Last Chance Apartment 404 was partially below ground, like a well fortified bunker, a place where I could feel safe while taking care of unfinished business. I knew this would be my "last chance", and I had prepared myself diligently, unlike anything I'd done before. Returning quietly to Blacksburg in the Fall of 1971, I had a fresh spirit and renewed hope. While optimistic, I was still apprehensive and uneasy following 3 years of somber introspection and soul searching. It had been a time of bitter dissappointment and stark realizations about life, a period filled with much gloom and dispair. From 1968 to 1971, my duty days were spent as a solder--Vietnam Era, 3-year RA. But at night I had invested heavily, pouring out hundreds of hours at local libraries and book stores, poring over hundreds of textbooks and handbooks, learning and relearning the math, physics and chemistry I had so cavalierly dismissed in high school, and my first college encounter. The "Charlies" I battled were not in Vietnam, they crawled and slithered through the Virginia suburbs of DC, in and around Fort Myer. My bible had become a textbook, "Calculus with Analytic Geometry", by a guy named Rodin at UC San Diego. This cavalier attitude toward academics in high school had not been entirely of my doing. I had been led to believe, albeit by some very well intentioned people, including a special mentor and coach, that since my family could never afford to send me to college, my only hope was to win a football scholarship. I'll never forget Billy Morrison, he was like a father to me, or big brother if you will, since I had no natural siblings. He was someone who took an interest. My elderly father (some 25 years older than Mom) had developed rheumatoid arthritis and was practically an invalid. Both my parents had worked at the Warwick Laundry, a stinking hellhole that devoured most of the unfortunate souls who labored there. Dad was forced to retire from Warwick my sophomore year because of failing health, and was never able to attend any of my athletic events. But Bill came to see me play as often as he could. He had coached our church league baseball team for several years, and then encouraged me to focus on football since I had good athletic ability, and seemed to enjoy knocking people down. He trained me with weights in his garage, and I developed into a "huskey, hard running" Typhoon fullback. And despite numerous knee injuries that kept me sidelined most of my sophomore and junior years, the enthusiasm for football never wanned. Mother even contracted football fever when I became a starter my senior year. I'm sure Bill saw me as a young kid in need of guidance, and, having faced considerable personal tragedies himself, unknowingly became something of a "father figure". He once told my dad "Your son is a good athelete, and might go to college if he works hard at football." Dad nodded in agreement, even though baseball was his favorite sport. So my last 3 years of high school were spent doing very little academic work, just enough to get by. But my success on the football field led to a 4-year Grant-In-Aid. It was really quite amazing, since I had only played 6 full games my senior year. However, in those games I scored 6 offensive touchdowns, several of which were on long runs, and had shown a distinct passion for getting down the field first on special teams, running over as many players as possible, and making the tackle. This probably lead scouts to believe (and rightly so) that I had latent aggressive tendencies (translation: a mean streak), and might be a good defensive prospect. And I must admit, when the opportunity presented itself, I delighted in leveling an opponent. Then in Game 7 against Norview High School, and appropriately played on Halloween night, the wicked curse struck again. As I turned around to catch a screen pass, a "freak" hit below my right knee resulted in a severe injury that ended my season, and put me on crutches for weeks. Nonetheless, I had apparently done well enough to attract several local college football programs, including William and Mary, East Carolina, and Virginia Tech. After visiting all three campuses over the winter, I first signed to play at East Carolina. But when recruiter Alf Satterfield encouraged me to stay in Virginia, I signed with Tech in February of 1964. It was like stepping into a "Dream World"--I was idolized, admired, and envied by classmates and neighbors alike. This was one of the happiest periods in my life, as I looked forward to college in the fall, and the chance to become a football star. Not even my father's declining health could dampen my excitement. In a special visit to Kecoughtan Veterans Hospital (another stinking hellhole) on June 7th, I wore my high school cap and gown. Dad had been a 10th grade dropout, so