tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38931412459428160152024-03-05T00:56:16.930-08:00Black Beans and BroccoliAnd Other Slices of My LifeDee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-59441220494184885302023-03-20T12:10:00.002-07:002023-03-20T12:10:35.123-07:00<p> I'll get back to it one of these days . . .<br /></p>Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-3124771468808878482020-08-07T10:54:00.000-07:002020-08-07T10:54:02.360-07:00<p> I'm no longer inactive . . .<br /></p>Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-27764578022644954032013-04-27T07:56:00.002-07:002013-05-02T04:23:28.624-07:00Pioneers in Telemedicine<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbQSB2uR4GFaMWHVmb-_RaS9xjj9PaNwIOelKlthmnsM98t8RN37ng7jl6Pk7ydjA4rHHAjSpK3i0CJ17XicIY-Z3p6OlCOV8h9XKFS3np32_vFKgKxAYYLRNic28pAtfoPY63rOLsqY/s1600/Telemedicine.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbQSB2uR4GFaMWHVmb-_RaS9xjj9PaNwIOelKlthmnsM98t8RN37ng7jl6Pk7ydjA4rHHAjSpK3i0CJ17XicIY-Z3p6OlCOV8h9XKFS3np32_vFKgKxAYYLRNic28pAtfoPY63rOLsqY/s400/Telemedicine.JPG" width="293" /></a></div>
by Dee Newman<br />
<br />
On April 4, 1970, a federally funded research and demonstration
project I helped coordinate in southern Arizona received national media
and congressional attention when it demonstrated the
feasibility of utilizing microwave transmission for mobile medical units
in isolated rural areas.<br />
<br />
The project was the brainchild of my good friend Jack Reeves. At the
time Jack was the Coordinator of Resources and Planning for Arizona
Rural Effort, Inc. (ARE), a five-county Community Action Agency (CAA)
headquartered in Yuma, Arizona. <br />
<br />
ARE was one of the War on Poverty programs created as part of President
Johnson's Great Society legislative agenda. The Office of Economic
Opportunity (OEO) was established in 1964 to oversee Community Action
Agencies (CAAs), VISTA, Job Corps and Head Start. Its first director was
R. Sargent Shriver. <br />
<br />
In 1969 OEO selected ARE as one of 229 Community Action Agencies
throughout the United States to compete for grants to address rural
poverty. Jack’s FURPO (Full Utilization of Rural Program Opportunities)
proposal was one of the nine funded. The grant was for two years, $150K
for each year.<br />
<br />
In order to secure the grant Jack wrote to the President, Richard
Milhous Nixon, met with Senator Barry Goldwater and Representative
Morris Udall and sought the support of the OEO director at the time,
Donald Rumsfeld. All four men provided needed support for the project.
For example, the president’s introduction to a General Motors
Corporation executive was instrumental in obtaining a Chevrolet step van
that would eventually house state of the art telecommunication
equipment. <br />
<br />
The R&D project consisted of a number of features, including the
before mention mobile television van designed to produce radio and
television broadcasting material for stations throughout the state of
Arizona. Jack had persuaded radio stations in all 15 Arizona counties to
air a weekly broadcast produced by our Community Action Broadcasting
System (CABS). The University of Arizona’s KUAT, a PBS affiliate and the
nation’s most powerful noncommercial station aired the broadcast twice a
week. <br />
<br />
Utilizing the van’s equipment (radio phone and cameras), images of
patients were sent via microwave transmission from a high desert
location north of Nogales in rural Pima County to doctors in Sierra
Vista who were waiting to diagnose their medical needs.<br />
<br />
While viewing the television images, Pacific Bell provided audio
communications from the remote desert location to Tucson, then on to Sierra
Vista via land line, allowing Ft. Huachuca (US Army) physicians to
talked with the patients, the nurse, and a lab technician. <br />
<br />
The telemedicine demonstration received national attention. Newspapers
from all over Arizona covered it. It was one of AP’s top ten news
stories. Chet Huntley and David Brinkley ran footage on “NBC Nightly
News.” <br />
<br />
President Nixon was briefed. Senator Paul Fannin entered a two-page
account into the Congressional Record, and Representative Morris Udall
(who we had interviewed on a number of occasions) authored a
congratulatory letter: “The experiment you are now conducting using
mobile TV might just be the ray of hope we need for some lowering of
medical costs.”<br />
<br />
Though it did not immediately launch a new approach on how we administer
and provide health care to rural and remote populations, it certainly
proved to be a seminal event in the effort to extend health care to all
Arizonans.<br />
<br />
Within a year General Electric got involved, wanting to demonstrate use
of satellite technology to connect patients and physicians, setting up a
demonstration with the Navajo Nation and the University of Arizona
Medical School.<br />
<br />
Today, the high-tech Arizona Telemedicine Program at the University of
Arizona’s College of Medicine has little resemblance to our primitive
telemedicine demonstration back in 1970. As the leading authority on
providing long-distance medical care, U of A’s telemedicine program
links 180 sites across the state to provide medical care to residents of
rural Arizona, tribal lands and state prisons.<br />
<br />
Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-70204011742722310862013-01-31T11:51:00.000-08:002013-07-10T07:42:32.633-07:00I Don’t Know Who is Crazier<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">by Dee Newman</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivC38-gDNiYQ6aK5KqmUI03M3KrJNY6PFXvY3gxJqTvDrPkZeXXUguoNXeKCpu-06rTNp717kmGtzr488RFsCzHGoMzCPxWkU5biCDdDsmSmTy-GVOVa67tMTCn81cVlhPiPXDM3HZQus/s1600/RA-5C.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivC38-gDNiYQ6aK5KqmUI03M3KrJNY6PFXvY3gxJqTvDrPkZeXXUguoNXeKCpu-06rTNp717kmGtzr488RFsCzHGoMzCPxWkU5biCDdDsmSmTy-GVOVa67tMTCn81cVlhPiPXDM3HZQus/s640/RA-5C.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
During the mid and late
1960s I was in the United States Navy – from October 1964 to September
1968. After boot camp in San Diego, California, I was sent to
Millington, Tennessee, just north of Memphis, for nine-months to study,
train and become an aviation electronics technician. <br />
<br />
On August 2, 1964, two months before I joined the Navy, the USS Maddox,
while gathering intelligence along the North Vietnam coast in the Gulf
of Tonkin, was allegedly fired upon by several North Vietnamese torpedo
boats. <br />
<br />
Two days later a second attack on the Maddox and the USS Turner was
reported to President Johnson. Though the circumstances of the attacks
were ambiguous, they prompted Congress to approve the Gulf of Tonkin
Resolution on August 7, 1964, giving the President power to conduct
military operations in Southeast Asia without declaring war. Shortly
thereafter, U.S. retaliatory air strikes were initiated.<br />
<br />
When I arrived in Millington in late January 1965 conditions in Vietnam
had deteriorate substantially. South Vietnamese Generals had instigate
yet another coup. On February 7 the Viet Cong attack the U.S. Air Force
base at Pleiku, killing 8 Americans. After several subsequent attacks
on U.S. instillations, the brass decided the South Vietnamese military
was unable to provide adequate security. A month later 3,500 U.S.
Marines were sent to South Vietnam, marking the beginning of the U.S.
ground war. Until then, the 20,000 U.S. troops stationed there were
called advisors and/or support personnel.<br />
<br />
The strikes by the Viet Cong also initiated operation “Rolling Thunder”.
The three-month bombing campaign ultimately lasted three years. It was
intended to destroy North Vietnam's air defenses and industrial
infrastructure, forcing them to cease their support for the National
Front for the Liberation of South Vietnam (NLF). <br />
<br />
By November 1968, "Rolling Thunder" had bombarded North Vietnam with
over a million tons of ordnance. Despite the onslaught, its ambitious
goal was never accomplished.<br />
<br />
Sometime during February 1965 an official notice was posted on the
bulletin board of my barrack, asking for volunteers to serve in Vietnam.
I immediately set-up an interview. Fortunately, the Lieutenant who
conducted the interview was a great deal wiser than I. He advised me to
reconsider my enthusiasm to go to war. “Complete your schooling first,”
he counseled. “It will be advantageous to both you and the Navy.” <br />
<br />
Nine months later, by the time I had finished my training to become an
aviation electronics technician, I was married. My priorities had
change. Unfortunately, an assignment to Southeast Asia and the
continually escalating war seemed inevitable.<br />
<br />
When I received my orders to report to the Naval Air Station (NAS) in
Sanford, Florida, and Reconnaissance Attack Squadron THREE (RVAH-3), I
had no idea at the time how fortunate I was to receive the assignment. <br />
<br />
Eight of the ten RVAH Vigilante squadrons stationed at NAS Sanford saw
extensive action during carrier air wing operations in the South China
Sea throughout the Vietnam War. RVAH-3, however, was strictly a
stateside-based training squadron. Its mission was to prepare pilots to
fly the Mach-2+ RA-5C Vigilante reconnaissance aircraft.<br />
<br />
Once a pilot and navigator had qualified to fly the RA-5C Vigilante at
the Naval Air Station, they were required to qualify to takeoff from and
land the supersonic jet on an aircraft carrier. Not an easy task given
the Vigilante’s size and speed. <br />
<br />
Carrier Quals as they were called required a full crew of support
personnel, including Aviation Electronic Technicians (AETs). In June of
1967 I flew as part of a Quals crew 2300 miles from NAS Sanford, Florida
to the Alameda Naval Complex across the bay from San Francisco,
California. There, we boarded the USS Ranger, the first angled-deck
supercarrier (the Top Gun of the Pacific Fleet) and proceeded to sail
beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. My two weeks onboard the Ranger was my
first and only service aboard an aircraft carrier.<br />
<br />
If you have never been onboard a carrier, the description of them being a
floating city at sea is accurate. The Ranger’s displacement when fully
loaded was over 80,000 tons. The flight deck was over 3 football fields
long and nearly a football field wide.<br />
<br />
Accommodating over 5000 personnel the Ranger had everything its
residents needed to live. There were multiple galleys and mess halls,
continually serving meals 24 hours a day. The ship also had a sizable
laundry facility, dentist and doctor's offices, and various stores.<br />
<br />
Conditions, however, aboard the Ranger were much more cramped than in a
normal city. In order to get from one place to another, I had to scale
steep ladderwells that were nearly vertical and squeeze past other
personnel in narrow passageways.<br />
<br />
Our sleeping quarters were extremely tight. We slept in single bunks,
crammed together in stacks of twos and threes. Each of us got a small
storage bin and an upright locker for clothes and personal belongings.
