Thursday, May 31, 2007

Happy Birthday, Flowergirl


Today would be my mother's 85th birthday. Happy Birthday to the Flowergirl! Here are a couple of her poems:
Not Here

The flowergirl has journeyed far
But has she lost the way?
Is it too late to meet her
Just past the light of day?

Her garment may be streaked and worn
No cause to judge in haste
The wise man and the innocent
Will notice not the waste

See there, the love beneath the soil
The tears of hope once shed
All steps both down and up, she took
Before she bent her head.

The flowergirl will stumble on
Until the taste of earth
No gage of men is made to know
The measure of her worth.


Drained

The vacant page laughs out at me
And taunts just being there
It seems to doubt my faculty
Because I sit and stare.

Are there no words to fill the space
No thoughts that need be said?
The emptiness is lying here
As it is, in my head.

How many times I’ve shouted out
Deep down in my being
Incensed by waste and callousness
My soul with fire seething.

And yet I sit with pencil poised
No match for just one page.
No word of wisdom or of wit
I am an empty sage.

Monday, May 28, 2007

Memorial Day tribute to my Father

My father was a member of what Tom Brokaw so aptly called "The Greatest Generation". He proudly served in World War II in the United States Coast Guard. He saw action in the Pacific arena in the Philippines and in Okinawa. He passed away in 2003 at the age of 86. Here are two of the letters that he wrote to his mother while on board LST 20 in 1945.

April 20, 1945
Dear Mumsey,
March winds brought indications of new developments.....All signs pointed towards Japan. Every port we hit seemed to be packed with ships making ready.
It was quite a cargo which came aboard early in the month.....Later we opened the bow gate to receive a handful of men....All was set for invasion.
The lads turned out to be a fine group and very quiet.....Some were veterans of many campaigns....The others had been to Guam or Siapan....To kill Japanese fighting men was natural, but thoughts of the civilian suicides on Siapan were nauseating.....Ahead was nearly a half-million civilians.
Perhaps because idle minds are to be avoided, they were given a choice of painting or standing watches....An erstwhile doleful interior now wears a new paint job...Meanwhile, the Navy had given the hull a new coat...Our passengers mixed freely with the crew off as well as on duty and evidently appreciated the privileges extended them.
For 3000 miles we rolled, pitched, shuddered, shivered, shrieked, rattled, squirmed and slid through rough waters....Benches were likely to topple at any time....anything not securely fastened either rattled or flew about. A steel cabinet in my office which had never so much as moved before, broke loose from its fastenings and started for the deck....Two of the boys caught it in time.
Bunks trembled and men tossed bout in them....Sleep ended abruptly offtimes as the large swells hit....Men in the galley held on to ropes but came through with good meals....Stomachs were, however, delicate.
Dark clouds afforded a welcome shield from Jap planes.
Time, in its inexorable passage, brought us to the gateway of Japan....Above the dismal peaks of Okinawa flashed an ironic moon.
Uncle Sam had again paraded his galaxy of fighting power across the sea...It was unleashed into the Mikado’s stronghold with a fury the Jap could not begin to halt.
For many days before troops landed, shore installations had been blasted and Navy Guns long afterwards continued to cover the advance...Dive bombers obliterated enemy obstacles...Ground, Naval and air forces coordinated in successful landings along a wide front.
It was the first time in months that we were out of jungle climate...Days were cool and nights cold. Heavier clothing was issued.
Ships sprawled far beyond the horizon. Brilliant displays of Ack Ack lighted the skies for miles around as the Bettys, Vals, et al droned over….At night the sea radiated lustrous hues from reflections of blue and yellow searchlights blending with bright molten white of tracers and bursting crimson shells...Men stood behind their guns, praying, cursing, joking, silent, as they poured lead into the skies and felt the heat of bombs and shrapnel.
Many of the sons of heaven spiraled downward in a crescendo of flame as they met their ancestors and the destiny of the Rising Sun...Some exacted a stiff price.
We were within eyesight of the battle raging ashore for days...Dive bombers and tanks were being used effectively against the tenacious Jap. The foot soldier, however, still bears the brunt of battle.
Sometimes it was close...Our cargo was seriously threatened on a number of incidents...Finally there came the day of unloading.
Love,
Roy