he was especially happy to see me graduate that day, despite Dr. Death tugging gently at his gown. And 2 weeks later, he was gone. Dream World Lesson No.1--When things start getting a bit "Dreamy", grab onto something and hold tight--a swift kick in the head is usually just around the corner. The summer of 1964 was spent in rigorous prepartion for the grueling "2-a-day" practices that were set to begin in the August Blacksburg heat. A daily routine of Burpee Spreaders and running the steps at Saunders Stadium in Newport News had whipped me into great physical condition. Digging trenches and post holes for Jordan Construction Company topped off an extraordinary summer of fun. However, during the the first week of practice we ran a variety of speed drills, including several timed 40-yard sprints. It didn't take long to convince myself that I lacked the speed to be a running back at Virginia Tech. My high school coach had astutely observed "Craig isn't exceptionally fast, but he's very quick coming out of his position". East Carolina may have been the better choice after all, but of course, hindsight is alway 20/20. There were many very talented players on the 1964 Virginia Tech Freshman Football Team, as evidenced by major bowl game appearances in 1966 and 1968. Since I did not play defense in high school, I had not yet acquired the upper-body strength and size neccesary to play positions like linebacker or defensive end. My high school mentor had suggested I concentrate on heavy squats for building leg strength since I had expressed an interest in playing fullback. Jim Taylor was my NFL hero, and I wore his number (31) during my senior year. The Tech coaches knew I had good quickness and better than average speed, and probably figured that, in time, I could develop into a hard-hitting linebacker. Fellow running back Smokey Jordan remarked that I "hit as hard as anybody" in the "Bull in the Ring" drill. With a year or two pumping iron, I could have added 20 or 30 pounds of upper body muscle, and was certainly well suited emotionally for playing defense. It was interesting that they issued me a pair of Ken Whitley's old football cleats when practice began. Ken Whitley had starred at Norview (a rather macabre coincidence considering my previous Halloween injury) as an offensive fullback in the late 1950's and early 60's. He'd become a standout defensive linebacker at Tech several years before I arrived in 1964. And we were comparable in height, build, (obviously shoe size), and probably speed. But that's enough of the "what-could-have-been" fantasies. The reality was that being away from home for the first time, while still grieving the loss of my father, and knowing Mom was home all alone, weighed heavily on my spirit. And the fact that I was one of the slower running backs on the squad did not boost my confidence level. Then, that all-too-familier curse raised its ugly head once again. I suffered a severe sprain to my left elbow, another in a long line of injuries, and an obvious sign I needed more upper-body strength. I actually practiced with one arm for several days, and could do a suprising number of push-ups. I even volunteered to be a one-armed blocking dummy in several drills. I may have indeed been a dummy, but I don't think anyone questioned my courage. Suddenly, it all became crystal clear. It had to be a pre-ordained, God-forsaken curse--three years of knee injuries, my father's illness and death, and now an arm injury before I could even get started--enough of this bullshit. I told Head Coach Jerry Claiborne I was going home because "I didn't want to play football any more". He looked dazed, dumbfounded, in disbelief. He reminded me, "Son, its not the size of the dog in the fight, its the size of the fight in the dog." But this dog had given up the fight. He didn't have to say any more. I was all too familier with the credo "Quitters never win, and winners never quit." But not sure at that point which one I was, I boarded a Greyhound bus (a rather appropriate name I thought) to Newport News, with tail between legs, and left my college dreams behind. I spent the next year at home with Mom developing plenty of self-pity, guilt and shame. Hadn't I let everyone down? I knew my former teammates, coaches, friends and neighbors had counted on me bringing pride to Newport News. But I had disgraced them, and myself, and now I searched for a place to hide. The Newport News Shipbuilding & Dry Dock Company was a foreboding, concrete and steel jungle, and I could easily lose myself there. I rose at 5 AM each morning with Mom, and went to work in the shipyard as a plumber's helper. Mom still worked in the hellhole Warwick Laundry, where they had discarded my father several years earlier because he couldn't walk anymore. The disgusting owner had claimed his