Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Wait a minute...didn't I just see...



I attended Air Force Officer Training School (OTS) in 1984. That's where, for twelve weeks, they tell you to do seemingly meaningless things and expect you to do them perfectly. Not almost perfectly, but perfectly.

There were two officer trainees (OTs) assigned to each dorm room in which there were two bunks, two wall lockers, two chests of drawers, and two desks with chairs--that's it; no other furniture was authorized. The exact placement of those furniture items was specified. We were also allowed a very limited list of personal items, and the exact placement of those items was also specified.

Instilling "attention to detail" in the trainees is the official reason for requiring that OTs arrange their environment in the specified way. The training was enforced and reinforced by a system of demerits administered by the flight commander--a commissioned officer who was responsible for the training of the 20 or so members of his flight.

Captain Weiss was our flight commander, and he inspected our rooms each day while we were out, giving demerits for each deviation from the standards. Your freedom, or lack of it, for the weekend was determined by the number of demerits you accumulated during the week. If your demerit count did not decline each week you could be "eliminated from training" for "failure to adapt to military training." Nobody wanted to be thrown out as we had worked too hard to get in--there were ten applicants for each OTS slot.

All uniforms, toiletries, etc. were arranged in the wall locker and chest of drawers in a particular way. The only personal item that could be displayed in plain sight was a framed photo that was to be placed in a precise location on the desk. I, of course, had a photo of my family displayed.

Two of the guys in the flight, Dave Cross and Scott Hubbard, were roommates, and neither had a significant other. But neither wanted to forego his OTS-given right to display that one personal item. At their first opportunity they went to the base exchange to buy a picture frame for each of them. As you have no doubt seen, frames come with pictures of models in them with the brand, size, and other information overprinted on the picture. Each of them selected a frame with a photo of a comely young woman in it.

Back in their room, they took the manufacturer-provided photos out of their frames and wrote inscriptions on them. Dave wrote on his, "To Dave, With all my love forever, Yours alone, Barb". Scott inscribed his with, "To Scott, You're the only one for me, Love, Barb". They put the photos back in the frames and proudly placed them on their desks.

Oh to have been a fly on the wall when Captain Weiss noticed that the frames were different, but the pictures were identical.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Ahmonmelchu


Growing up I was a "city kid."  That's how I thought of myself back then because I lived in town, and a lot of the kids I went to school and church with lived on farms or ranches or otherwise out in the country.  Looking back I don't know how anybody who lives in a town of 10,000 could be a "city kid." 


I was tall and skinny at fourteen, and hard physical labor just wasn't part of my life.  Nevertheless, an aura of toughness was required at that age, of course, so I played some sports and lifted some weights sometimes.  I just didn't do the kind of daily chores that made a hardened body.

One of the ranchers that went to our church needed help baling hay one Saturday in August, so he hired me to augment his regular crew. (Everybody called him Little Woody, but he wasn't little; he was the firstborn son of Woodrow.)  He picked me up that morning on the way out to Hollister where we would be throwing the hay bales. 

Soon after I got in the truck he looked over at me and said, "Ahmonmelchu," which, translated from Southern drawl into standard English, was, "I'm going to melt you." I knew exactly what he meant--I would be earning every dime of my pay.  I had thrown hay bales before, but never the number I would handle that Saturday. 

When everybody arrived at Osteen's hay fields in Hollister we started loading the trucks and horse trailers with all the bales that could be stuffed in or on them. The driver would follow the path of the baler while the crew walked along behind throwing the bales on the truck or trailer.

A good dry bale of hay might weigh 40-50 pounds. Ideally, they get that light because the cut hay has lain in the field and dried out several days before baling.  If rain is threatening, you might not have the luxury of letting it dry that long.  That day we were throwing fairly wet hay, and the bales were probably 60-70 pounds each.  It was a long, hot day.

I must have done satisfactory work, because Little Woody put me on his crew throwing hay after school each day until the end of the season.  There were five or six boys on the crew, and we had a grand time throwing the bales on the truck and then stacking them in the barn.

Anyway, by the time we finished work that first Saturday it was near dark.  Heading back through town on Highway 17 I told Little Woody he could just stop at 8th Street, and I would walk the three blocks to home.  He said he'd be happy to take me home, but I insisted so he dropped me off there on the corner.  I suppose I wanted to prove to him that I had some strength left in me.

He paid me in cash for the day's labor ($2 an hour), and I started walking. I began to realize on that short walk home that I was seriously exhausted. I don't know whether Little Woody was a master motivator, or if he really believed what he said to me to start the day, but I do know he got his money's worth out of me.

When I walked in the front door at home, I was too tired to climb the stairs to my room, and I lay down on the carpet to rest for a few minutes. That's where I woke up Sunday morning.  Little Woody had melted me that day, but I wasn't going to let him know it.