Sunday, April 22, 1945
In Port

Dear Mumsey,
It’s Sunday – Skies are clear, winds are cool and brush off what might otherwise be a balmy sunshine.
Waters underneath are an unusually deep shade of Blue...Sunlight penetrates Neptune’s wastes and reaches the plant life and coral beneath.
Night before last was the first I had slept in my hammock in weeks...The rough waters along the way to Okinawa had made the fantail a noisy place...Each time the ship pitched it caused a slack in the ropes holding the hammock, allowing a strong wind to blow wrinkles in the canvas...as the roll reached an even keel, the ropes snapped taut and this became quite annoying.

The nights had become cold by this time, so I retired to the bunk again. I watched the celestial panorama for awhile before falling asleep....Only a few stars were out and glittered against a background of clear sky brightened by a bland moon....In the distance, clouds moved about in clusters and I wondered if they would bring rain when they closed in.
There were quite a few souvenirs to be had at Okinawa....I looked at the kimonas, pottery and other articles which were being bartered and became sick...I welcome the opportunity to come to grips with the Japanese military forces, but to buy, steal, or otherwise be a party to Plunder is something which I cannot countenance.
Love to all,
Roy



After the war he and my motherspent some time in New York city so he could attend Columbia University and pursue his dream of becoming a writer. I never heard my father discuss this dream. He became a CPA and enentually went to work for the US government He retired from civil service as an accountant. I knew he had attended Columbia University for a time but I always thought that it was to study accounting.

Here is a paper I found that explains how he decided to go to Columbia University to pursue his dream of becoming a writer:

ROY J. TOURNE
2126 COLUMBUS ST., NEW ORLEANS, LA.

LOCAL ADDRESS: 508 W. 114th, NY. 25, N.Y.
PHONE NO. CAthedral 8-7621


During those months in the Pacific aboard the LST 20, many evenings were spent atop the bow, in the company of our combat correspondent. While watching the nocturnal panorama we sometimes permitted ourselves to speculate upon a nebular future and his high praise of Columbia University is one of the principal reasons for my being here.

Plans for the future, at that time, were hardly to be considered in the realm of certainty. Christmas Eve night found the Japanese air force visiting us six times in what what was substantially more than nuisance raids.

On Christmas Day at Morotai N.E.I., troops came aboard and we found ourselves in the midst of a huge invasion force destined for Luzon, Philippine Islands. As Uncle Sam’s armada sailed into Lingayen Gulf the participants could derive some degree of comfort in knowing that we were landing at exactly the spot at which the Nipponese had begun their conquest.

Some weeks later that immortal barge, the LST 20, found herself departing Guadalcanal gaily loaded with a cargo of aviation gasoline and Marines. After a 3000 mile trip through rough waters, the jagged peaks of Okinawa came into view and the final battle of the war had begun. The Marines were landed immediately but for one reason or other, 30 days had elapsed before the authorities decided the gasoline was needed. And so, after a month of Jap suicide planes and shrapnel, the well-scarred and battered Hooligan hull discharged its volatile cargo and made an exit from the scene of battle.

After the incongruous longevity of World War 2 and the subsequent return home, with attendant rehabilitation, the inevitable problem of an occupation posed itself.

There existed the obvious courses of earning a livelihood, i.e., returning to a former employment as an accountant at Higgins Ind., Inc., or to begin a new business.

However, as I have long had a desire to write and am so fortunate as to have that ambition and belief shared by the paragon among women to whom I am married, New York was selected as the logical locale. It was decided that such an eventuality, if it be possible, would be likely to occur only through a concerted effort in that direction.

Through education, contact, advice, and criticisms, I hope to find a way to make a beginning in that field.