termination was for "wrongful conduct" so they could avoid paying disability and unemployment compensation. But with legal help arranged by Mr. James H. King, the stinking Smiths were forced to pay unemployment benefits for 12 months. Yes, I overuse the word 'stinking', but it so very accurately describes my seething animosity. Sorry, it hasn't gone away yet, only been 50 years. Most laundry and dry cleaning sweatshops in those days (Warwick included) did not provide retirement plans for their employees. Therefore, my 67-year old father was left with nothing but a stinking (see, there it is again) social security check, which he drew for a year and a half before finally kicking the bucket in 1964. I still can't believe how grim and desolate his retirement was--2 years highlighted by debilitating arthritis and a series of crippling strokes, the last of which landed him in the hospital. He first went to Riverside, where he received very good care. But since he had no health insurance, the mounting costs soon forced Mom to transfer him, again with the help of Mr. King, a proud veteran of WWI and WWII, to Kecoughtan Veterans Hospital. Dad spent his last 4 months in that rathole, confined to a hospital bed where his body weight was cut in half, and the daily pain injections rendered him virtually senseless. Occasionally, someone will ask me why I retired at the young and healthy age of 57. After hearing my father's story, they usually retract their stupid question. Getting back to more pleasant events from 1965, I fondly remember dating and getting very serious with one young NNHS student who, I shamefully admit, deserved a lot better than she got from me. More importantly though, while employed as a "yardbird" I saved almost $2,500 dollars, a tidy sum in those days, and enough to send me back to school, with the help of several Rotary Club loans. That was the plan--I would show the stinking bastards (oops, there I go again) the word "quit" was not in my limited vocabulary. So in the summer of 1965, I prepared to return to Blacksburg, and exchange my football cleats for college textbooks and a K+E slide rule. Unfortunately, during my last 3 years of high school, and 1 year as a yardbird, I had rarely opened a textbook of any kind. And I sure as hell didn't know what to do with a slide rule. The "futile folly that followed" was predictable I suppose. Incredibly, almost 3 years (of futile folly) zoomed by before I realized I didn't belong there, at least not yet, and I wasn't sure I ever would. In early 1968, my college career lay in shambles, and seemed to be over. My resignation 3 weeks into Spring quarter had been widely anticipated, and was seen by many as long overdue. The grades were pathetic, and I had been placed on academic probation (3 quarters to attain a certain grade level or face explulsion). The money was gone, and in fact, I owed several thousand dollars to the Rotarians. I'm sure Chief Rotarian Jerry Hogge wondered if he'd ever get his money back. My reputation was now set in stone, the gray gothic style that adorned Burriss Hall--a screw-up, clown, slacker, loser, immature, irresponsible, and a dummy to boot. It was clear I had not made the most of my opportunities. In one final act of desparation, I decided to register for summer school. In order to save money, I enrolled as a day student, and planned to sleep in the back seat of my '55 Chevy. Several weeks passed in which I got very little sleep, few showers, and numerous frowns in class, undoubtedly because of BO. I had wrongly assumed the cool nights would make for good sleeping--there were no cool nights. However, there was one attempted break-in of my humble abode. It was sort of amusing, although I didn't think so at the time. One balmy Blacksburg night as I slumbered in sweaty solitude, I was aroused by the sound of someone trying to pry open the trunk. Being a bit startled, I cautiously sat up, and peeked out the back window. At that same instant, the would-be burgler raised his head, until his eyes were fixed on mine. Looking as if he'd seen a ghost, he let out a blood-curdling shriek, dropped his crowbar, and took off running accross the parking lot. I'm sure the worthless bastard needed a change of underwear soon thereafter, and I'll bet he never again burgarlized a trunk without first checking inside the car. Remarkably, as I sat there in stunned silence, admittedly unnerved by this strange event, a numbing reality began to settle in. I finally started to realize what should have been obvious several years earlier, i.e., I didn't belong there. Enough of this lunacy--it was time to go home. I doubt anyone in Blacksburg was sorry to see me leave. I could imagine them thinking, "Good riddance! Its about time this loser makes way for someone who really wants an education." The "Quitter" word