High School and Boot Camp Memories
As a retired Episcopal gentleman I have time and interest to post here for self and son on Facebook.
As described earlier today, when I initially thought to join the US Marines, the recruiter, a Marine Sergeant whose first name was Al, last name forgotten, suggested I become a storekeep, order 3 coats, deliver 2 and steal 1 so as to sell it on the side. To whom I had no idea then, have no idea now.
Clearly this advice was given with intent. I can guess though won't. After all I am no analyst.
So upon the cheery advice of classmate William Benjamin, who now and for some time sells used cars in Dorchester, and was raised in a nearby Hanson, Massachusetts, I looked into opportunities with the United States Navy.
Another classmate, Chris Basler, also enlisted and did quite well as a result.
William, or Bill, changed his mind and got out at the last minute. Upon getting my head shaved there was no way I was leaving, returning home as what to my younger mind could only be described as a 'loser'. ))
I served from April 10, 1984 until April 9, 1984. 6 years. I enjoyed the first year and 8 months at a variety of electronic schools at 3 locations: Orlando, Florida; Great Lakes, Illinois; Norfolk, Virginia.
Basic training, or as it is more commonly called, 'Boot Camp' was also located in Orlando, Florida, and the command was called RTC, Recruit Training Center. This location was then one of 3, San Diego, Great Lakes, and Orlando. Orlando was unique in that this was the sole location for training female sailors.
I was keenly interested to learn a trade, so that I might earn my keep, pay my way, and escape that Kingston house, my sisters and all the crap magazines like 'People' and 'Us' and more that filled that old house. In retrospect why had there been so many copies of all those periodicals around our house.
I recall thinking 'why on earth are my mother and eldest sister Susan so entranced by the lives of others, by celebrity, by families not our own?' It felt a trap and I recall this conclusion in my teen years, intuitive then though less so than now perhaps as I have a bit more experience at 52 than I had at 16. A baseline, if you will, for me against which to make comparisons.
Seems I was pushed psychologically as much as I jumped in leaving southern New England from where clan Macy had settled and resided since coming from England in the mid 1600s. Sister Deborah Macy, a long haired beauty, truly the fairest of my 5 sisters, resides there still.
Of course it was always a pleasure to return to that low ceiling home, childhood memories, вкус детства, to see my mother, to catch up with my siblings, to fall in love with a school classmate, Christine Ryan, later to marry, and all while on leave from the service.
I recall the thrill of driving from Mayport, Florida to Kingston, Massachusetts, all in a 24 hour period. Gas back then costing about 1.20 a gallon, my 1983 Camaro Z28 with her 5 liter dual overhead carbeurated 8 cylinder engine guzzling heavily. She was silver with t-tops, was fast, fast, fast, shared every bump of the road with one's spine due to her sports car suspension.
Boot camp I recall vividly. Black boys and white boys from too many American states to number, thrown in together.
In our Kingston Elementary School (KES), located sort of across the street from the Howard Johnson's which was anchored to one of the highway exits to route 3, that artery running north and south up to Boston, down to Cape Cod I recall only one black boy in our class, his name Stephen Randall. He was just like all the other kids, in those early grades, 1 to 4.
In that Catholic School, in which I began my 'training' as outsider of a sort, there were 2 black girls and 1 black boy, though he only stayed a year or two. His name Kagan Scott. Their named Ruth Semeto and Bridgett Martin. The girls as girls are in those junior high school years, beginning to shape themselves into the fairer sex, beguiling, desirable, compelling.
Dad never told me much about the fairer sex until a few conversations late a night some months before I would commence my enlistment; he would die within a year of m leaving home.
I still remember my sex ed lesson from my mother, so black and white as she drew a diagram on a piece of paper with 3 holes using this to explain procreation and all the mystery associated. Glad I had two copies of Penthouse gathered one weekend at the dump under the supervision of my piano teacher, Mrs. Bunce, to assist in my development in that regard. How I got them home without her noticing was to stuff them under my sweater, becoming a bit of a sneak. She knew. People ain't dumb, no not at all.
I last drove around there, Massachusetts, and not that piece of paper now long gone, in late 2013 after leaving Russia, divorced, under a false death threat by 2nd wife FSB trained Svetlana and her FSB trained boy toy Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, the top graduate of his Russian state sponsored Psychological Operations course. She let it slip about how proud she was of him in this achievement. Oh boy. That was 2012.