Memorial Day



On this Memorial Day, 2007, I want to pay tribute to the great sacrifice paid by so many for our great country. I want to thank all the families of servicemen and women currently serving in our armed forces and to let them know that my thanks and my prayers are with their loved ones.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

The Perfect Coach for a Perfect Season

What is the measure of a man? I would say that one yardstick would be the influence that person has had on the younger generation. By this standard, Coach Jack Dozier, who recently passed away, was a giant of a man. I never met this man, but I owe him a debt of gratitude. He was my husband's High School football coach and the impact that he made on him was pretty much immeasurable. Being part of Coach Dozier's undefeated 1970's Woodland Highschool football team left an indelible mark of success on his life. My guest blogger for today is my husband, Chuck, and his tribute to his high school football coach. You can read more about Coach Dozier in the online Woodland Daily Democrat:
Memories of a Coach.

Here is Chuck's tribute:

The Perfect Coach for a Perfect Season

By Chuck Masterson

Browsing the “on-line” Daily Democrat yesterday, I ran across Gary Traynham’s article honoring the memory of Jack Dozier. I was not surprised, but nonetheless saddened by the news of his passing. As I grew up in Woodland, he was one of the great pillars of influence in my life. He ranks at the top along with Armand Jaques and my Eleventh grade English teacher, the late Virginia Pohl. Coach Dozier had an inestimable effect on me. He changed the direction of my life. He inspired me to pursue college athletics which ultimately led me to a career in secondary education. He always had my respect and admiration. I want honor his memory with some stories and this former athlete’s perspective of his life.

I didn’t know him as a close personal friend or co-worker. I simply knew him as my Coach. Our player - coach relationship was unique. I always liked him. He never treated me unfairly. He never spoke a derogatory word to me nor did I hear him speak negatively to any other player. During the high school years, I did hear plenty of comments about him from other students. But, I never had a reason to dislike him. The one lesson in life I learned from Jack Dozier was to place “high expectations” on teams and individuals. He taught me to set a high standard for myself and “go for it.” He was successful as a coach because his teams rose to his “high expectations.” My quality and character improved when I figured out how to carry “high expectations” over into my own personal and professional life.

As a freshman and sophomore football player, I dreaded moving up to the varsity for fear of “Dozier.” My initial encounter with him was in the Woodland High P. E. locker room at the end of track season my sophomore year. He sat on the bench next to me, placed his huge hand on my shoulder as if he were palming a basketball, and in his low, gruff voice and in his best attempt to sound fatherly said, “Son, how much do you weigh?” As my manner was back then, a sheepish reply came out, “uh… uh… 160.” He politely laughed in disbelief, made some comment about my shoe size, playing varsity football and walked away. That was his way of recruiting me. Our conversations rarely lasted more than one sentence. Usually, what came out of his mouth could be compiled in a book of classic “one-liners” such as “Katy bar at the door” and “shooting slow Caribou”. He was mimicked by more of his players than any other coach I ever played under. Standard operating procedure for a Dozier mimicker usually required lowering their chin to their chest and saying in a gruff voice, “boys, we get the ball around the end and we’ll be choppin’ in tall cotton.”

Looking back, I was fourth string on the depth chart at just about every position as a freshman. I didn’t even have the same game jersey as the starters. I was rather proud of my eight unassisted tackles as a linebacker in a “scrub” game against one of the surrounding area small town teams. As a sophomore, special teams were about the only action I saw. Craig Sharp and I were a dangerous duo as deep backs on kickoff and punt returns. We ran a wicked reverse into Tom Perry’s sideline “wall” return play. However at the beginning of my junior year, coach threw me in with the running backs. I thought, “Oh great, another year on the bench.” I was grouped with all the players and friends that I had watched from the sidelines for two years. But, coach Dozier saw something in me and took the time to develop me as a football player. He knew my true playing position. I learned that every individual on a team can be productive when he finds his “home position.” Despite yelling at me every five minutes during practice ALL season long, he never gave up on me and worked with me through my annoying personal indecisiveness and lack of confidence. The high expectations he placed on me helped me stay focused and desire to improve. His yelling was so constant that at one point early in my junior season I expressed my concern to Craig Penrose. I shared with Craig that I didn’t think coach liked me. Craig quickly answered, “Don’t worry if he likes you or not. If he ignores you, that means he doesn’t like you, and that’s when you should start to worry.” In our last game of the season, coach closed out his halftime speech in front of the whole team with an ear splitting, “Masterson, (brief pause) Run!” I felt something come to life inside of me. That was a defining moment for me. No more indecision. No more lack of confidence. No more yelling. I got it! I ran hard in the second half and that night we beat a decent McClatchy team 26-20 with Eric Wirth leading us down the field, a tough defensive effort, and nineteen active players. We had approximately twenty-two players out due to injuries that season. We never lost another game.

