizzled, our walks became more leisurely. Frequent stops to smell and water the flowers, more sitting, more resting and plenty of breathers slowly took the place of our former briskness of step. Butterflies rather than rabbits became my chase of choice and he started coveting beer over the bourbon. One day we awoke and found ourselves getting older. Seems the French Poodle lost interest in me and he was spending more time around the homestead. Our relationship shifted into more of a caretaker mode with each of us looking out for the other. He started speaking of this Fiddlers Green place and naps took the place of fetch. As content as a couple of old farts could be, we settled into enjoying the world a little more peacefully.

It was darkening as I awoke to the stillness of the Ozark twilight. I dragged my old bones up and stretched, forepaws low; ass end high, to clear the cobwebs. Softly, I padded over to his chair, as I had done my whole life, and laid my head on his lap with my best puppy dog look. Oh, you know the one, ears at half-mast and head down looking up just enough so that a very thin amount of the white of the eye shows. However, this time, the familiar hand on my head didn’t come. As I raised my head to look, I noticed he appeared to still be asleep. A peaceful countenance with the suggestion of a smile graced his face. I nuzzled his limp and unresponsive hand and realized as it fell lifelessly to the side of his chair just what he must have been referring to when he spoke these days past of Fiddlers Green.
Sadly, wondering whether dogs were allowed in Fiddlers Green, I walked through my doggie door outside and was greeted by the light of a rising full Moon. I sat heavy hearted upon the outdoor deck we had built together gazing into the soft glow of the light that flooded me while the eerie shadows of the trees were cast upon everything.

The only way I knew to express my despair was vocally. I started with small yips that gained momentum culminating in a fully-fledged adult dog howl; after all, that’s how dogs cry.

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.

I wrote this one night after reading and thinking about what all the uncontrolled immigration is doing to our country.

Heavenly E-Mail

By: Garland Davis

From: stpeter@thegate.hvn.com
To: gabriel@archangel.hvn.com

Subj: Entrance Policy

Hey Gabe, you gotta talk to the boss.

I know talking to all those open border socialists from Boston and San Francisco made him rethink the concepts of a wall between heaven and hell. But since he opened the gates between here and there this place is literally going to hell. The immigrants say they are cold and have started breaking up the martyr’s crosses and angel’s harps to build fires. They keep poking the Seraphim with the pitchforks they carry with them. There is a group that calls themselves angels, but they eschew wings for motorcycles. Like I said, “this place is going to hell!”

Also, giving in to all the pet owners, so they could have their doggies and kitties by opening the gate to the lesser creatures is an unmitigated disaster. We have serpents, frogs and lizards crawling all over the place. We have ants in the manna, stray dogs crapping in the streets, and feral cats digging up the flower beds. And you should see what the elephants are leaving in the streets.  The vampire bats are scaring the crap out of the winged angels and they are threatening to unionize.

But the real disaster is the cockroaches. We are being overrun by fuckin’ cockroaches.

Gabe, you got to do something.

Pete

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.

He’s An Old Sailor

Now he’s an old sailor, his hair and beard have both turned grey
And he sits there on the pier and gazes out across the waves
And he wonders what has happened to the Navy that he served
And he wonders why its leaders have lost all their God damned nerve

The Red Head

By:  David Wright

She was a goddess. Light red hair, skin as white as cream and freckles under her eyes. She walked back to my seat which was on the isle. “Are you an American?” She asked. “Yes.” I replied. “May I sit with you?” She asked. “This is boring.” “Of course.” I replied.

It was July of 1985 and I was on a flight out of Tokyo for Manila. I hadn’t taken leave in two years and had been rode hard and put away wet. I needed a break and the Commodore gave it to me. Manila was the place to go and the Manila Hotel was the place to stay.

She worked for Pan Am in New York and was on her annual fly anywhere in the world for free vacation. I don’t think there were 75 people on that 747. We drank and talked having a good time. She suddenly looked at me and asked; “are you a member of the “mile high club?” I panicked. “What the Hell is the “mile high club?” I thought to myself. I’m a sailor. I’ve steamed from the West Coast of the United States to the East Coast of Africa. Am I supposed to know what the fucking “mile high club” is?

“I don’t know what that is.” I replied weakly. She looked at me like; “I’ve got a real live wire here.” “It’s when you go to the toilet at 30,000FT. and have sex.” She replied. She was kind. I wanted to die.

I think the stewardess’ knew what was going on from the smirks on their faces. We went back to the toilet twice.