Our compartment of 30 plus support personnel shared a bathroom with cold
saltwater showers. The facilities for officers (I was told) were a bit
more accommodating, but limited, as well. Everyone onboard had to get
used to tight quarters.<br />
<br />
Most of the onboard crew had little opportunity to see the ocean or the
sky. The flight deck, hangar and fantail all offered magnificent views
of the outside world, but those areas were so demanding and dangerous
that only a handful of people were allowed access during normal
operating conditions. Personnel who worked below deck might go for weeks
without ever seeing daylight.<br />
<br />
Being on any carrier’s flight deck during takeoffs and landings is
extremely hazardous. Landing crews are especially vulnerable. The large
cable that traps landing aircraft has been known to snap and fly across
the deck taking off the legs of any one in its path. Catapult crews may
be less vulnerable but their responsibilities, as well, place them at
great risk.<br />
<br />
On one occasion Johnny Johnson and I, while we were replacing the radio
gear located beneath the fiberglass bathtub in the nose-wheel-well, were
nearly blown off the flight deck.<br />
<br />
The aircraft was chained down to the deck directly behind the port bow
catapult. There was already nearly 40 knots of wind blowing across the
deck from bow to stern. We had to lean into the wind in order to remain
upright. Another Vigilante was being readied for take off on the
catapult. <br />
<br />
For some reason the blast-deflector shield between the catapult and us
had not been activated. Therefore, as we approached the radio-downed
aircraft we could readily see the yellow-shirted catapult director
simultaneously giving hand signals to both the pilot and the catapult
crew – above shoulder signals to the pilot and below the waist signals
to the crew. <br />
<br />
After lowering the hinged bathtub I climbed up and into the
nose-wheel-well and began unscrewing the gray two-foot long rectangular
radio box. While I was doing this I could hear through my ear protection
the J79 engines of the RA-5C on the catapult began to spool-up to full
military power.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, as I began to lower the radio box down to Johnny the
afterburners of the Vigilante on the catapult were activated and 36,000
pounds of boiling thrust blew Johnny’s legs out from under him.
Fortunately, his left hand was already gripping the deck chain to steady
himself. Otherwise, he would have surely been blown overboard. As it
were he remained prone and suspended in the air for a good 10 to 15
seconds. We later found the radio gear a number of yards aft of the
aircraft.<br />
<br />
Several weeks after returning to NAS Sanford I found myself experiencing
yet another life-threatening event. Although I did not know it at the
time, the event was directly related to an incident that had occurred
onboard the Ranger.<br />
<br />
Late one evening our shop received a call from the maintenance crew that
the radio of an aircraft doing touch and goes was not functioning
properly. I was sent out alone to replace the gear. After checking with
the pilot and inspecting the controls in the cockpit, I climbed down and
hit the switch that opened the door to the nose-wheel-well. After
waiting several moments for the maintenance crew to place a lock-block
on the door’s hydraulics, I motion with my hands for the block. They
indicated that they had left it in their shop and encourage me to
replace the gear anyway.<br />
<br />
Reluctantly, I released and pull down the fiberglass bathtub and climbed
up into the nose-wheel-well. There was a small foothold on the door
that we stood on in order to gain access to the radio gear. Suddenly,
the hydraulics activated, slamming the door shut, crushing the bathtub
and shoving me into the small cavity that the nosewheel normally would
occupy when the aircraft was aloft.<br />
<br />
Moments later the door open and I fell to the tarmac. I was extremely
fortunate. I could have easily ended up being crushed like the
fiberglass bathtub. Needless to say the flight was aborted. The plane
had been damaged and the radio was still not functioning.<br />
<br />
Several weeks later, once again, I found myself alone in a similar
circumstance. This time I refused to replace the radio gear until the
door’s hydraulics had been secured. Suddenly, a member of the
maintenance crew was in my face demanding that I replace the gear. This
time, with his face only inches from mine, I recognized him. We had been
crewmates onboard the Ranger. I had caught him cheating one evening at
cards and confronted him in front of his cohorts.<br />
<br />
Outranking me he pointed to the stripes on his left shoulder and once
again demanded that I replace the radio gear. I refused. Grabbing me by
the neck and arm he shoved me toward his maintenance vehicle. Minutes
later, we were standing in front of the duty officer. After hearing from
both of us, the chief on duty told me to return to my shop. The next
day I heard that my adversary had been written up and was going to lose
a stripe over the incident.<br />
<br />
Originally, the North American A3J-1 Vigilante (later re-designated the
A-5A) was designed as the first all-weather, carrier-launched,
nuclear-capable attack bomber. The updated A3J-2 became the A-5B.
However, by 1963 the U.S. Navy's strategic role shifted from manned
bombers to submarine launched ballistic missiles. As a result
procurement of the A-5A and A-5B ended and the attack bomber was
converted into an extremely high speed tactical reconnaissance aircraft,
equipped with two General Electric J79 turbojet engines with
afterburners.<br />
<br />
The new RA-5C had a slightly greater wing area. It needed it for lift.
The reconnaissance Vigilante weighed almost five tons more than the
A-5A. It was the largest and fastest airplane to ever operate from an
aircraft carrier. Though it had almost the same thrust as the A-5A,
replacing the bomb bay with a long external under the fuselage
reconnaissance fairing called the “canoe”, reduced its acceleration and
climb-rate. <br />
<br />
Nevertheless, in 1969, on a practice run preparing for the London/New
York Mail Race, a new 156 series Vigilante without the reconnaissance
canoe installed exceeded Mach 2.5. The pilot later said he felt he could
have gone faster. I once witness the return of a RA-5C with half of its
tail gone. The pilot would only admit that he had exceeded Mach 2.<br />
<br />
Located in the “canoe” were a series of multi-sensor, state of the art
reconnaissance. There were vertical, oblique and split-image cameras, as
well as, 3-inch and 18-inch horizon-to-horizon panoramic scanning
cameras with a Digital Data System (DDS), which encoded all the
statistical data (altitude, latitude, date, etc.) on the five-inch-wide
negative film, identifying exactly where the photos were taken.<br />
<br />
In addition, an Inertial Navigation System (INS) in conjunction with an
Automatic Flight Control System (AFCS) enabled the RA-5C to fly precise
missions ranging from treetop to high altitude. The information obtained
was later interpreted by the shipboard Integrated Operational
Intelligence Center (IOIC) and used for mission planning.<br />
<br />
The aircraft was also equipped with a television camera capable of
functioning in very low light, mounted under the nose in a bubble-eye
just behind the radome, Side Looking Airborne Radar (SLAR), an infrared
line scanner, and Passive Electronic Counter Measures (PECM) – a sensor
for gathering electromagnetic intelligence located in the linear weapons
bay.<br />
<br />
The Vigilante had twin cockpits. The 2-man crew flew in tandem, the
pilot in front and the Reconnaissance Attack Navigator (RAN), in the
rear. Compared to other aircraft, the cockpit was large and comfortable.
