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About PAHS I remember a lot. About what I had for lunch yesterday, not so much.
I ran mostly with Bernie Ferry (B. A. to his friends), Helge Dry and, until he fell terminally in love, Bert Gibson. Ferry led me astray more often even than most of the women I knew in my youth.
We skipped school a great deal, usually to liberate Anne Wigglesworth and Monica Manieri from Marymount Academy, downtown. Bernie'd call the school claiming to be Ann's father, saying there was an emergency at home and that she was needed. He'd insist that her friend, Monica, accompany her. We'd spend the rest of the day roaming Neuilly with them.
We skipped one afternoon to go bowling and found ourselves side by side with Bernie's father, who'd decided to get in some PT at the bowling alley. What's worse, I bowled ahead of the good colonel when bowling etiquette gave him the right to go first. Later that day, and for some time to come, the incident caused Bernie great distress.
Our frequent truancies did not go unnoticed by Mildred Link, the principal, for whom we had several less than flattering nick names.
The schools officer, an errant captain with the soul of Huck Finn, saved us. One day he caught our bus to get a ride home. When we told him that we had a very close relationship with the principal, he suggested that we enlist our parents as co-conspirators in truancy. It would cut down on our time with Mildred and save our parents the humiliation and aggravation of a trip to her office as well. Our folks were easily persuaded and, from that point on, we never had an unexcused absence. They always wrote a note.
Bernie once brought a grenade paper weight--not the round cuddly kind we used in the army but the old unmistakeable pineapple kind--and talked me into playing catch with it in front of the Soviet embassy. We regained our senses within a block or so of the place. I'm pretty sure I talked him out of it.
These are stories I never tell my children and will never tell my grandchildren.
And I might have had a peanut butter and banana sandwich for lunch.
I remember the PX and commissary at the old Bleriot factory on the river. Helge Dry and I worked there for tips--the only jobs available to an American kid at the time. Was always surprised that we were the only two.
The only good place to get a flat top was at the American Legion Post across from the George V, downtown.
God, the freedom we had.
I remember scanning the airwaves on clear, cold nights for radio stations that broadcast American pop songs. We left shortly after the new PX and commissary opened at Petit Beauregard, and AFN came to France on FM radio. Just in time for General Charlie De G to throw the Americans out--except, of course, the ones who'd taken up permanent residence in Normandy or stood fast at the Marne.
Tink Nathan managed the football team. A good friend then and probably, by all accounts, a great guy now. He and I spent a wild night in Frankfurt, but I'll let him tell that story. I might be a fisherman but am restrained from exaggerating by my strong (abandoned) Catholic upbringing. Tink has more leave to embellish. He brought lots of good music with him from DC.
Ferry and me at the train station in Lourdes, him trying to teach me the lyrics to Come Go with Me by the Del Vikings. We were there on a pilgrimage with the French army. One morning as we stood in the lobby of our hotel, one of the less religious Poilieus burst into the lobby to announce to his comrades in arms that he'd found a house of ill repute.
Was sorry to learn that Bernie had died, and also Mike Halley, who was two years ahead of me and certainly livened up the long school bus rides to and from Le Vesinet.
Who doesn't remember making out in the back row of the post theater at Camp des Loges? Actually, we made out everywhere, but that was the only place I got thrown out of for that "offense".
Standing for God Save the Queen at the British theater down the hill from the Pavillon Henri IV.
Shooting pool and snooker in the day room at SHAPE. Walked in there once and every one in the room was singing, whistling or humming the Bobby Helm's tune, Fraulein.
God, the freedom we had.
Maybe I had a tuna fish sandwich for lunch yesterday.
Hitchhiking everywhere and always getting a ride, often in a staff car with a mad Frenchman at the wheel. It's a wonder we survived the traffic.
If you lived in Petit Beauregard or SHAPE village, your life might have been a bit more cloistered, but I'm sure our memories merge at many points.
Getting back to the States and finding out that Shirley and Lee had had the nerve to record Let the Good Times Roll while I was out of the country!! The nerve of those bastards! Just the beginning of culture shock, though.
The experience made me, and I'm sure most of us, stronger and more resourceful and resilient, although I sometimes envy my kids their twelve consecutive years in the same Colorado school district.
But God, the freedom we had.
Attended two more high schools after I got back to the States. Attended two colleges and collected two degrees, both in English.
Spent just enough time in the army to know that I didn't want M to be part of my OS. (For you air force types, that's AF as part of your SC.)
Speaking of OS, spent several years teaching English at a community college in suburban Denver then went to work for the Feds. Got promoted beyond my level of interest so took the skills they taught me and went to work for myself as a feather merchant.
Did that either for myself or for one tentacle or another of one corporate octopus or another and finally retired last year. Still do some contract work to keep the wolf from the door.
Am slowly regaining all that freedom I had as a young boy in Paris.
Maybe we went out to lunch yesterday, and I had a grouper sandwich.
Married Diane Wilson of Urbandale, Iowa, the prettiest nurse lieutenant at Ft. Bragg, and managed to hold on to her for 43 years until her death in October, 2010. We spent most of our married life in Denver, but I'm now a cliff dweller in a lovely condominium complex on its own little island between St. Petersburg and St. Pete Beach, in west central Florida.
We had two fine sons, Matt and Mark, both of whom live in the far frozen north. One is a community organizer and the other sells real estate. Between them they have three beautiful and exceptionally bright children, Sarah, Wyeth and Huck.
At first, when I found this website, I was a little frightened to learn that there were still others out there like Bernie and me, but then I thought, "We're old and scattered. What harm can we do?"
Then I learned about the reunion.
The prospect of all of us together again, without bras and panties and under one roof, scared the bee Jeeeeeeeeezus outta me.
Hope to see you in San Anonio.