had now been permanently stamped on my butt. Dear ole' Uncle Sam, from whom I had barely escaped in 1965, eagerly waited to claim what was left of my worthless carcass. And this time, he was not disappointed--they needed more boots in Vietnam. Strange things began to happen after I donned those olive drab (OD) fatigues in November of 1968. To my supprise, I discovered a great new friend--his name was Mr. Haighte. Our paths had never crossed before, but I always knew he was out there, waiting patiently in the background, bubbling just beneath the surface. I'd been warned many times to avoid him, and his message. But it was painfully obvious that nothing I had tried thus far in my search for success had worked. I had become a miserable failure. Dark storm clouds filled my sky, and the people I thought were my friends had gone looking for fair weather. So now it was time to try a new approach. Mr. Haighte didn't seem like such a bad guy--he listened intently to my story, and seemed to understand every little detail. And it wasn't at all difficult adopting his philosophy. I merely remembered former friends and aquaintences who'd gone on to college, and would soon be graduating with the generous help of financially able and academically successful parents and friends. Of course, they were now looking forward to career, marriage and family, and a peachy selective service classification (Exempted or Deferred, 2S, 2A, 2B, 2C, etc.). Mr. Haighte was quick to remind me how, curiously but understandably, none of my former "friends" called any more. He did cynically surmise, that, well maybe they just couldn't bear to witness, my pitiful demise. More likely though, they just didn't give a rat's ass. Yes, they had all mysteriuosly dissappeared, and were nowhere to be found. But that was O.K., I had a wonderful new friend to keep me company. And he began to instill in me exactly what I needed to succeed. Its worth noting that Mr. Haighte was assisted quite nicely by the many OD clad minions of dearest Uncle. They all seemed like such pleasent gentlemen, despite the constant screaming, profanities, and frequent butt kickings. The phrase "Drop trainee and knock out 25" developed such a special meaning. It was obvious they had only my best interests at heart. Their instructional techniques were brutal but profoundly simple, and I quickly began to appreciate the reality they revealed. Following a chilly November induction ceremony in Richmond, VA, came an absolutely breathtaking, whirlwind tour that included Basic Training at Fort Benning, GA, AIT at Fort Jackson, SC, and Army Finance School at Fort Ben Harrison, IN. I was busy as a bee well into the summer of 1969 learning the fine and valuable art of soldering. Since Uncle's recruiter had double-pinkie promised that 3-year RAs would not have to worry about Vietnam (supposedly, only 2-year draftees won that priviledge), I was naturally shocked to find my name on orders for RVN Training at Fort Riley, KS. Never to fear, Mr. Haighte was there to help me understand the deception, or possibly my misconception. Anyway, it all worked out perfectly, just another reminder of how much I needed Mr. Haighte. He assured me I would never run out of motivational material. A foot infection kept me out of Vietnam just long enough for Mom to request a "Compassionate Reassignment" through our Pastor, Dr. Furman Kenney. As expected, the request was denied, but since I was her only son, they decided to keep me away from "hostile fire", especially Vietnam. I could have volunteered to go anyway, but why would I do that to my Mother after what she'd been through. However, I often regret not serving in the rice paddies along the Ho Chi Min trail. With a Finance MOS, I likely would have never filled a body bag, and may have even returned in one piece. I see it now as a missed opportunity, a chance to learn more good stuff from Mr. Haighte. His philosophy is like 9mm ammo, you can never have too much. And I do feel guilty that I was spared the attrocities of Vietnam, while so many served, died, or were butchered there, including several guys I knew from high school. But the real criminals were the priviledged preppies, and the upper class scumbags who never served a day in the military, much less in Vietnam. During my 2-year assignmemt at Fort Myer, just outside Washington DC, I developed a whole new perspective on life. From 1969 to 1971, the nation's capitol was a well-scripted microcosm of the conflict in Vietnam. Talk about hostile fire. There were no Vietcong toting AK-47s, but plenty of their comrades roamed the streets of DC, and infested the halls of Congress. Hippie-cong socialists and Marxists alike were everywhere; SDS, Weather Underground, Black Panthers, and a plethora of virulent America haters, all melded together to form a