She was the adventurous type. No hotel, no reservations for anything, just wing it. I kind of liked that. I told her she should stay with me. I had reservations at the Manila Hotel, I knew Manila very well. I knew where to go and where not to go, what to say and what not to say. She would be safe with me. She accepted.

Funny, as gentle as she was she wanted to watch a cock fight. I took her to one. Bought spurs for both of us as souvenirs. Still have mine, oil it down once in a while so it doesn’t rust. Sharp as a razor. I’m sure she still has her’s where ever she is. We spent a glorious week together. When it was over, it was over. She went back to New York and married her boyfriend. She was 24 and I was 34.

After all the time spent in Westpac and the shock of being stationed in South Texas, David Wright transferred to the Fleet Reserve in 1993 after 25 years of service. He calls Corpus Christi home. Is employed with the NAS Fire Department as the fire extinguisher/fire suppression systems servicer. He spends much of his off time reloading and shooting with his young son and sitting at the mall looking at young girls.

Steamin’ Demon

By:  Tony Och

I had the biggest smile on my face with discharge papers in hand as I passed thru the main gate of Treasure Island and wore that smile for at least two months thereafter.  When I think about it today, I become sullen.

It’s been over seventeen years now, every day since, dozens of Naval thoughts run thru my mind.  It torments me, its unstoppable, some sort of demon.  It will be with me until I die.

The other day while drinking and thinking, that demon in in the back of my mind told me to break out my “FIREMAN” training manual.  NAVEDTRA 10520-E 1976, the second paragraph read as follows…

As a member of the Engineering Department aboard ship, you know that you are assigned to the heart of the ship.  It is through your efforts and the efforts of every other member of the Department that your ship becomes alive and is able to meet its commitments anywhere on the oceans of the world!

My dick was getting hard; hundreds of thoughts ran thru my mind at the same time.  I closed my eyes, shaking my head, envisioning…my rack, Navy chow, shipmates on liberty, standing a steaming watch…then the fucking eye leakage set in.

I’ll always be a “Steamin’ Demon!”

Tony told me to write something for his Bio.  All I can say is, Tony is a friend and Midway Shipmate who misses the life we once led.  If Tony had lived in an earlier age and served in an earlier Navy, you can bet that he would have been down in the bunkers shoveling coal for the boilers. BTW Tony does drink some beer.  The only guy I know who once got a BCD from a Greyhound Bus.

I wrote this over four years ago.  I wish I could say that I was in good condition and that my Parkinson’s disease had improved, but I would be lying.  I still walk a dog each morning, but it is really a chore to complete a mile.  My back still hurts and I will occasionally work out with the Bow Flex machine. No longer go to the Fitness Center. Since I wrote it, I was forced to retire from the taxi business because I could no longer pass the PUC physical. But if I were to admit it, the most strenuous thing I probably do is poke at this fucking keyboard. Carrying a little too much weight, but it is stable. Not losing, not gaining.

Conversations with Myself

By:  Garland Davis

Psychologists say that most people have a conscience.  You know; that little guy in angel garb and a halo who sits on your left shoulder and pushes you in the right direction.  I have one of those but, he wears wash khakis, Chief Petty Officer’s anchors, and a piss cutter. He really busts my ass. He has a cup of coffee in one hand and a wheel book in the other.  I call him my Inner Chief.  The conscience’s counterpart and nemesis sits on the right shoulder and is usually pictured as a little devil with a pitchfork.  Mine is dressed as a Seaman Recruit.  He wears dungarees with a red DC stencil. He has a list of excuses in one hand and a Bad Conduct Discharge in the other.

Back in June last year, the Chief showed up suddenly and really gave me hell.  What he said went something like this.  “Boy. (He always calls me Boy.)  I am disappointed in you! You are pissin’ me off! You are slacking off big time. Ever since you were diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease you’ve become a pussy.  You used to keep yourself in shape. Ever since you suspected that you had the disease and the doctors confirmed it, you’ve used it as an excuse to let yourself go. Now, you got a birthday coming up soon.  You will be sixty-eight years old and Boy, if you want to be an old man, continue to act like one.  But I’m going to give you another option.”

