Lonely Pilot Bob

We moved to Okinawa in May 1953.  Dear Ole Dad was assigned to Kadena AFB in May of 1952, but there was no base housing at the time – so we had to wait a year before we could join him.  The War (the last one we actually won) had only been over for 7 years or so.

The house we moved into was completed in May 1953.  We were the first occupants.

1811 Stearley Heights, Kadena, Okinawa, 1953 – 1955

I have some very fond memories of living in that house.  One of them I’ll share with you this morning is, skating down the ‘Olympic certified course.’  From just outside the front door it dropped down to the sidewalk, then around around the “hairpin turn” to the right.  If I made it that far, there was another right-hand turn at the end of the block.  More often than not, the 6-G turn at the end of ‘the drop’ from the front door, shed one or both of my skates.  Those skates were the kind that you used a key to clamp on.  And the clamps didn’t really hold that well – at least not through 6-G turns!

In 1973 I had a trip through Kadena as a C-141A pilot – 20 years after we lived in that house.  I remember standing out in front of that hose, alone with my memories.

1811 Stearley Heights, Kadena, Okinawa. 1973.

The first thing that jumped out at me was the “Olympic Skating Course” – it was NOT!  LOL!  Then I was struck with how nice it looked – and proud of having lived there at one time.

Recently I joined a few sites on FaceBook (FB) that are geared toward “Military Brats,” one of them “OkinawaBrats on Facebook.”  I wrote a post on it one morning, including a picture of our house.  And it wasn’t long before I received this picture:

1811 Stearley Heights, Kadena, Okinawa. July 2013.

I just stared at it for quite a while – all sorts of memories and emotions floating back – not least of all, ‘gratitude’ – for the man who took the picture for me.  A “small” gesture I suppose, but one that means so much.  Thank you Jim K.!  Your thoughtfulness is deeply appreciated…

When we showed up in France, in October 1962, I was issued a French ID card.

When unfolded it is about 35 inches in length.  There are several pages wherein entries can be made.  I don’t know exactly what the entries are for; I don’t read French.

I was also told that this is the same “form” that the French used for their prostitutes.  I don’t know.  But I always felt, in the back of my mind, that I always had a ‘fall back’ position in Life – as a French hooker…

Who knows how, or why I came up with the question but I remember asking my parents one morning, “If there is tar on a telephone pole, can it burn?”  Simple enough question, I suppose.

Mom or Dad told me that, ‘yes, it might be a fire hazard,’  and that was all I needed to hear!  I headed out the door and up the street, then into the ‘boonies;’ the tall grass in Okinawa where we often played – only because we were told not to.

After what seemed like hours I finally discovered a telephone pole with tar on the base of it.  Looked like a fire hazard to me!  So, down the hill, through the boonies I ran until I got to my street.  From there it was just another short sprint to our house.  Once I got into the house, I called the Fire Department, as any good citizen would, to report the fire hazard I had just discovered.

I was asked where I lived, and where the ‘hazard’ was.  I told the fireman I would meet him back up the hill and take him to the spot myself – as any good citizen might.  So, back up the hill I went.

It wasn’t long before a couple firetrucks rolled up, and the guys got out in those neat shiny, aluminum-foil suits.  Even after I exclaimed what I had seen they were still not sure what they might be dealing with.  So, I told them I would take them up through the boonies – to show them the spot – and off we went.

By this time it was shortly before noon, and hot as Hell, although I wasn’t allowed to say ‘Hell’ in those days.  I thought those guys did pretty well though – dragging their hoses with them up through the boonies on a very hot morning!

It was when we finally reached the ‘hazardous’ telephone pole that the Chief became hotter than the morning!  And his language!  ‘Hell’ was the least of it…

In the end, I actually felt bad for those guys, dragging those hoses back down off that hill that morning – but no where near as bad as I felt after Dad got home!  And from that day on I haven’t cared how much tar is on a telephone pole.  The damn things can all burn as far as I am concerned!