The hot air rain removal system blown over the curved one-piece
windscreen provided the pilot with excellent visibility even during
severe weather conditions.<br />
<br />
The supersonic aircraft could operate at altitudes from sea level to
above 50,000 feet. In fact, on December 13, 1960, Navy Commander Leroy
Heath with his Bombardier/Navigator Lieutenant Larry Monroe established a
new world altitude record of 91,450.8 feet (17.320 miles) in an A3J
Vigilante. It surpassed the previous record by over four miles and was
held for over 13 years.<br />
<br />
Due to its primary mission (pre- and post-strike photography) the RA-5C
Vigilante had the highest loss rate of any Naval aircraft during the
Vietnam War. Eighteen Vigilantes were lost in combat. A number of
Sanford-based pilots and navigators became prisoners of war in Vietnam.<br />
<br />
The combat attrition rate of the RA-5C was also intensified by other
incidents and accidents. On June 14, 1967, during touch-and-go landings
(Field Carrier Landing Practice), a RA-5C assigned to my Squadron
RVAH-3, crashed at NAS Sanford. At the time it was reported that the
aircraft sustained in-flight Foreign Object Damage (FOD), ingesting a
loose clamp into the starboard engine. Though both crewmen ejected, the
pilot was killed. <br />
<br />
When the crash occurred I was walking to my car. Hearing an unusual
sound I turn to see the starboard engine blow as the aircraft began to
climb out of its touch-and-go landing. I saw the navigator eject just
before the plane rolled to its left. By the time the pilot ejected the
aircraft’s cockpit was pointing toward the tarmac.<br />
<br />
On October 3, 1967, another multi-million dollar RA-5C assigned to my
squadron crashed due to FOD. The pilot ejected safely. Fortunately,
there was no navigator aboard.<br />
<br />
In 1968 Congress directed the closure of NAS Sanford, transferring the
entire wing and squadrons to the former Turner Air Force Base in Albany,
Georgia. NAS Sanford became NAS Albany. In early September, two weeks
before I was discharged, another aircraft sustain Foreign Object Damage
and crashed. Fortunately, there were no fatalities.<br />
<br />
For sometime the scuttlebutt had been that someone was actually
sabotaging the aircraft, taping tools and other objects to the intake of
the J79 turbojet engines. So, it was no surprise when the Base
Commander the day after the last crash assembled every shift, the entire
command in one large hanger.<br />
<br />
Climbing to the top of a tall maintenance scaffold, he began to address
us. The delivery of his words was deliberate – slow, careful and
precise. Noticeably strapped to his right side was a Colt .45. For
several minutes he carefully explained what he and Naval Intelligence
believed had been occurring for well over a year both in Sanford and
Albany – Sabotage!<br />
<br />
As he ended his address, with his right hand he pulled the Forty-five
from its holster. Holding it at shoulder height for all to see, he said
these words, which will remain etched within my mind forever: “Someone
below me is a murderer. When we find out who you are and we’ll find out,
believe me, I’m personally going to put a bullet through your brain!” <br />
<br />
Turning to a friend I said, “ I don’t know who is crazier, the saboteur
or our Base Commander? I’m sure glad I’m being discharged in two weeks.”<br />
<br />
<br />Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-46988266544825627292012-02-06T16:00:00.000-08:002013-07-10T07:43:16.618-07:00Unexpected Interviews<br />
by Dee Newman<br />
<br />
During the winter of 1970, while working on a federally funded research and demonstration grant for a five county community action agency in Southern Arizona, a colleague and I drove up from Tucson to Phoenix to interview Gustavo (Gus) Gutierrez, the head of the Arizona United Farm Workers Union. <br />
<br />
One of the central elements of the project was to produced radio and television broadcasting material for the Office of Economic Opportunity (OEO) that would air on stations throughout the state of Arizona.<br />
<br />
We were to meet Gus at the Santa Rita Center on East Hadley Street in Phoenix – the same historic meeting hall where Cesar Chavez would later have his 24-day 'Fast for Justice' in 1972.<br />
<br />
After being escorted through the hall to the back of the one-story rudimentary concrete-block building, we entered a small dark room. Seated behind a desk was a large Chicano man with an affable smile. He immediately rose extending his hand and said, "Gus Gutierrez."<br />
<br />
Emerging from the shadows to his left the figure of another man appeared. At first, all I could see was the light reflecting off his thick horn-rimmed-glasses. Extending his hand, he introduced himself as Saul Alinsky.<br />
<br />
Yeah, that's what I said, Saul Alinsky. I was actually shaking the hand of the greatest community organizer of the twenty-century – the man that William F. Buckley had called a genius.<br />
<br />
A year later, I and every young activist in the nation would be reading his book, “Rules For Radicals”, the primer on how to effectively, constructively, and non-violently bring about meaningful social change. As Alinsky once said:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The ‘Prince’ was written by Machiavelli for the Haves on how to hold power. ‘Rules for Radicals’ is written for the Have-Nots on how to take it away."</blockquote>
Alinsky was not a Marxist or a Socialist. He was a Radical. He belonged to no organized groups, even those he helped organize. He loved American democracy. He spent his entire adult life trying to help others to organize in order to bring about social and political justice for all. On page 12 of "Rules for Radicals" he wrote:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Believing in people, the radical has the job of organizing them so that they will have the power and opportunity to best meet each unforeseeable future crisis as they move ahead in their eternal search for those values of equality, justice, freedom, peace, a deep concern for the preciousness of human life, and all those rights and values propounded by Judeo-Christianity and the democratic political tradition. Democracy is not an end but the best means toward achieving these values. This is my credo for which I live and, if need be, die." </blockquote>
Two years later on June 12, 1972, eight days after Cesar ended his ‘Fast For Justice’ Alinsky died of a sudden, massive heart attack, on a street corner in Carmel, California, at the age of 63. At the time I was living just up the coast in San Mateo.<br />
<br />
The interview with Gus Gutierrez and Saul Alinsky made for a highly informative discussion. They both were very persuasive and charismatic characters, possessing powers of charm and intellect that enabled them to easily captivate one’s interests and attention with their knowledge and experience. Alinsky’s temperament though far less gentle than his protégé’s was laced with a dry humor.<br />
<br />
Several times during the conversation Gus urged us to interview some actual farm laborers. He suggested that we might find a crew working on a large farm owned by the Boswell Company just west of the city. Accordingly, later that same day, Harry and I found ourselves driving around a huge complex, consisting of mile-long, rectangular subdivisions of cropland. <br />
<br />
In the course of our exploration of the area, after a series of successful audio and video interviews with some farm workers, I noticed a lone figure, a man walking a plowed row. Thinking it would make, visually, a great shot, I ask Harry to pull over.<br />
<br />
As I was setting-up my portable video camera from the open window of Harry’s VW Bug, the man turned and saw us. Suddenly, he began running toward his truck. My initial reaction of consternation soon turned to fear. <br />
<br />
On reaching his truck he pull out a rifle. Cocking it, he leaned over the truck’s hood and aimed the lever-action Winchester in our direction.<br />
<br />
“Harry! Get the hell out of here!” I screamed.<br />
<br />
When I looked back, the man had jumped into his truck and was barreling down the parallel dirt road after us, dust flying up behind him.<br />
<br />
At the first intersection, Harry took a right. The man, still in hot pursuit, turned right as well. Soon we were driving side-by-side. He motioned for us to pull over. We did as he directed. Moments later, after blocking our escape with his truck, he was standing by my open window with the barrel of his rifle inches from my face.<br />
<br />
“Give me that camera!” He shouted.<br />
<br />
Harry (‘the interviewer’), who normally was demonstratively unrestrained, sat mute, leaving me to single-handedly plead our case and persuade our pursuer that we meant him no harm.<br />
<br />
Immediately I began to explain to the man our purpose and intentions.<br />
<br />
“Give me that camera!” He shouted again.<br />
<br />
I assured him that I had not taken any footage of him. Showing him the camera, I explained to him that I was unable to even turn the camera on before he began to run.<br />
<br />
Though, not yet discernable of what, it was soon apparent that our pursuer (whose ancestry was obviously Asian) was more frighten than either of us. <br />
<br />
As I began to ask him questions regarding his concerns, the rifle slowly lowered and his story was revealed.<br />
<br />
