Life Takes Detours

Life Takes Detours: Writing a Compelling Memoir

will have two sessions at the Villages College on Tuesdays from April 13th to May 18th. The second session runs from May 25th-June 29th.

You have a story to tell! It’s time to think about writing your memoir as a gift to family members or friends. Include humorous or poignant chapters about them and memorable incidents you shared.  Invite them to jog your memory and brace yourself for tales they remember from your past.  Weekly lessons, instructor critiques, and “gentle suggestions” from your classmates will make the final product shine!

With 27 years in education, the instructor has MA+30 in writing and technology. 

Writing for Profit: Submitting Your Work to Paying Markets 

will have two sessions at the Villages College on Tuesdays from April 13th to May 18th. The second session runs from May 25th-June 29th.

It's time to earn money for all those half-written, half-forgotten files falling off your desk or stored on your computer. Instructor will work with you to submit your poems, essays, short stories, and longer works to paying markets.

You can register by calling the college at 352-753-3035.

Also

Book editing and publishing services are now available.

Query by e-mail to lifetakesdetours@yahoo.com  

Greetings

By Jerry Feinman

A pivotal part of my life started with the word “Greetings'', but it was not a greeting I was anxious to receive. I pried open the envelope with great trepidation and read the contents. “You are to report to the induction center at

Whitehall Street

in

Manhattan

on

February 23, 1950

to be sworn into military service.”

It was not unexpected. After passing the physical exam I had been classified 1A. I stood there holding the notice in my hand and asking why and for what reason was I being required to give up at least two years of my life?  It was not to defend my country, which I would have gladly done, but possibly to go to a country I knew little about, with a leader whose name sounded as it would be more in place on the menu of a Chinese restaurant. But, as the saying goes, ''It is not for us to reason why but just to do and die.”

So, on the morning of the 23rd of February, I said goodbye to my mother and father. It was one of the few times I saw my father cry like a baby. With my small suitcase in hand, I proceeded to the IRT subway station at Mount Eden Ave. in the Bronx and boarded the train to Whitehall Street.

I was surrounded by a crowd, some reading the morning newspaper, others holding briefcases. Teenagers with their book bags over their shoulders, others sitting with their eyes closed, catching a few minutes of sleep and others just staring into space. Each lost in his own thoughts, but with one thing in common- all oblivious to this short chubby fellow from the Bronx. All could care less that I was being introduced to the life of the military.

When I arrived at Whitehall Street, I was shuttled into a room which was painted olive drab in color and seemed suggestive of the skin tone of the eighty or so about to be sworn into the US Army. The only decoration in the room was the US flag and a picture of Harry Truman. I was not literally afraid, for I had lived away from home before at school and summer camp, but I was anxious about what might lie ahead. I got the chills as I stood before the American flag and took the oath. It was a very moving experience.

After a few hours we boarded a bus, as a sergeant with a smirk on his face announced,''You’re in the Army now.'' We were off to Fort Devens in Massachusetts for processing.

It was on the bus I met Paul Seidenberg, another Bronxite. We hit it off together, soon discovering we had many mutual friends. We talked and talked; before long, six hours had passed and we had arrived at Devins.

Paul and I became best friends. During the four days at Devins, we were kept busy with aptitude tests, getting our uniforms, shots and interviews. At one interview I was told my tests showed that I would be adept at radio and electronics. I thought how perceptive the army is. How could they have known I’d practiced turning the knob on and off? Beyond that, I knew nothing of radio or electronics. I had graduated with a BS degree in Textile Engineering, and this I insisted did not qualify me as a radio technician.We both had a good laugh.

I was next invited into a cubicle where a lieutenant suggested I might be officer material and should apply for Officers Candidate School. I thanked him but declined; it would mean signing up for an additional three years.

He then informed me I would be sent to Fort Dix in New Jersey for further processing, to determine where the army could best put to use my formidable talents.

Paul and I were in the same boat; or I should say bus, headed for Fort Dix on a bleak, wintry Saturday. The window in front of us was broken and the nasty weather made its way into every bone in our bodies. Fortunately, the next day would be Sunday and we were promised a day of rest.

Upon reaching Fort Dix we both called home. Fort Dix being only 60 miles from the Bronx, we invited our parents to visit us the next day, at the same time requesting some good home cooking. They were thrilled and promised to leave bright and early Sunday morning, bearing epicurean delights.

