King Of The Castle

With a small exception here and there my Dad only whipped for four things: lying, stealing, cheating or sassing.

Break a lamp. Tear your clothes playing.  No problem.

Notice, I didn’t include “disobey” in the list of whipping offenses.  He also whipped for that too, of course, but he was rarely disobeyed and never to his face.

I asked him once what would he do if he told one his children –he had seven by my mother — to do something and they said, “No.” He jerked like I had slapped him.

“I don’t know,” he said.  “It never happened.”

Dad’s definition of sass was broad.  It included a disrespectful look on your face or tone in your voice and it paid you to remember that.

This happened when I was a teenager:

John F. Stith Sr.
John F. Stith Sr.

I was sitting on the toilet when I heard him call my name, “Pat!”

I didn’t ignore him.  I didn’t yell back, “I’m in the bathroom!” or “Just a minute!” either. I knew better.  I yelled, “Yes, sir!  Coming, sir!”  And then I stopped doing what I was doing, flushed the toilet, pulled up my pants, and reported.

Dad was hard of hearing so I stood in front of him, to one side, so he could see my face and read my lips.

“Sir?” I said, signaling my arrival.

He was sitting in his easy chair.  “Hand me that paper will you,” he said, pointing to another chair two steps from where he was sitting.

I handed him the newspaper.

[I did NOT say, “Is this all you wanted? Is this why you got me out of the bathroom?  Because you were too lazy to get up and get the paper yourself?” Not hardly.]

He could hear a little and the flush of the toilet finally registered. He asked me, “Were you in the bathroom?”

“Yes sir,” I said, keeping my voice flat, as level as a table top.

“I didn’t know you were in the bathroom.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move either.  I hadn’t been dismissed.

“That’s all,” he said.

Extra post coming Thursday, the two-year anniversary: Lost on Blood Mountain, Part I

The Real Navy

I wasn’t in the real Navy, a fact made crystal clear to me one morning when a destroyer escorting my ship came alongside to refuel.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I wore the uniform.  I slept on a two-inch thick mattress in a compartment with racks hung four high.  I spent months at sea.  I endured water hours like other enlisted men – but not the officers, of course.  [Officers were so special.] And I stood watches on the bridge. But I was a journalist on a heavy cruiser, USS Los Angeles, so I was not a real sailor.

The L.A. was often escorted by destroyers, I guess because we were a flag ship –– we had an admiral on board.  A heavy cruiser can carry a lot more fuel than a smaller escort so sometimes we refueled them.

USS Los Angeles, CA-135
USS Los Angeles, CA-135

There had been a bad storm the day before and the L.A. was still rolling in heavy seas.  But it was a beautiful, clear day, when I climbed the ladder to the main deck, coffee mug in hand, to watch the refueling operation.

There I stood, swaying some as the Los Angeles rolled side to side in the waves. Below, way below, on the deck the destroyer, I could see real sailors at work.

The smaller ship’s fuel line handlers, roped off to keep from being washed overboard, were being repeatedly knocked down by waves that crashed over the bow of their destroyer and rolled down the main deck.

It was interesting but I had to leave before they finished refueling their ship.  My coffee was getting cold.

Coming Monday: King Of The Castle.