Before the Second World War, the man’s family once owned farmland in the area. It was confiscated by the federal government during the war and his entire family was moved to an internment camp, the Gila River War Relocation Center southeast of Phoenix on the Gila River Indian Reservation. During the war the camp became Arizona's fourth-largest city, housing over 13,000 Japanese-Americans at its peak.<br />
<br />
In 1944, the year I was born, he volunteered and heroically fought in the South Pacific, earning several metals, including a Purple Heart for being wounded in battle.<br />
<br />
After the war his family’s land was never returned and was eventually sold to the Boswell Company. Years later, he got a job with the company, working his way up to become foreman of this large complex, encompassing the confiscated farmland his family once owned.<br />
<br />
When he saw the camera, he thought he was about to lose everything again. He envisioned his employer firing him for allowing his image to be exploited by an adversary. By the time he finished telling his story we were both in tears.<br />
<br />
<br />Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-37379367016019366972011-01-25T13:22:00.000-08:002011-08-10T05:19:49.416-07:00An Astonishing CoincidenceBy Dee Newman<br />
<br />
Just northeast of the California Pacific Medical Center on Castro Street in San Francisco is Duboce Park. Years ago in 1996 while my friend Jennifer was undergoing a routine physical examination at the medical center, I walked over to the park to read a book.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwaOUmH-5vyuzgao_E61fuyZkZ40DjE4RnQZK3TUBnJfUoe5lCxC5q50T3voPrM9KznnyZ_lWNw9dVYUIFuQuYkHBfDUi6QoFnsSfPm67P1TdVB8Hdoqz3bb2uDC0Noa4uCmlTFBrIozc/s1600/Jennifer+1_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwaOUmH-5vyuzgao_E61fuyZkZ40DjE4RnQZK3TUBnJfUoe5lCxC5q50T3voPrM9KznnyZ_lWNw9dVYUIFuQuYkHBfDUi6QoFnsSfPm67P1TdVB8Hdoqz3bb2uDC0Noa4uCmlTFBrIozc/s640/Jennifer+1_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
As I enter the park from Duboce Avenue I began looking for a place to plop down. Immediately, my eyes were drawn to a bench on the high west end of the park that offered an exceptional view of the commons and the surrounding neighborhood. Unfortunately, the bench was occupied by a young woman and her child. <br />
<br />
I reluctantly chose another spot nearby, and though the view was adequate, I continued to periodically look up from my reading to see if the bench I preferred was still in use. Eventually, the young woman and her child stood up to leave. <br />
<br />
Quickly I marked the page I was reading with a piece of paper and headed towards the bench.<br />
<br />
As I was sitting down, I noticed on the bench beneath me an astonishing coincidence. I immediately stood up. <br />
<br />
There, carved into the bench where I had just sat down was my name – DEE.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbAKvkFSnMxYhRtqKLqimPGfS6WsCikMjcpXyheNOM2YsUC8jBVZjbl7ebmNIZdOA3dPodldv9UMGl9oT8VR61HTm5Voj2NU-0D6fcWoLBOfdVuCxDAxZ5RAVJbwSd4JCtwAWUKUku48E/s1600/PBenchDee_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbAKvkFSnMxYhRtqKLqimPGfS6WsCikMjcpXyheNOM2YsUC8jBVZjbl7ebmNIZdOA3dPodldv9UMGl9oT8VR61HTm5Voj2NU-0D6fcWoLBOfdVuCxDAxZ5RAVJbwSd4JCtwAWUKUku48E/s640/PBenchDee_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-11534180919590025942010-12-01T12:01:00.000-08:002011-08-10T05:30:06.304-07:00The Base BeautyBy Dee Newman<br />
<br />
When she called my name I recognized her immediately. Less than a week earlier I had watched her walk across a temporary stage in front of the base commissary. At the time I remember turning to my friend Larry and saying, “Now, that’s a good looking <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/WAVES">WAVE</a>.” Within an hour she was accepting the title: Base Beauty.<br />
<br />
I had arrived in Millington at the Naval Air Technical Training Center from boot camp only a month earlier. Since I had had a comprehensive oral and dental examination in San Diego, I believed my dental appointment that day would be merely a routine exam. Nevertheless, given the technology of dentistry in 1965, I was, admittedly, experiencing that morning some mild degree of dental anxiety.<br />
<br />
As she escorted me to the examination room my uneasiness began to melt. This could actually be a pleasurable experience, I thought.<br />
<br />
Visually, she was a stunningly beautiful young woman. Walking behind her was pure pleasure. She moved with a compelling grace that noticeably turned the heads of both the men and women in the waiting room.<br />
<br />
“Have a seat in the chair,” she said with a soft directive voice that was warm and friendly.<br />
<br />
After reviewing my history and asking me a series of questions, she inquired if I had experienced any dental discomfort recently. My immediate response was to say no, and then I remembered feeling a slight sensation during the evening meal the night before. Pointing to the tooth, I describe it as more of an awareness than a discomfort.<br />
<br />
Before she began her examination of my mouth, she thoroughly washed her hands and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. Using a periodontal mirror and probe, she began to examine my teeth and gums, recording her observations on a tooth chart.<br />
<br />
With her face only inches from mine, as she poked and probed my mouth, I noticed a slight imperfection beneath her right cheekbone. Concealed by a thin layer of makeup were several small acne scars.<br />
<br />
Completing her examination she step back and said, “Everything seems to be fine except for that one tooth. It looks as though you may have cracked an old filling. The doctor should be here soon.”<br />
<br />
When the doctor arrived she explained to him what she had found. After completing his examination, he informed me that the old filling would need to be replaced. I immediately began to feel a renewed sense of apprehension as my hands anxiously gripped the ends of the chair’s armrests.<br />
<br />
Once the Novocain had taking effect and it was time for the drilling to begin, the two of them, the doctor to my right and the Base Beauty to my left, began the unsettling process of removing the old filling. At first I was only aware of the slow grinding of the drill. Little by little, though, I became increasingly aware of something slowly bearing down on the back of my left hand. Suddenly, as our eyes met, I realized what it was – the warm fleshy folds of her vulva beneath the white cotton dress of her uniform.<br />
<br />
She didn’t blink an eye as she continued to stare into mine. Nor did she reposition herself. In fact, the once slow, almost imperceptive undulations of her loins became more and more intense, pressing harder and harder against the knuckles of my hand. And then, just before the drilling stopped, I witnessed the pupils of her large grayish-green eyes suddenly dilate and turn black, acquiring the distinctive unfocused glare and blankness of a blind person.<br />
<br />
It was and continues to be the most intense and satisfying dental experiences I have ever had. Needless to say, thanks to Miss Millington, since then, dental anxiety has never been a concern of mine.Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-79307495740397981132010-07-23T09:46:00.001-07:002011-04-01T06:03:20.697-07:00Who in the . . .<div class="post-header"></div>by Dee Newman<br />
<br />
Early, on the morning of June the 22nd, 1972, while standing in the sanctuary of the St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, just two blocks east of our nation’s Capitol, amidst a noisy throng of mostly women and children, suddenly, with some force, a woman’s body pressed up against me. As I turned to face her, feeling the warmth of her breath upon my face, I instantly recognized her. <br />
<br />
It was Candice Bergen. Only six months earlier I had watched her on the big screen playing Susan opposite Art Garfunkel and Jack Nicholson in the controversial film, <i>Carnal Knowledge</i>. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-a_flll3Ig3qb_3NAg_uGc3f6A8ofejMH4198bIzp6jOhPeFKRjFp9YdfvOC7cXz60TGXiXFaEiUWIHxt_9wM6nUtbYgytybbT4x9LBBzPUR0DyWKfpbNZfej9ZdBE3SB01rhbgehxo/s1600/Candice3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-a_flll3Ig3qb_3NAg_uGc3f6A8ofejMH4198bIzp6jOhPeFKRjFp9YdfvOC7cXz60TGXiXFaEiUWIHxt_9wM6nUtbYgytybbT4x9LBBzPUR0DyWKfpbNZfej9ZdBE3SB01rhbgehxo/s320/Candice3.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>After accepting her apology for bumping into me, I turned to my left and nudged my friend, George, with my elbow. <br />
<br />
George and I had left Nashville only twenty-four hours earlier. We had not had a wink of sleep. It was, literally, a miracle that we were standing there at all, unscathed and alive. <br />
<br />
Three days before, on June the 19th Agnes came a shore along the Florida panhandle as a category one hurricane. Moving northeastward, it weakened considerably over Georgia. As it did, my friend and neighbor, George Walker, a freelanced photographer for a number of national news publications, suggested that we drive to Washington, D.C., to cover what was later to be known as the women’s and children’s “Ring Around Congress.” <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, unbeknownst to us, after we were well on our way, Agnes began to regained strength and intensity along the eastern coast of North Carolina, ravaging the mid-Atlantic region as a tropical storm, killing 129 people and destroying $1.7 billion in goods and property. The worst damage occurred along a path from Virginia through Maryland and Pennsylvania to the Finger Lakes region of New York, when Agnes combined with a non-tropical low to produce widespread rainfall and severe flooding.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_1TKGxcODAfOnwUBra2tPEy_70J50ikCt6oHM228SEtI9Sz2PBi0ODDg8hDydb_FLUklQjJYwN8URz_DUIwKPK1qnPb5rOgRratDwgETaS_Hz-5mcC0xPbKJkdqyLflLNPKekhLAZdk/s1600/March.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_1TKGxcODAfOnwUBra2tPEy_70J50ikCt6oHM228SEtI9Sz2PBi0ODDg8hDydb_FLUklQjJYwN8URz_DUIwKPK1qnPb5rOgRratDwgETaS_Hz-5mcC0xPbKJkdqyLflLNPKekhLAZdk/s640/March.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