Let's return to 1984. Boot camp.
As described earlier today, when I initially thought to join the US Marines, the recruiter, a Marine Sergeant whose first name was Al, last name forgotten, suggested I become a storekeep, order 3 coats, deliver 2 and steal 1 so as to sell it on the side. To whom I had no idea then, have no idea now.
Clearly this advice was given with intent. I can guess though won't. After all I am no analyst.
So upon the cheery advice of classmate William Benjamin, who now and for some time sells used cars in Dorchester, and was raised in a nearby Hanson, Massachusetts, I looked into opportunities with the United States Navy.
Another classmate, Chris Basler, also enlisted and did quite well as a result.
William, or Bill, changed his mind and got out at the last minute. Upon getting my head shaved there was no way I was leaving, returning home as what to my younger mind could only be described as a 'loser'. ))
I served from April 10, 1984 until April 9, 1984. 6 years. I enjoyed the first year and 8 months at a variety of electronic schools at 3 locations: Orlando, Florida; Great Lakes, Illinois; Norfolk, Virginia.
Basic training, or as it is more commonly called, 'Boot Camp' was also located in Orlando, Florida, and the command was called RTC, Recruit Training Center. This location was then one of 3, San Diego, Great Lakes, and Orlando. Orlando was unique in that this was the sole location for training female sailors.
I was keenly interested to learn a trade, so that I might earn my keep, pay my way, and escape that Kingston house, my sisters and all the crap magazines like 'People' and 'Us' and more that filled that old house. In retrospect why had there been so many copies of all those periodicals around our house.
I recall thinking 'why on earth are my mother and eldest sister Susan so entranced by the lives of others, by celebrity, by families not our own?' It felt a trap and I recall this conclusion in my teen years, intuitive then though less so than now perhaps as I have a bit more experience at 52 than I had at 16. A baseline, if you will, for me against which to make comparisons.
Seems I was pushed psychologically as much as I jumped in leaving southern New England from where clan Macy had settled and resided since coming from England in the mid 1600s. Sister Deborah Macy, a long haired beauty, truly the fairest of my 5 sisters, resides there still.
Of course it was always a pleasure to return to that low ceiling home, childhood memories, вкус детства, to see my mother, to catch up with my siblings, to fall in love with a school classmate, Christine Ryan, later to marry, and all while on leave from the service.
I recall the thrill of driving from Mayport, Florida to Kingston, Massachusetts, all in a 24 hour period. Gas back then costing about 1.20 a gallon, my 1983 Camaro Z28 with her 5 liter dual overhead carbeurated 8 cylinder engine guzzling heavily. She was silver with t-tops, was fast, fast, fast, shared every bump of the road with one's spine due to her sports car suspension.
Boot camp I recall vividly. Black boys and white boys from too many American states to number, thrown in together.
In our Kingston Elementary School (KES), located sort of across the street from the Howard Johnson's which was anchored to one of the highway exits to route 3, that artery running north and south up to Boston, down to Cape Cod I recall only one black boy in our class, his name Stephen Randall. He was just like all the other kids, in those early grades, 1 to 4.
In that Catholic School, in which I began my 'training' as outsider of a sort, there were 2 black girls and 1 black boy, though he only stayed a year or two. His name Kagan Scott. Their named Ruth Semeto and Bridgett Martin. The girls as girls are in those junior high school years, beginning to shape themselves into the fairer sex, beguiling, desirable, compelling.
Dad never told me much about the fairer sex until a few conversations late a night some months before I would commence my enlistment; he would die within a year of m leaving home.
I still remember my sex ed lesson from my mother, so black and white as she drew a diagram on a piece of paper with 3 holes using this to explain procreation and all the mystery associated. Glad I had two copies of Penthouse gathered one weekend at the dump under the supervision of my piano teacher, Mrs. Bunce, to assist in my development in that regard. How I got them home without her noticing was to stuff them under my sweater, becoming a bit of a sneak. She knew. People ain't dumb, no not at all.
I last drove around there, Massachusetts, and not that piece of paper now long gone, in late 2013 after leaving Russia, divorced, under a false death threat by 2nd wife FSB trained Svetlana and her FSB trained boy toy Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, the top graduate of his Russian state sponsored Psychological Operations course. She let it slip about how proud she was of him in this achievement. Oh boy. That was 2012.
Let's return to 1984. Boot camp.
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