smelly cesspool of anti-war activisim. Fortunately, I managed to survive this scurrilous plague, and with about a year left to serve in Uncle's Army, I began fantasizing about a college comeback. I started laying the groundwork for a return to Blacksburg, preparing an eager (if not brilliant) mind academically. And my only "true" friend, Mr. Haighte, was there to provide the motivation. After obtaining a 2-month "Early Out" to attend college, I began Fall quarter of 1971 with a great deal of apprehension and self-doubt. Looking back over 7 years of failure and frustation, I naturally had many unanswered questions about myself. I always felt I had the brain power--I could understand anything if I tried. My biggest problem had been motivation--I didn't have any. And of course, I didn't have any money either. But after spending 3 years with Uncle Sam, the motivation problem had been solved. I now had much more than I needed, probably more than was legal. I also had a little money thanks to the G.I. Bill. Consequently, by Spring quarter of 1972, I found myself doing quite well academically. After 3 quarters, I had finally managed to escape academic probation, despite one serious glitch, thankfully resolved by Dean Leo A. Padis. And contrary to what a good many believed (former high school and college buddies, coaches and teachers who had witnessed, and in some cases applauded, my death march), I found there was a reasonable chance I could obtain what no one else in my family had ever managed before--a college degree. In fact, no one in my family had even attended college, and only my mother could claim a high school diploma. Those were the formidable odds I chose to ignore from 1964 to 1968, and then again in 1971, my "last chance". From September 1971 to December 1973, I waged a bitter war against a most powerful foe, an adversary that had pounded me into submission at every previous battle. I had begun to suspect I might never prevail over this beast. Maybe it was a self-destructive bent, a desire to fail, to be no more than anyone else in my family. But then I would remember my Mother and Grandmother, and how they had begged and pleaded with me to get an education, go to college, and become something better than them. From 3rd grade through high school, my Grandmother had cooked breakfast for me every day, and prepared supper for the family at night. She nursed me when I was sick, and many mornings would quiz me in math, or practice spelling words before a test. I remember her saying "Son, I only went to the 6th grade, but I want you to get a college education." She died in September of 1965, soon after I returned to college. Her deathbed wish was to one day see me graduate. There was no way in hell I could let her down. It was primarily my love for her and Mom that spurrred me on. I find it extremely odd that on one hand, the convincingly sincere, and devilishly sly Mr. "H" drove my conscious will, pushing, prodding, urging me onward to show the bastards what I could do, that I was smart enough to succeed. But then from the other side, came the love of Mom and Grandma accomplishing a similar effect. It was a strange dichotomy of emotions that somehow created balance and controlled the nasty stuff that welled up inside. They are the first (and maybe only) spirits I hope to see after I'm free of this miserable, wretched, (and yes, stinking) existance. In addition to the academic battle, I also had to figure out a way to keep my sanity, or some semblance thereof. Whether I succeeded or not, or whether there was any to begin with, is certainly debatable. Whatever triumphs I had over mental illness (if in fact I did), can be attributed mainly to Johnny Carson, Ed McMahon, Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart, and several other TV comedy shows. These silver screened therapists made regular visits to Cell 404--oops, I mean Apartment 404 (well, maybe not), and provided me with many desparately needed laughs. They were as close as my 12-inch B&W, and were there at the touch of a button, or the turn of a dial. And I must never forget my faithful Lafayette LR-200 stereo reciever purchased in 1972 from the Radio Shack on HW 460. It played no small part in this regard, soothing my "soul" with music. Amazingly, it still works after nearly 40 years of service, and always performs its dedicated task of rekindling those hated (not to be confused with Haighted) memories. Even when it's tubes and transformers light up no more, I doubt I'll be able to throw it away. I remember, rather fondly, that Cell 404 provided me with my very first opportunity to live alone, independently, all by myself. After protecting Fort Myer from the Viet Cong for 2 years, I certainly was in need of a little private time to reflect on my many remarkable accomplishments. After all, I