By the time we reach central Virginia, the rainfall had become extremely intense. Many rivers and streams were overflowing their banks. Eventually, around 9 o’clock that night, we were forced by local authorities to hold-up in the community center of a small town just west of D.C. The once placid stream on the outskirts of the town had become a raging river, rising several feet above the bridge that crossed it. <br />
<br />
The next morning after the rains had stopped, we drove out to the bridge to survey the situation. We soon found ourselves stuck between two large eighteen-wheelers whose drivers had obviously decided to attempt the crossing. Fortunately, my little Volkswagen Karmann Ghia, literally, was suck across the bridge by the wake of the truck in front of us. To this day, I still believe that if it were not for George’s size (six-feet-four-inches) and weight (nearly 300 pounds), we would have easily been swept away with the river’s excessive current. <br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When we finally arrived in D.C. we went straight to St. Marks where the women activists and their children were to gather before marching to the Capitol. George gravitated towards a small group of photo journalists clustered in the middle of the church’s sanctuary. On a raised platform at one end of the church stood Joan Baez, the event’s coordinator, her mother and her sister, Mimi. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkt_uRXeEs4JCAps1H6YkJfkcC8e-G54dhfKjuvaNdxW1lR9CBoiduHWwNs-KQzr1vwvehcnCj6jDhWDeNpZ4i2DwYWfmDFxKTY510UIVqJ9RnGxzzPBJMnXeOOCoffI1XrIwTqvpt28/s1600/Joan11" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkt_uRXeEs4JCAps1H6YkJfkcC8e-G54dhfKjuvaNdxW1lR9CBoiduHWwNs-KQzr1vwvehcnCj6jDhWDeNpZ4i2DwYWfmDFxKTY510UIVqJ9RnGxzzPBJMnXeOOCoffI1XrIwTqvpt28/s640/Joan11" width="640" /></a></div><br />
I would later learn from Joan that the demonstration had been nearly cancelled, due in part to the weather which had prevented hundreds and thousands of women and children from arriving either by plane, train, or automobile. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6sdGYzvwjUenJG-Nsb6-Sdg7bLuD_XC97VgiKRi0e1ilypt0Ffr7C0k37Rv_lMi_VBnRFppksWmTUpGTkE39hYcNTqnXDOiwj2qpzJBFFTd2Db3afHywK0h_4khDqNeP6IVnsUnrRwiBj/s1600/Joan+5_2" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="548" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6sdGYzvwjUenJG-Nsb6-Sdg7bLuD_XC97VgiKRi0e1ilypt0Ffr7C0k37Rv_lMi_VBnRFppksWmTUpGTkE39hYcNTqnXDOiwj2qpzJBFFTd2Db3afHywK0h_4khDqNeP6IVnsUnrRwiBj/s640/Joan+5_2" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoItnmbA9J3u5tnmrUYGa6AYzyaFg-xbwfj3c6iwk6pciRPdpRLgoEhZCTtIGgEWekGmdJNDJ4i7dIkK6T6J2-jYrgwrAEE4mElpgYS6NyigV5qP9JmiF8s6gN7Ww6RGWYkr0BS8Xwv7dB/s1600/Joan12" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoItnmbA9J3u5tnmrUYGa6AYzyaFg-xbwfj3c6iwk6pciRPdpRLgoEhZCTtIGgEWekGmdJNDJ4i7dIkK6T6J2-jYrgwrAEE4mElpgYS6NyigV5qP9JmiF8s6gN7Ww6RGWYkr0BS8Xwv7dB/s640/Joan12" width="640" /></a></div><br />
I also learned that Marion Barry, Washington’s mayor, and a small group of the city’s Black leaders for some unknown reason, had been trying for weeks to sabotage the march and prevent it from happening. It was later reported that the Nixon administration might have pressured the mayor and other black leaders to use their influence to prevent the march from occurring.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9WEZFdU50rvFJ3P_kH8Cb3E814aEZGhWcfVTfMXBCsH66APwkgK2sh_eb2B9zdCJlt6X0mC7ii456Z2ZU8EFhximU72mLQG38U5rLvOayl5BMMmWbIvnEyl8Til90cF_UjkEWu7kARk/s1600/Candice" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9WEZFdU50rvFJ3P_kH8Cb3E814aEZGhWcfVTfMXBCsH66APwkgK2sh_eb2B9zdCJlt6X0mC7ii456Z2ZU8EFhximU72mLQG38U5rLvOayl5BMMmWbIvnEyl8Til90cF_UjkEWu7kARk/s640/Candice" width="640" /></a></div><br />
If it were not for the weather and a series of peculiar and mysterious disruptions this symbolic act of solidarity with the women and children of Vietnam may have been one of the largest demonstrations Washington had ever witnessed. Unfortunately, in the end, there were no more than 2500 to 3000 women and children who joined hands that day to circle the Capitol and Congress. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Vokpza6eJghSNvsgvDa9D4u7xkbO2uVrNMcrUjPWon-cpdUFj5qH16gOstRZjPx0LRtD8C6pjTzRp0xowLttJ0glrHgFRmGpa463iLI67lX_iJmRMrplznwOf8AAbxsGNEBegvWG3_E/s1600/Candice4" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Vokpza6eJghSNvsgvDa9D4u7xkbO2uVrNMcrUjPWon-cpdUFj5qH16gOstRZjPx0LRtD8C6pjTzRp0xowLttJ0glrHgFRmGpa463iLI67lX_iJmRMrplznwOf8AAbxsGNEBegvWG3_E/s640/Candice4" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Despite the fact that every Black leader in the country, including Coretta King, and many White liberal activists decided to stay home that day, due to the flood and/or pressure from Washington’s Black leadership, the demonstration was held. And, was covered by all three networks, numerous newspapers and publications including Time, Newsweek and the Associated Press. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5KnAGd-0Yu1FJVZvXTGvbx5HUUnIXMPueDRUYDOo4jXRJA4vzgzS3AFFh8g1wQ9YMc3NZ5fQF9Kiryj3hp3afwfi8SldeQg9pza4L_zMDJJVA2OsyfS7EZXXV1KP_eQ5R28t0azicraU/s1600/Joan+1" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5KnAGd-0Yu1FJVZvXTGvbx5HUUnIXMPueDRUYDOo4jXRJA4vzgzS3AFFh8g1wQ9YMc3NZ5fQF9Kiryj3hp3afwfi8SldeQg9pza4L_zMDJJVA2OsyfS7EZXXV1KP_eQ5R28t0azicraU/s640/Joan+1" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qFr3gby2hvZkK0WRPbjTawBJU_WOafnpzmoloz6Rj7qyNyKX_LkdPIN0N5AY602tT3pfUyyxRFOl4NxxXKgu6AqfISInPMvN5_9YbM4AvDztsoKEZNqIr3D06ddZvLr-E0wGs5NfM7s/s1600/Joan+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qFr3gby2hvZkK0WRPbjTawBJU_WOafnpzmoloz6Rj7qyNyKX_LkdPIN0N5AY602tT3pfUyyxRFOl4NxxXKgu6AqfISInPMvN5_9YbM4AvDztsoKEZNqIr3D06ddZvLr-E0wGs5NfM7s/s640/Joan+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7SltxDl9Pjic1Tb9hvvgUcsdXqTtZPMBu91HkwG7NA4lD0eHecLO4QtXG68aaKRW113TFonPdCRb8JvPM0_oXESNOxCy5hyphenhyphenXPE6RRu0ZigiGtudREQA6aZjPliLQqzsmDCBjhPuwe4tWJ/s1600/Candice6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7SltxDl9Pjic1Tb9hvvgUcsdXqTtZPMBu91HkwG7NA4lD0eHecLO4QtXG68aaKRW113TFonPdCRb8JvPM0_oXESNOxCy5hyphenhyphenXPE6RRu0ZigiGtudREQA6aZjPliLQqzsmDCBjhPuwe4tWJ/s640/Candice6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9q05RljIw79tKNt85ypIPrbIx78KNA6ONXLrPyGzGNRisHZWge_CNgOxCghTEvPT7dkL1-RdCNAz_Yx6DgK2gWs_LJ71SxZGc6rBKTT_Moq3fTa64z1AmnHFC7k01giCAQrqAtNpb-gY/s1600/Candice2" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9q05RljIw79tKNt85ypIPrbIx78KNA6ONXLrPyGzGNRisHZWge_CNgOxCghTEvPT7dkL1-RdCNAz_Yx6DgK2gWs_LJ71SxZGc6rBKTT_Moq3fTa64z1AmnHFC7k01giCAQrqAtNpb-gY/s320/Candice2" /></a></div>Now, as I was saying, after accepting Ms Bergen’s apology, I nudged George with my elbow and softly whispered, “George, Candice Bergen is standing right beside me.” <br />
<br />
“What!” George loudly retorted. <br />
<br />
“Candice Bergen is standing right beside me,” I quietly whispered, again. <br />
<br />
“Speak up, Dee! I can’t hear you.” <br />
<br />
After softly repeating myself for the third time, “Candice Bergen is standing right beside me,” George shouts, loud enough for the entire assembled throng to hear:<br />
<br />
“Who in the fuck is Candice Bergen?"<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16pt;"></span>Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-85715564325878673752010-07-14T05:09:00.000-07:002010-09-29T16:53:28.648-07:00In a State of Utter DespairBy Dee Newman <br />
<br />
It was two in the morning. I was lying there in the dark, stretched out on her couch with her cat curled up on the coffee table and her dog lying on the floor beside me. I was thinking . . . “You fool! You could be up stairs with Lynn right now, making mad passionate love. You’re an idiot! The woman is breathtakingly beautiful. She all but asked you to come to bed with her.” <br />
<br />
<br />
I met Lynn and her friend, Christina, six months earlier on the island of Maui in Hawaii at a place the locals call Ohe’o Gulch and tourists refer to as the Seven Sacred Pools. <br />
<br />
I had spent the night before on the other side of the island watching the sunset from the rim of Haleakala Crater. I arose early the next morning long before sunrise to drive to Hana on Maui’s east coast. I had been warned by several people that “the road to Hana,” though awe-inspiringly beautiful, was extremely dangerous, and could, in fact, transport me to heaven or hell rather than to Hana, if I was not exceedingly careful. <br />
<br />
I soon learned why the long narrow, often one-lane, winding road with dramatic hair-pin turns, perilous cliffs, towering waterfalls, and spectacular distracting views of the Pacific ocean hundreds of feet below had, over the years, witnessed countless numbers of careless tourists plunging to their death. <br />
<br />
Taking the advice offered by a woman I met at the airport, I decided to use the return trip to absorb and take photos of the magnificent natural beauty of the unblemished landscape and not stop on the way over. Nevertheless, it still took me several hours to drive the 52 miles to Hana. <br />
