1975 Revisited

I've mentioned here before that I was a lousy student in high school, and probably going back before then. I'd include a senior photo from my high school yearbook, but I never bothered to have one taken. I did the minimum to get by, and for the most part, I did a good job of that while falling through the cracks. With six kids in our family and a father who was often away on business, it was easy to slide by undetected so long as none of my teachers were calling home. My parents never asked to see my grades. If they did, they never expressed any concern about the education I wasn't getting. I didn't even bother to attend my graduation ceremony. How disconnected was that?

The summer of '75, after my senior year, was a blast, but I knew my carefree days were numbered, and when nearly all my friends headed off to college in the fall, the party was over. It didn't take much to convince me that I needed to do something more with my life other than my factory job at Northland Aluminum in St Louis Park, making Bundt Pans. I remember being new on the line one night when one of the workers asked me if I was I.H., short for Industrial Help. They were the day laborers bused in from the inner city for a work shift. "No man, not me. I'm an employee here; what do I look like?" I was mistaken for somebody on the lower rungs of society's ladder, and that thought stayed with me.

That fall, I enrolled at Hennepin Technical College in their drafting program while working nights at the Holiday gas station on Highway 55 in Golden Valley. I wasn't very invested in either endeavor. I'd leave school during lunch break to grab a beer or three with one of my classmates at a place called the Fox Den or Wolf's Den (or some such name) by the gravel mines on County Road 18, not far from the college. I had little to no direction in my life, nor any real ambition.

Queue the music

Diana Ross, Do You Know Where You're Going To, (hey, what can I say? ...work with me on this)

In early December '75, my sister Jackie suggested I visit the Navy's recruiting office in Robbinsdale. I'd never considered joining the Navy or any other service, but my options seemed limited.

I walked into the recruiter's office and sat down with Chuck Wilson, whose specialty was air traffic control. It didn't register with me then that I, too, could be a controller. I'd have to take the aptitude test to determine my qualifications. As it turned out, I scored high enough to get a seat in Radarman School. I don't know if I'd have qualified for Air Traffic Control School because I never asked. I don't remember it being an option, so I didn't make the grade.

I spent a week kicking around the idea of enlisting, while Chuck would call me occasionally to see how I was doing, coaxing me along through one step of the process after another. I remember driving with him to a building in Minneapolis where I'd receive my physical. I asked him at what point it was considered a done deal—that I'd be joining: when would I sign the next four years of my life away? He said that once a person has gone through the physical, he likes to think they've made a commitment. That's where I was. It was decision time.

I had one stipulation for Chuck: I wanted to visit my parents in Pottstown, PA, prior to beginning my service. It must've been simple enough because he arranged for me to enter through the Recruit Depot by my parents' home. No more requests; I had no good reason to say no.

I flew out to see my parents and Keith and Tim during Christmas week before entering the Navy. I remember driving to the Norco (short for North Coventry) Mall in Pottstown and hearing the song Do You Know Where You're Going To by Diana Ross. It was popular at the time. That song had special meaning for me as I didn't know what would become of my life. Hearing the song today takes me back to that same stretch of Highway 100 on the way to the mall and the thoughts I was working through. It's funny how music can capture a moment for you.

I remember going to the recruiter's office in Pottstown to exit the civilian world. There, I met a couple of other guys who would also be part of my Boot Camp company: James Carlisle and Scott Trimbur.

From the recruiter's office, we'd be taken to Philadelphia, where we'd meet the rest of the enlistees and be sworn in. It wasn't too late to back out, but I was fully wedded to the plan. After being sworn in with the 30-40 others, we were put on a train for the nearly 800-mile trip to Chicago. We were told we'd ride in sleeper cars, but they never appeared. The cheap seats had us crammed in with no room to lie down. That would be a sign of things to come.

Welcome to the Navy!

To be continued...