Only one time did I ever think my life was in danger with “big Jack.” Any footballer who played for coach Dozier, and if they had an ounce of sense, instinctively knew Jack’s exact location on the field at all times. One wrong move and he was “in your face.” It was always in your best interest to at least appear that you were working hard. A player couldn’t get complacent even when “Doz” was having a cigarette in the bleachers.
One hot evening in August of 1969, fully padded, I stood in line with the backs and receivers for passing drills. As usual, Mr. Penrose was throwing nearly uncatchable “bullet” short passes. In the same drill, he was thoroughly enjoying making everyone run downfield for 60 yard “bombs”. In my eyesight, coach Dozier was last seen in the center of the field on the fifty yard-line trying to get a 360 degree panoramic view of practice. I came up to the line and ran a full speed ten yard post pattern toward the middle of Hyman field. Craig, making me hustle, threw the ball well out in front of me. In an attempt to catch the pass, I simultaneously increased my speed and reached for the ball. The next moment felt like a head-on collision with a brick wall. At full speed, I unknowingly blindsided coach “D.” I hit him square in the back with my left shoulder and helmet. It was perhaps the most violent “clip” ever known to man. The sudden impact knocked me off my feet and to the ground on my hands and knees. Slowly, I rose to my feet feeling disoriented but relatively unharmed. Immediately, I saw “Jack” lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. “I’m dead” was my only thought or was it “he’s dead.” I looked to my right and saw Penrose, perhaps the only witness to the collision, standing frozen and staring in disbelief at the apparently unconscious head coach. A few seconds later, coach opened his eyes but didn’t move a muscle. After realizing he was not injured, he slowly stood up and looked directly at me. NOW, I’m dead! I felt like Don Knotts squaring off in front of John Wayne. After a moment of silence and maybe some thoughts about the legality of corporal punishment, the coach just grinned and said to me, “son, if can hit that hard all the time, you will go far in this game”. Again, sheepishly I replied,
uh… uh… ok coach.

As a high school football coach, I imparted his “old school DNA” into my teams. His legacy of discipline, concentration on the fundamentals, high expectations and some yelling lives on in scores of my high school players in the Los Angeles area. In 1995, my young assistant coaches respectfully told me I was the only coach in the area still wearing football cleats during games on the sidelines. Beyond my high school years as a player and coach, I realized with every new season, how special our 1970 team was. Every football player in America dreams of an undefeated season. Only a handful of players every really get the experience. It is nearly an impossible feat.

Our once in a lifetime experience was made possible by Coach Jack Dozier. He was the perfect coach for a perfect season. How he coached our team, what he taught us, how he taught us came with perfect timing the entire season. One of his biggest rants came following the “Who’s number 1” column written by the articulate and legendary local sports editor. Following game films at his house, coach Dozier chewed us out for 10 minutes downplaying the subject of being a number one ranked team. He used the contents of the article with precision and made us feel like we had not accomplished anything to that point in the season. It was the most visibly upset I saw him all season. Compared to that incident, he was only mildly unhappy with Pauly Montoya and me after the infamous Hiram Johnson “fumbilitis” game. He was mentor and master strategist. He commanded respect and obedience. He received both without question from the 1970 team. He knew every player, juniors and seniors. He knew our abilities. We spent countless hours at his house watching game films and joking about how one person could possibly own so many cases of TAB soda. At every meeting I tried to guess how many years it would take him to drink those seemingly 50,000 cases stacked in the corner of the room near the projector screen. Also, I pondered what manner of death would become the person caught stealing any of coach’s TAB. I was sure he knew at all times the exact count of cans and cases in stock. Our team was prepared for every game. No opponent ever surprised us or physically outplayed us. “Offense wins games and defense wins championships.” That is exactly what happened in 1970. Mirroring coach’s toughness, our linemen wore down and destroyed every opponent. Our defense gang tackled and was so quick and physical that many opposing team players gave up in the first quarter and held on for dear life the remainder of the game.