<br />
It was a glorious day, hardly a cloud in the sky, as the sun rose out of the ocean. After having an early breakfast in a small café in Hana, I continue on to Ohe’o Gulch in Kipahulu. Fortunately, it was still early and there was only one other car in the parking lot when I arrived. <br />
<br />
I decided to hike the 4-mile Papiwau Trail that winds up and along the stream with the same name, past numerous waterfalls and pools, through a dense mystical bamboo forest before eventually arriving at Waimoku Falls. The only other people I saw on the entire hike were a young couple who arrived at the falls just as I was leaving. Unfortunately, by the time I got back to the trailhead, the parking lot had become crowded. <br />
<br />
After having a snack, I hiked over to the Gulch and scouted out several of the waterfalls and their pools. Selecting one that was nearly deserted, I took the plunge and swam over to the base of the waterfall. Before climbing up the rock face to the left of the falls, I thoroughly checkout the water’s depth beneath the falls for any obstructions. <br />
<br />
When at last I reached the top, some thirty feet above the pool and turn around, two very attractive, bikini-clad young women were carefully laying out their towels on the black volcanic stone embankment on the opposite side of the pool. <br />
<br />
I stood there for a good minute, pretending to take-in the magnificent view towards the ocean, allowing them to get situated so that they might observe my dive without being distracted. When I was sure their attention was completely focused on me, I executed a perfect swan dive from off the right side of the falls. As I surfaced I was met with a standing ovation. <br />
<br />
I spent the next couple of hours – very-enjoyable hours – with the two of them. They were from Duluth, Minnesota, and had rented a condominium for a week on the west side of Maui near Kihei on Maalaea Bay. Though they were both very attractive and thoroughly delightful to be with, I had come to Hawaii to be alone, to meditate, and use the time to seriously reflect and think about my recent divorce. So, after having a late lunch with them, I decided to bid them adieu and get back on the road again. Besides, I wanted to stop and take some photos of some of those towering waterfalls and magnificent views I had only peripherally observed on the way over. <br />
<br />
However, at my second stop, after finishing my photo taking and returning to my car, to my surprise, Lynn and Christina pulled up along side me and inquired if I had made lodging arrangement for the night. When I replied that I had not, they asked if I would like to stay with them at their condominium. <br />
<br />
The days we spent together, before I flew to Kauai, were exceedingly comfortable and natural. It was as if we had known one another all our lives. <br />
<br />
Weeks later, after we had all returned home, Lynn informed me by phone that her boy friend and her had reunited. Nevertheless, she continued to encourage me to come visit her in Duluth. So, it was not a complete surprised to her when she received a phone call from me, informing her that I was in Montreal, Canada, and would consider, since we were on the same latitude, driving over to see her. Though she was curious about why I was in Canada and so far from home, her response and invitation, after I informed her that I was on vacation visiting friends, sounded genuinely enthusiastic. <br />
<br />
I arrived in Duluth two days later on a Friday around noon. The temperature was 105 degrees, the highest recorded temperature in Duluth’s history. Lynn was still at work and suggested that I head over to Lake Shore Drive where there was a large white sandy beach on the south shore of Lake Superior and cool off. So, I did. <br />
<br />
The parking lot was full of cars. There was a large sand dune obstructing the view to the beach. When I crested the top of the dune I was shocked to see hundreds of people lying or standing along the water’s edge, but not a single person in the lake. As I said, the temperature was a sweltering 105 degrees. <br />
<br />
Placing my towel on the beach, I made a mad dash for the lake and dove in. Immediately, my heart stopped beating; my gonads sought shelter within my body. To say that the water was unbearably cold would be an understatement. Though I had frolicked and bathed in glacial lakes at 13,000 feet, I had never experienced anything in all my life as excruciatingly cold as Lake Superior that day. My entire body went into shock. If the water had been deeper, I would have surely drowned. <br />
<br />
The next day, Saturday, the temperature dropped into the high nineties. Lynn and I drove north up the west coast of Lake Superior to Cascade River State Park. It is well known for its seven cascading waterfalls. Lynn described it as an area not unlike where we had first met in Maui. <br />
<br />
There are no descriptive words to adequately reveal the beauty, magic and charm of that day. To say it was merely enchanting falls far short of the pleasure experienced. The physical contact between us was innocent, playful, carefree, and uninhibited, yet left us desiring more. When we drove back into Duluth late that night along Skyline Drive with the lights of the city below us and a billion stars above, it could not have been more captivating. Later, as we sat in her kitchen talking, the physical contact became even more tender and intimate. Taking her shoes off and placing her bare legs on my lap, she asked if I wouldn’t mind giving her a leg massage. <br />
<br />
Starting with her feet, I slowly move to the muscles of her calves and thighs. As the touching became more and more intimate, she moved closer, putting her arms around me. I could feel the breath of her on my face, as I continue to rub her thighs. <br />
<br />
It was then, as it became obvious that we were both ready to move to her bed, that she whispered into my ear that her boy friend, Roger, who I had been told was backpacking in Montana, could possibility return home that very night. <br />
<br />
“What!?!” I exclaimed. <br />
<br />
“He is not suppose to arrive home until late tomorrow,” she whispered, “but there is a possibility, only a very slim possibility that he may get home tonight.” <br />
<br />
As we slowly moved from her kitchen to the bottom of the stairs and kissed goodnight, I could not help but feel a bit foolish. As I said, she had all but asked me to come to bed with her. It seemed we were both ready and willing to consummate and gratify our desire for one another. <br />
<br />
And yet, later, as I lay there in the dark, wide awake, stretched out on her couch, chastising myself for being such a fool, with her cat curled up on the coffee table and her dog lying on the floor beside me, suddenly, my earlier decision to forgo a night of passion and pleasure proved prophetic when the front door swung open and in walked Roger. <br />
<br />
“Who are you?” he suspiciously asks. <br />
<br />
“I’m Dee, Lynn’s friend from Nashville,” I replied. <br />
<br />
“Oh yeah,” he hesitantly recalled, “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said, shaking my hand before bounding up the stairs to his beloved. <br />
<br />
Before long it became painfully obvious that Roger was taking full advantage of Lynn’s ready and willing body that I had, only an hour earlier, so thoroughly aroused for him. To top it off, as the sounds of their passionate love making increased in intensity, both her dog and cat lying right there beside me began to howl and harmonize with the shrieks of ecstasy emanating from the two lovers up stairs . . . leaving me, though somewhat relieved, in a state of utter despair.<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p><b><i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></i></b></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p><b><i><span style="font-size: small;">The names have been changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent.</span></i></b></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span>Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-13731772072630949252010-07-03T09:31:00.000-07:002013-02-21T09:40:01.155-08:00The God of Her Favorite Book <h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">by Dee Newman </span></h3>
Recently, I was contacted by woman who expressed an interest in me. In
the ensuing conversation she disclosed that her favorite book was the
Bible. For those of you who know me well, I’m quite sure that you can
easily surmise what the conversation was like and its ultimate outcome.<br />
<br />
Though I knew (somewhere in the recesses of my brain) the possibility
was slim to none, I mistakenly imagined that her interest in the Bible
may be similar to mine, that is – a quest for knowledge and a desire to
try and understand why so many seemingly intelligent and rational human
beings in this day and time still are stuck in the "cave" with the
Neanderthals, emotionally and morally unable to free themselves from
fear and ignorance, unable to accept and take responsibility for being
the evolved moral creatures we are, hanging on to a mythology that may,
perhaps, have been appropriate during the “Dark Ages” when the mind of
man remained limited in knowledge and understanding of the universe, but
a mythology totally unacceptable today.<br />
<br />
“Tell me,” I asked, “which books of the Bible are your favorites . . .