“You wrote that blog about your Parkinson’s Disease.  You say you are not depressed and have a good attitude about living with the disease, but you were bullshitting your readers and you are bullshitting yourself about your “active” lifestyle. You told them you stopped drinking because you feared the progressive deterioration of the disease. You are to be commended for your attitude. But Boy, I do miss my beer!  Your other actions, or should I say your lack of actions, are contributing to your deterioration and the progressiveness of the disease. The way you are living, you may as well drink beer and get shitfaced every night”  

“You claimed to be active.  You walk the dog, Big Freakin’ Deal!  Walking the dog is not exercise.  The dog goes ten feet and stops to smell something.  He goes another ten feet, smells something else, and then goes back to piss on what he smelled the first time.  He is on a sixteen-foot leash.  You have barely moved your fat ass.  You are just a weight on the other end of the leash, standing there doing nothing.  The dog is getting the exercise.  You said in the blog that PD changes your gait and makes walking or running jerky and clumsy.  It doesn’t make you unable to walk or run!  Get off your ass and use what you got.  Like stock car racing, before NASCAR pussified it.  You built the best car you could and took it to the track.  Race what you got or as the old time racers put it ‘Run what you brung.’  So get off your ass and get on the road and use what you got.  A guy that loses an arm doesn’t stop jerkin’ off, he just does it differently.”

 “Now let’s talk about that fat ass of yours.  You have steadily gained weight over the last two years. You make excuses not to workout.  Back pain, you are tired from work, or you don’t feel like it.  Give me a fuckin’ break.  You drive a taxicab a few hours a day.  The most strenuous thing you do is lift the occasional suitcase or grocery bag. I really don’t give a shit what you feel like.”

“You never have an excuse not to stuff potato chips into your fuckin’ mouth, though.  You were once a cook and baker, you know food, and you understand nutrition.  You know why you have gained weight.  So drop the potato chips and kick them away.   Put your training and knowledge to use.  Your wife is a good cook and so are you.  Just because the food is good, doesn’t mean you have to eat every fricken’ bit of it!  Take a normal portion and when you are full, STOP FUCKING EATING!”

“Sure you got the BowFlex machine.  But, you don’t use it regularly.  You use back pain as an excuse to skip workouts.  Admit it.  You have the fucking back pain whatever you are doing.  If you want to do something you ignore the back pain.  So ignore it when you need to workout.  ‘Pain doesn’t hurt!’…… Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse.”

 “Put all this together.  Control your eating!  Get your ass out of that recliner and walk, maybe even run a bit!  Start and continue regular workouts on the BowFlex and get the gym membership offered through your Medicare Health Plan and spend some time in the gym! You know you can do it because you did it.  You once ran marathons and could lift more weight than a fuckin’ forklift.”

“Boy you do all this, get your ass in shape, and you won’t hear from me on this subject again. Remember, I’m watching you Boy.”

Today is the 17 of January, 2013.  Six months have passed since the “Chief” chewed my ass and I wrote that. I can’t ignore him. So I started walking on or about the 9th of June.  I also started Monday, Wednesday, Friday routines, alternating between the BowFlex and the Twenty Four Hour Fitness Center.  I started weighing myself each morning.  I got a pad of graph paper to keep track of my progress and weight.  Suddenly there the little son-of-a-bitch was:

“Boy, what the fuck are you doing?  The next thing is you’ll be writing a POAM.  You spent too much time in management classes and hung around too many officers.  The only POAM you and I ever needed before was a wheel book.  You wrote down what needed to be accomplished when it had to be done, and then you went and did it.  The problem with POAM’s is they set unrealistic goals and milestones.  I’ll give you your Plan of Action.  Get your ass on the road and walk.  Get on the machine and to the gym and workout.  Your Milestones will be your ass dragging after you finish.  And push your fat ass away from the table!”

After six months, I find it much easier to walk and usually do about four miles four or five days a week.  The perimeter around the development where I live is exactly four miles.  Uphill the whole way, or it seems so.  I have been doing the full distance since the end of September last year.  I tried to start running again, but the clumsiness brought on by the Parkinson’s makes it difficult. So I just walk.

I’m being careful about what I eat.  The little son of a bitch is always there.  So, I am trying to eat three nutritional meals a day with a couple of fruit snacks.  Hey, it works.  I am not really hungry and I have lost forty-three pounds.

That Seaman Recruit with the BCD is not silent. He is always there with an excuse and tempting me to either eat more than I need or to skip a workout.  On my birthday, he almost talked me into buying a red velvet cake (love them) and some vanilla ice cream.

Suddenly the Chief was there, “What tha fuck are you thinking.  You have been doing great. Don’t fuck it up now!  You know statistics show that people are fourteen percent more likely to die on their birthday than any other day of the year.  It’s probably from stuffing cake and ice cream into their fuckin’ face. Tell you what, since it is your birthday and you and your wife are going to the Steakhouse for dinner, order a piece of that cake for dessert and share it with her.  That way, you want have the fuckin’ cake at home haunting you all night.”

So far, I have listened to the Chief. I’m afraid of the little son of a bitch. He scares me.

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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.