The last time I saw him was a few years ago at our team reunion. I walked up to greet him. For the first time, I initiated a conversation with Coach Dozier. He smiled at me, glanced at my bald head and said, “Chuck, good to see you. You are a principal. How many students are in your school?” I got three sentences out of him. We engaged in a brief but friendly conversation. I told him about my 1993 North Hollywood High JV championship season. His face lit up when I told him I used his old Power I offensive playbook from 1970. I know it took a tremendous effort for him to travel to Woodland and be with the team. I know our team meant a lot to him. The reunion wouldn’t have been the same without him. For one last time, we enjoyed his unique mannerisms and heard what turned out to be his farewell speech to all of us.
Wherever he is, he is probably running game films of the Power I, drawing line blocking schemes on a chalkboard, shooting slow Caribou, and hoarding stockpiles of TAB.
Thanks for all of it, coach Dozier. It was a great adventure.

Monday, May 21, 2007

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Very Lady Karie the Free of Chortling Chesterton
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Farewell



Tuesday was a sad night for me. No, it wasn't about saying goodbye to another American Idol contender, or the presidential candidates debate. The sad event for me on Tuesday night was the airing of the final episode of The Gilmore Girls, my favorite TV show. To me it's the greatest show ever. I don't watch that much TV, but Tuesday night, when there's a new episode of Gilmore Girls, is always something to look forward to.

I like the goofy characters, the snappy dialog, the sense of community and support that comes through the town of Stars Hollow, the sense of restoration of broken family ties between Lorelai Gilmore and her mother, and the destiny of true love between Luke and Lorelai. I'm going to miss those Gilmore Girls!

Here's a quote from tvsquad.com's Joel Keller, that echoes my sentiments:

"I've been a fan of this show since the second season, and, recent flaws and all, I'm going to miss it dearly. Thanks to Lauren Graham, Alexis Bledel, Scott Patterson, Kelly Bishop, Keiko Agena, Edward Hermann, Melissa McCarthy, and the rest of the cast for making Tuesday nights something to look forward to for seven years. And a special thanks goes out to Amy Sherman-Palladino for creating the warm, homey, quirky world of Stars Hollow and giving the show's stars such a river of great dialogue to say. A show as uniquely funny and emotional as Gilmore Girls won't come around for quite a long time."

Sunday, May 06, 2007

To: Nancy Pelosi, Speaker of the House, Harry Reid, U.S. Senate Democrat Leader

Congress has passed and President Bush has vetoed H.R. 1591, the Iraq Surrender Act of 2007.
This legislation, which you worked to pass, sets a timetable for surrender. It pulls the rug out from under our troops. That is shameful and wrong.
Your actions have already emboldened the enemy. Violent jihadists now know that the elected leadership of Congress would undermine the troops by holding their funding hostage to demands for surrender.

This Congress would bring us back to the dark days of the 1970s, when the world doubted our staying power. Except only much worse. Withdraw in April 2008, and on May 1, Iraq becomes an unchecked den of terrorism at the heart of the Middle East -- a new base for the same people that struck our homeland on September 11th.

I stand with our troops. I stand for victory. I support the President's veto and will urge my representatives to vote to sustain it.
There can be one and only one outcome in Iraq: We win, they lose.

To sign the petition go to:
We Win, They lose

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

There's One Born Every Minute

I’m irritated. I am constantly amazed at the blatant lies that people tell. It seems that truth has fallen by the wayside. Just the latest was a message that I received on my voice mail yesterday. Here is a verbatim quote:

Uh hi, this is Phil from the county records research department. After reviewing properties in your area, from what I can see here, it looks like your property would qualify for the intra (or was in inter?) –county 1% thirty year loan program. Now it is imperative that I speak with you as soon as possible as the intra-county program does end soon. Call me at 800 777 7358.

Yeah right.