the ones that describe our so-called creator as a manipulative and
sadistic God with a serious personality disorder, demonstrating a
pervasive pattern of cruel, demeaning, and aggressive behavior, using
physical cruelty and violence for the purpose of establishing dominance,
seeming to be amused by and taking pleasure in both the psychological
and physical abuse and suffering of all living sentient creatures,
frightening us humans with torture, intimidation, and terror in order to
get us to do whatever "He" wants us to do, often for the expressed
purpose of harming and inflicting pain on others (His and our imagined
enemies), while at the same time directing us to live by a set of
commandments that demand the opposite . . . Or, the ones that generally
portray a loving God who sent "His" only begotten son to die on a cross
and save us from our mortal sins, allowing us (as long as we believe
and accept him as our savior) to disregard our responsibilities as
evolved moral creatures?”<br />
<br />
As you can well imagine, her response was rather defensive, offering a
few lines of scripture to support her opinion that the God of her
favorite book “is ready to pardon, is gracious, merciful, slow to anger
and of great kindness.” Nehemiah 9:17 <br />
<br />
In addition, she suggested I read Hebrews 13:5 and Deuteronomy 31:6:
where the God of her favorite book had promised that “He” would never
leave her or forsake her. <br />
<br />
I, of course, had to reply. I told her that I recognize that no one can
form an honorable and accurate opinion about anything without first
thoroughly examining it. I assured her that, yes, I had read her
favorite book from cover to cover.<br />
<br />
I went on to say, as someone who has existed on this planet nearly 66
years, I recognize through experience that many, if not most, folks, for
whatever reasons, continue to develop their opinions (attitudes,
beliefs, and judgments) about much of what they believe to be true
through fear and ignorance. But, not me! Fear and ignorance sustain
bigotry, I told her, which is an intolerable mind set that has caused
much pain and suffering throughout the ages and will, perhaps,
ultimately lead to the same fate for our species experienced by the
pterodactyls.<br />
<br />
Years ago, I told her, back in the 1950's in the little town of Norris,
Tennessee where I was raised, I use to stay up with my mother late into
the night and listen to WOR out of New York City and Long John Nebel's
radio talk show. A frequent guest of his was a man by the name of Khigh
Dheigh (pronounced "Kye Dee"). If you ever saw the original <i>Manchurian Candidate</i>, he was Dr. Yen Lo or if you ever watch <i>Hawaii Five-O</i>, he was Chinese agent Wo Fat.<br />
<br />
Khigh Dheigh was not just an actor. He had a doctorate in theology and
in his later years was the Rector for a Taoist Sanctuary in Tempe,
Arizona called "Inner Truth Looking Place." Though there were many, the
one phrase I heard him speak back in 1958 when I was only 14 years old
that I have never forgotten was, "If you only know one religion you know
none." From that point on I began a life quest to learn as much as I
possibly could about all of the world’s religions.<br />
<br />
So, as someone who is not unfamiliar with the Bible, I too, like Samuel
Clemens (Mark Twain) have found that "it ain't the parts of the Bible
that I can't understand that bother me, it is the parts that I do
understand."<br />
<br />
For example, I asked her, (except for Noah and his family) why in
Genesis 6-8 would a loving and compassionate God drown the entire
population of the world (an estimated 200 million men, women and
innocent children), along with millions and millions of other innocent
creatures and make them suffer when a much less sadistic method of
extermination was at “His” command? After all, an omnipotent God could
have easily just snapped “His” fingers and made them all disappear. <br />
<br />
Why, I asked, throughout the history of the world, has the “Omnipotent
One” (if he truly exists outside the mind of man) chosen time and time
again to not only exterminate millions of innocent men, women and
children, but to do it in such a way that they must, before they die,
endure unimaginable pain and suffering? <br />
<br />
Why would an omnipotent God torture people, physically and emotionally,
when “He” could easily change things to the way they should be in the
blink of an eye? That is, unless, “He” really enjoys watching innocent
men, women, and children (and other innocent creatures) suffer
unspeakable agony.<br />
<br />
Offering to her another example, I recounted the story of Abraham and
Isaac (Genesis 2:1-2, 6, 9, 10-12) where God orders Abraham to kill his
son, Isaac, and present him as a "Burnt Offering." Though, I was sure
she would be familiar with the story as any avid reader of the Bible
would be, I continued with the narrative, describing how after Abraham
ties Isaac to an alter (as he was instructed to do by God) with knife in
hand, ready to kill his son, suddenly an angel appears and stops
Abraham just in the nick of time, allowing Abraham to kill an innocent
ram instead. I then asked her if she thought this story was about love
and mercy, or about a very sadistic God trying to manipulate Abraham
through fear . . . since in verse 12 the angel says, "now I know that
thou fearest God"?<br />
<br />
Speculating a loud, I wondered . . . how many people who believe in the
God of her favorite book, The Holy Bible, would kill one of their
children if God told them to? And, for that matter, what God, worthy of
our respect and admiration, would ask anyone to do such a thing?<br />
<br />
I asked her if she had ever read Romans 13: 2, Psalms 2: 8, or
Deuteronomy 7: 1-2 and 20: 10-17 where the God of her favorite Book
ordered and authorized genocide and the pillaging of others?<br />
<br />
Or, if she had ever read the entire book of Jerimiah where the God of
her favorite book ordered and authorized torture, dismemberment,
pestilence, and cannibalism? If not, she should read it and then tell me
with a straight face that the God of her favorite book is a kind,
merciful, and loving deity. <br />
<br />
By now, it should be obvious to anyone reading this account that, though
this woman and I may have had much in common, any attempt to establish a
meaningful relationship with her would have been for naught. Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-3298965812187985022009-11-29T10:26:00.000-08:002012-12-21T06:05:34.929-08:00Black Beans and Broccoli<div style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b></b></span>by Dee Newman</div>
<br />
Back then on Sunday mornings I often would go to <i>The Slice of Life</i> to have breakfast or brunch. Being a vegan there were not many restaurants in Nashville that had soysage and scrambled tofu on the menu. However, on this particular Sunday I arrived at the restaurant rather late. It was nearly noon. So, I decided to order from the lunch menu and have one of my favorite meals, Black beans and broccoli with cornbread.<br />
<br />
As I recall, the place was unusually void of customers . . . there was a young couple in the corner by the window who were obviously still feeling the effects and afterglow of their morning’s love-making, two young women who looked like Vanderbilt students, and a table with three young men, possibly brothers, and an older couple who were, more than likely, their parents.<br />
<br />
As I was finishing up my meal, I turned to the movie section of the Sunday Tennessean and noticed that <i>Alien</i> was playing at Cinema South out off Nolensville Pike. I had not seen it when it was first released back in 1979. Looking at the clock on the wall I realized I had only fifteen minutes to get there before the feature began.<br />
<br />
Although the drive out to Cinema South was uneventful, it took me a good twenty minutes. Fortunately, when I arrived there was no line. I paid the attendant and quickly went to the theater on the right. It was packed. I stood at the back for awhile to let my eyes get adjusted and then walked down the left isle looking first to my to my right and then to my left trying to find an empty seat. I was unsuccessful.<br />
<br />
After returning to the back of the theater and moving to my right, I continued to search the theater in vain for an empty seat. By now the previews were over and the feature had begun. Feeling a bit foolish and frustrated, I slowly began to walk down the isle on the right side of the theater. Completing what I thought was a thorough investigation, I concluded that there was no empty seat to be found.<br />
<br />
And then, suddenly, I saw it . . . on the eighth row, near the middle.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I whispered as I tried in vain to unobtrusively make my way to the only empty seat in the theater, causing a disturbance that was viewed by the audience, I’m sure, as an unnecessary nuisance. When I finally arrived at my seat, I realized I was in the exact center of the theater.<br />
<br />
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the award winning sci-fi horror film, I should, perhaps, before I continue with my tale, acquaint you with the plot of the movie.<br />
<br />
While on a return trip from Thedus to Earth, the commercial spaceship, <i>Nostromo</i>, hauling twenty million tons of ore and a refinery, receives a mysterious transmission from a nearby planetoid. The ship's computer awakens the seven-member crew.<br />
<br />
After consulting with their corporate employers, the crew lands on the planetoid, damaging their ship. Captain Dallas, Executive Officer Kane, and Navigator Lambert set out to investigate the source of the signal. Warrant Officer Ripley who is played by Sigourney Weaver, Science Officer Ash, and the two Engineers Brett and Parker stay behind to make repairs on<i> Nostromo</i>.<br />
<br />
Dallas, Kane, and Lambert soon discover that an abandoned spaceship is transmitting the unknown signal. Inside the ship they discover the remains of a large alien creature. Meanwhile, Warrant Officer Ripley determines that the transmission is apparently some type of warning.<br />
<br />
In his exploration of the alien ship Executive Officer Kane discovers a huge chamber containing a vast number of eggs. A creature is releases from one of the eggs and attaches itself to Kane’s face. Dallas and Lambert carry the unconscious Executive Officer back to <i>Nostromo</i>. Despite the warning from Warrant Officer Ripley to follow the ship's quarantine procedures, Science Officer Ash allows all three of the men to come aboard.<br />
<br />
While unsuccessfully attempting to remove the creature from Kane's face, they discover that its blood is in fact an extremely corrosive acid. Eventually, the creature detaches itself from Kane’s face on its own and is later found dead.<br />
<br />
After <i>Nostromo</i> is repaired, the crew resumes their trip back to Earth. Soon, Kane awakens, apparently unharmed. All seems well.<br />
<br />
Now, back to my tale.<br />
<br />
While the minutes ticked by and the suspense and tension within the theater intensified, I began to gradually experience a bloating feeling in my gut from the black beans and broccoli I had eaten earlier. As many of you may know black beans and broccoli belong to a group of cruciferous vegetables that are notorious for both increasing the amount of gas produced in the intestines and its potent pungency.<br />
<br />
Consequently, (though I became increasingly uncomfortable as my gut continued to fill with gas) I was determined to not release any of the noxious fumes from my bowels and further alienate (no pun intended) my fellow audience members who were already annoyed with me for my late arrival.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, fate had a significantly different plan. As Executive Officer Kane began to eat, and then, convulsively choke on his first meal after his harrowing experience, suddenly, an alien creature bursts from his chest, killing him and shocking the entire audience. As you may well imagine, at that very moment, the gas that had been building up in my gut simultaneously burst from my butt. The sound of the thunderous release was so loud that it was heard by the attendants in the lobby. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it.<br />
<br />