had avoided a Vietnam body bag, and had survived the soulful, anti-war, hippie-infested streets of Washington DC, no easy feat in 1969. And what better way to become self-reliant? I had learned the hard way that self-reliance was only achieved through self-motivation and self-discipline. Mr. "H" had taught me all I needed to know about self-motivation. And self-discipline was a trait drilled deep into my psyche by a wonderfully compassionate DI (an obvious expert in drilling), whose acquaintance I was fortunate enough to make while incarcerated at Fort Benning, GA, in 1968. His favorite expression was, "Yo mama ain't gonna wipe that butt now Trainee". Many thanks go to you Drill Sergeant, for teaching me the invaluable art of wiping my own butt, a skill that I still use faithfully, and with a great deal of pride, every single day. Subsisting in Cell 404 on a paltry handout ($175) from the VA (otherwise known as the G.I. Bill), I discovered first hand what thrift and frugality were all about--a monthly excercise in paying rent ($95), eating ($30), and scrapping together enough of what remained to buy textbooks, a few glad rags, and gas (36 cents a gallon) for my '67 Camaro 6-banger. Thinking I probably had not seen enough penny pinching in the 20 some years growing up in my family, the bastards decided I needed another couple years for good measure. Well, O.K. I didn't need designer clothes anyway. A pair of jeans, sneakers, and a trendy old field jacket were just my style. And physical recreation? Well, shooting pool at the Student Union (Squires Hall) kept my muscles toned and body hard, almost like when I arrived in 1964 gripping a football (BSEG). But my Sunday savior was a somewhat savory BBQ treat from the DQ next door, a rather extravagent weekend reward considering that I normally consumed canned Monosodium Glutamate from Krogers. I also savored, somewhat, those many nights spent racking my brain, well into the wee morning hours (Shades of Twilight), trying to solve engineering problems that, for the younger, privileged preppies on campus, was just a matter of knowing the right professor to visit, or having a well-heeled dad who could make a few phone calls. Many nights I would wake up to that familiar panic of going to class without the answers. And my favorite nightmare was being told by the academic advisor that I would never graduate. So after
squandering 4 years of golden opportunities at Virginia Tech (1964 to 1968), and spending
3 years in the US Army, I had been written off by almost everyone. Labelled a
quitter and a loser, I was considered unsuitable for college, both intellectually and
emotionally. Most doubted I would ever show my face in Blacksburg again. The
college dreams of my Mother and Grandmother had vanished into thin air. Everyone
expected me to just crawl in a hole, and forget about it. Forget that Mom had worked
like a slave for near minimum wage so I could have a chance at finishing high
school. Forget her 3-year nightmare of caring for a sick, dying husband with no
health insurance or savings to pay his medical bills. Forget that he died without
any life insurance, and Mom had to borrow money just to pay for his funeral and
tombstone. Forget that she tried desparately to keep me in college after his death,
with little income, a mountain of debt, and serious health issues of her own. Forget
that Grandma had worked tirelessly cooking my meals and washing my clothes throughout
elementary and high school, all the while suffering from high blood pressure, heart
disease and diabetes. Forget that as she lay on her deathbed, she begged me to get a
college education. And then worst of all, forget that I had let them all down.
I was certainly tempted to give up the fight. In fact, after serving 3 years as an
Army Finance Specialist, I'd been offered a generous reenlistment bonus, along with a
promotion, to "re-up" 4 more years with Uncle, undoubtedly the first step in
becoming that dreaded "Army Lifer".
And returning to college in 1971 promised to be no picnic. I still faced academic
probation, with only 3 quarters to raise my GPA and avoid permanent expulsion. In
addition, I'd been out of school for 3 years, and would be living off-campus, far from the
tutoring, mentoring and academic assistance made readily available to the priviledged
preppies on campus. Military veterans like myself were left to fend for
themselves. Luckily, I had an advanced degree in Fending from UHK, and considerable
OJT in self-preservation. Yep, the bastards expected me to give up, just like I'd
always done, and forget all the sacrifices Mom and Grandma had made for me, and all the
dissappointments I had given them. Forget? Forget? They thought I would
forget?
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| "Shades of Twilight" by Charlie Sneller |