Upon arriving at Fort Dix,we were herded into a barracks and given two sheets, a pillow, pillow case, and blanket. Paul and l went to the mess hall, had some army dinner, and ran back to the barracks for what we thought would be a good night’s sleep.

But it was not to be. At four AM, I felt a hand on my shoulder shaking me and someone yelling, “Get dressed and report in front of the barracks for KP duty.” This he repeated to everyone on the floor.

At this point, I realized that whoever it was did not know me and I didn't know him. Back under the blanket I went and tried to fall asleep.

Thirty minutes later I felt the same hand on my shoulder, “Didn't I tell you to report for KP?”

I answered from under the blanket, “Not me.”

"Well, I’m telling you now,'' was his nasty reply. At this point I realized that at no time had he seen my face, and that I’d better get out of this bed and disappear. But where could l go at this hour of the morning? The only place available was the “John”. 

An army barracks “John” is unique in that the word “privacy” never entered the architect's vocabulary.There are no booths or partitions; everyone sits with his pants around his ankles, discussing the problems of the world.

So l sat down, minding my own business, when along came a burly Corporal, pointing to me and asking, “Didn't I tell you to report for KP?”  I decided to gamble on the chance that he might not be too bright and responded, “Not me. Have a heart I just got off night KP.” 

My gamble worked. Evidently he knew no more than I whether there was such a thing as night KP.  So back to my bed I went. Later I got dressed, went to the telephone center, and dozed off there. Poor Paul was not so lucky, he wound up on KP.

The sports arena was set up with tables for us and our visitors. It was a large cold place, but that made no difference. Everyone was excited to see his family and get to the serious business of eating real food.

As I waited for my parents, a couple, together with a young lady, approached and asked if I knew Paul Seidenberg. His parents and sister had arrived, bearing shopping bags full of goodies. I told them that we were buddies and unfortunately Paul had been nabbed for KP. I pointed to the officer in charge and told them to request that the officer have him sent here. They joined my parents when they arrived and soon we all became fast friends.

Finally Paul came along looking a little the worse for wear, with the new leather gloves his sister had given him as a going away gift, dripping wet at his side. All had a great time and a great meal. Fortunately we were able to get together again on the following three Sundays.

But when the Sundays ended, the Mondays brought me back to reality of army life. The first Monday morning found me in another processing center, where another lieutenant tried to persuade me of the merits of becoming an officer in the U.S. Army. Once again it was thanks but no thanks. I held fast to my belief in that what will be will be, but not an officer.

My next interview was with a sergeant (I no longer rated an officer) who laid out my choices as they now existed. Go to OCS or take your chances becoming an infantryman, with the prospect that at the end of 16 weeks of basic training, maybe an opening would exist where the army could take advantage of my college education. I held to my decision; I would take my chances. Paul was going through the same experience and his decision was the same.

Thus ended my processing phase and I was sent to a “holding company”- a company, where I would have to wait an indefinite period for assignment to a basic training unit. So wait I did, with many others. I soon experienced a daily routine; wake up call, breakfast and roll call when names were called to report to designated companies to begin basic training. All others were open prey for work assignments at menial labor.

Along with Paul and another G1 we worked up a plan; only one of us would show up for roll call and report back whether any of us had been called for assignment. In this way, only one of us would be exposed to the dreaded work detail, while the other two made their way to the telephone center, a sanctuary for the next two hours or until all the work details had left for the day.

It happened on the day it was my turn for roll call. I got nabbed for a work detail. As I marched off with the others, I saw three fellows painting garbage pails. Thinking that this had to be a lot easier than whatever was in store for me, I quickly asked one of them to throw me a brush. I caught it, stumbled my way out of the line, sat down next to the other three, and started to paint one of the cans lined up there.

I sat painting away, picturing myself as another Rembrandt, when a sergeant came up to me and barked, “What are you doing here?”

I replied with a straight face, “I wish I knew. This other sergeant ordered me to get busy painting, so here I am. But I’d be happy to leave.”

“No,” he said, “you stay right where you are and finish the job with the others.”

For the next two days, I took my trusty brush and sat there painting. No garbage cans ever got so many coats of paint or looked so good.

But it finally came to an end when my name was called to report to D company for basic training to begin the rest of my life.