Every person sitting in the rows in front of me immediately turned around to determine who had produced the thunderous explosion. I would have turn myself and pretended the blast had come from someone behind me, but I knew that the folks to my left and right and behind me were fully aware of who the culprit was. So, instead I tried to diminish my stature by slouching as far down in my seat as possible. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the folks in front of me turned around and went back to watching the movie.<br />
<br />
However, to my detriment, the ordeal had not found its end. My flatulent outburst was not only deafening, its odor was overwhelmingly offensive and began to invade and assault the nostrils of the audience in an ever widening sphere until folks, once more, were turning around to look at me in disgust. But now, there were daggers coming out of their eyes.<br />
<br />
The woman who was sitting directly in front of me turn to her husband and said loud enough for everyone in the theater to hear, “That has to be the worst smelling fart I have ever experienced!” Sadly, not only was her assessment correct, the fart’s pungent intensity seemed to take forever to diminish.<br />
<br />
At this point in my tale, I usually jump ahead several months to a scene at the old <i>Spaghetti Factory</i>. I’m seated at a table with one of my closest and dearest friends, Irwin Goldzweig. For nearly a decade, we had been meeting there twice a year to celebrate each other’s birthdays. <br />
<br />
After discussing a number of issues and concerns, Irwin began focusing on the depressing prospect that Bill Boner was going to be Nashville’s next mayor, declaring that he, himself, would run against Boner if it were not for the fact that he had been such a vociferous activist and protester of the Vietnam War.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, I began to laugh, uncontrollably. Irwin became quite irritated with me. He was serious and thought I was laughing at him and his concerns for Nashville’s future under Boner’s leadership or lack there of.<br />
<br />
As soon as I was able to regain my composure, I explained to Irwin that I too was unable to run for the office of Mayor because there were several hundred people throughout the city who would immediately recognize me as the man who discharged the loudest and worst smelling fart that they had ever experienced and ruined their viewing of one of the all time best sci-fi horror films ever made.<br />
<br />
As I was completing my explanation, a woman seated at the table next to us turned and said, “I thought you looked familiar.”Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-6205285950255643842009-11-29T10:24:00.001-08:002010-07-15T14:12:21.480-07:00Heather’s Indiscretion<div style="color: black;">By Dee Newman</div><br />
I realize it may be difficult for those of you who know me to believe that I was once in the military and that I volunteered to serve. But, it’s true. In October of 1964 I joined the United States Navy. After boot camp in San Diego, California, and nine-months in Millington, Tennessee, just north of Memphis, training to become an aviation electronics technician, I spent the remainder of my four years, except for the last three-months, in Sanford, Florida, at the Naval Air Station there in Attack Squadron THREE. The mission of the training squadron was to prepare pilots to fly the Mach-2 RA-5C Vigilante reconnaissance aircraft that was effectively used by the 7th fleet during carrier air wing operations in the South China Sea throughout the Vietnam War. The supersonic aircraft could operate at altitudes from sea level to above 50,000 feet.<br />
<br />
In early spring of 1968 we were inform through the chain of command that the entire base would be moved to Albany, Georgia. Sometime in late May my wife, Jo, and I were given a long weekend to travel to Albany to find a place to live. It was during that weekend that Heather’s indiscretion occurred.<br />
<br />
The plan was to use Friday and Sunday as travel days and Saturday to locate and rent an apartment. After arriving in Albany and securing lodging for the night, we bought a newspaper and went out to eat. Later, after circling a number of apartments that were listed in the paper for rent, we drove around to acquaint ourselves with the city.<br />
<br />
We awoke early the next morning, had breakfast, and began our search. Within the first hour we past a charming old apartment complex that had a “for rent” sign out front which looked inviting, but we were set on finding an apartment in an old home much like the one in which we had been living in Sanford.<br />
<br />
Though we began our search confident that we would soon find what we were looking for, by noon our confidence had waned considerably. By late afternoon we had looked at nearly twenty-five different apartments. Unfortunately, they were all either out of our price range or lacked the character and qualities sufficient to meet out aesthetic standards.<br />
<br />
Feeling a bit depressed we reluctantly drove back to that old apartment complex that we had seen earlier in the day that look inviting. After sitting in the car awhile critically examining the overall appearance of the quaint old two-story complex, we decided to locate the manager. Following the signs that lead us to an apartment on the second floor, we knock on the door and waited. There was no response.<br />
<br />
We knocked again, this time a little louder. From inside the apartment we heard a woman’s voice saying, “Heather, could you please answer the door?” A few moments later a very lovely dark haired young woman in her late teens with incredibly beautiful blue eyes open the door. We told her we were interested in the apartment for rent. She asked us to come in and have a seat, politely telling us that her mother would be right with us.<br />
<br />
The living room of their apartment was small but comfortable. Jo and I sat down on a large sofa. There was a television to the left of the sofa near where Jo was seated that was on with the volume turned down and a large chair that matched the sofa just to the right of me. Behind the chair was an open space that lead to a dining room and the rest of their apartment. It was through that space in which the young women, Heather, left to inform her mother that we were waiting to see her.<br />
<br />
Within a few minutes, another very attractive young women who looked more like Heather’s older sister than her mother entered the room and introduced herself, apologizing for our wait. After exchanging pleasantries and informing her who we were and why we needed an apartment, we began asking her the standard questions regarding the apartment’s appearance, layout, size, and the deposit and monthly rental fee required.<br />
<br />
Though the apartment manager’s face and figure appeared nearly as youthful and stunningly beautiful as her daughters (very pleasing to the eye), it soon became clear that she was also a very astute businesswoman with an engaging and pleasant personality. <br />
<br />
As she began to provide us with the description and details of the apartment, the phone rang. Expressing her regrets, she excused herself and left the room as she had entered. It was a good ten minutes before she returned. Apologizing profusely, she indicated that the phone call was extremely important, the continuation of an ongoing transacting and negotiation with which she had been involved for most of the day.<br />
<br />
Once again, she began telling us about the apartment, describing it in detail, apparently trying to leave nothing to our imaginations, informing us of both its shortcomings and virtues. Just as we were about to ask if we could see the apartment, the phone rang again. Excusing herself, she left the room, once again, as she had entered through the open space behind the chair.<br />
<br />
While she was gone Jo and I decided that we would rent the apartment if it turned out that her description of it was accurate. As the minutes ticked by, an event on the television caught our attention and we turned to watch it. <br />
<br />
At this point in the story, it is, perhaps, important to make clear that nearly 40 minutes had elapsed since Heather, the managers daughter, first invited us into their apartment. Her mother was still talking on the phone in the other room. So, it should not be too difficult for you to believe that what I am about to tell you is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.<br />
<br />
Without warning, while Jo and I sat there watching the nightly news, out of the corner of our eyes we perceived the figure of someone entering the room. We turned, expecting to see the manager. Instead, it was her daughter, Heather, completely naked carrying her clothes. Her long dark hair was still wet from, perhaps, a bath or shower. She came in rather nonchalantly and sat down in the matching sofa chair to my right. <br />
<br />
And then, as her bare left knee touched mine, she suddenly realized that she was not alone. There was a long silent moment that I will never forget when Heather’s large beautiful blue eyes focused on mine, and then, began to actually increase in size until her slim, firm, adolescently mature body, suddenly, found the necessary impetus to react.<br />
<br />
But, instead of clutching her clothes to her exquisite bare-naked breasts and body, she jumped up and screamed, threw them into the air and ran out of the room. I can still see her clothes – her cotton summer dress, her panties and bra – flying into the air and then falling in slow motion all about the living room as her beautiful bare bottom disappeared from view.<br />
<br />
More aesthetic than erotic, the memory of that moment still takes my breath away.<br />
<br />
From somewhere in the back of there apartment we could hear her mother saying, “If I’ve told once, I’ve told you a thousand time to get dressed in your own room!”<br />
<br />
Moments later, Heather’s mother returned, once again, profusely apologizing, but this time for her daughter’s indiscretion.<br />
<br />
Later, after the three of us had regained out composure, she asked if we would like to see the apartment? Without hesitating, I replied, saying, “Nah, that’s alright . . . we’ll take it.”<br />
<br />
For the first month after we moved into the apartment every time I would see Heather she would divert her eyes and disappear as quickly as possible from view. And then, one afternoon as I was parking my car I noticed that she was hanging clothes on the line just outside our apartment. I walked over and asked her about her plans for the fall, telling her that I had heard from her mom that she had been accepted at Auburn.<br />
<br />
"Congratulations," I said. "You must be really excited."<br />
<br />
Her responds was both enthusiastic and apprehensive. She was obviously thrilled about her new adventure, yet was sincerely reluctant to leave her home and community. As she began to speak, her discomfort and embarrassment appeared to melt away. From that day on she never again diverted her eyes or seemed uncomfortable in my presence. Indeed, over the next two months Jo and I actually became friends with Heather and her mom, Charlotte.<br />
<br />
In late August 1968 my tour of duty in the United States Navy finally ended. On the day we vacated our apartment to move to student housing at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, Charlotte came down to say goodbye. For some idiotic reason, in jest, I foolishly asked her a question that my mind had discreetly entertained from the moment we first rented the apartment.<br />
<br />
“Now tell me, Charlotte,” I asked rather blithely, “was Heather’s indiscretion really as innocent as it seemed, or was it, in fact, a planned, calculated enticement on your part in order to rent the apartment?”<br />
<br />
At first, Charlotte just smiled, and then, repositioning herself to stand beside my wife, said rather pointedly, “Dee, I realize that you may have been beguiled by my daughter’s lack of discretion, but I’m quite sure Jo was not.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p><b><i><span style="font-size: small;">The names have been changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent.</span></i></b></o:p></span></div>Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3893141245942816015.post-65935301778868834972009-11-28T03:20:00.000-08:002009-12-03T07:48:05.629-08:00Dee Newmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10610598460257919321noreply@blogger.com0