The Remarkable Surprise and Shock of Arrival!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:  The Remarkable surprise and shock of arrival!

Sometime in 1961, it was, a crowd of young military chaps boarded an aircraft in Brindisi, Italy bound for Yesilkoy (now Ataturk International) Airport outside Istanbul, Turkey. 

The airplane flew noisily, as if it had been  recently refurbished by a plumber. It seemed "rickety" and as un-"air"worthy as something pictured in medieval, pre-aviation drawings. Many of the GI's aboard clung to seat rests, knuckles white with terror.

I'm not particularly brave, but I was fascinated, fear having been supplanted by

excitement, as I scanned each rapidly appearing and then disappearing plot of earth below from a window side perch.

The flight seemed to endure for hours, if not days...  It lasted perhaps six or seven hours, as I recall, the bounce and turbulence and the dips and drops making it seem like a week and a half in an air balloon or a dirigible during a cyclone!    

We landed safely, as many sighs of relief like yellow, deflating balloons wafted through the cabin replacing panic.  We quickly disembarked and were almost immediately greeted by a wormy little Turkish chap who wasted no time in asking our ultimate posting destination.

I stumbled up to him and answered, "We'll be based at Karamursel Air Station, west of Yalova, I think." The base is perched on the shores of the Sea of Marmara, not far from Golchuk!  

"You will love the 'fa-cil-ee-tees,'" the wormy little man announced, a smile revealing all of the yellow teeth he had in his rather large, sort of cavernous mouth. It seemed he had as many teeth as there are keys on a piano!

Several of the lads, stating mainly soto voce, they wanted to slap him silly! Those several

clearly didn't want to be anywhere near the Country of Turkey. 

"Can I go home now?" one of them whined.    

The Turkish man meant "facilities," of course.  I found his pronunciation intriguing and amusing, wondering if every Turk we'd meet would elongate words and syllables comically. Couldn't wait to find out. 

I thanked him for his rosy prediction and his "wild" enthusiasm about our destination.  Many of my military companions complained, wishing they could get back on the aircraft and go home, frightening as the flight had been, as well as the scary prospect of some two years in wildly exotic Turkey.

As a means of easing us into the next two years or so, the length of our upcoming assignment at Karamursel Air Base, we were billeted for an overnight stay at the fabulous Cinar Hotel outside Istanbul, (pronounced si-nar, an accent cedilla placed like a goatee under the "C," creating a soft sound like an "S.")

The U.S. Military probably financed our stay and the delicious feast we were served.  But the servers, all male, kept emptying our ashtrays the moment an ash was dumped from each of the preponderance of cigarettes every GI was smoking as if it were the last awaiting a firing squad. Coming from modest or underprivileged backgrounds, the hovering waiters made all of us a bit uncomfortable.

Cinar's rooms were lavish, a kind of ridiculous (planned... or unplanned?) ploy as if presaging with a kind of evil sneer our accommodations at the air base.

Karamursel's accommodations were anything but lavish.  We discovered that fact the following day. At least the rooms were clean, and we were ordered of course to keep them clean throughout our tour of duty.  A military, disciplinary mandate!  

"A quarter should bounce off of the top blanket of your properly-made beds," a nasty sergeant had announced during basic training.  That bounce never happened in my experience...

Finally arriving at Karamursel, after a bumpy and lumpy bus ride, uh we stared in some dismay at the stark and sterile look of flat-topped

barracks and quonset huts and dull grey buildings that dotted and populated the base.  It also sported huge antennas and a so-called "flight line," but no possibility an aircraft could land there. 

One guessed that every air base in captivity must have a flight line for visible or invisible aircraft. Strange!

Soon we were installed in barracks rooms, each with three added occupants.  Then off to our assignments via a dark blue school-like bus, along the so-called flight line, past rows of towering antennas, to our work places.  

A few of use, including myself, were asked if we'd prefer to be assigned to "Research and Development (R&D)" vs. the utterly tedious and boring duty of monitoring printers and their endless output of correspondence from "the enemy."

It was an excellent choice, R&D, that is. Our duty was to learn known electronic systems by sound, about 90 of them, and then search for new electronic systems, using huge and

expensive radio / monitors.  Finding something, we'd explore, via "space-age" equipment and brain power, decipher the coded, musically-warbling information they were transmitting.  Great fun!

We had success!  Even hear of the Poet, Pushkin?  

I write this sort of ancient memoir given the timing...  I began my military service on June 12th, was discharged honorably on June 11th, four years later.  

Readers are welcome to share their own memories and adventures in military service. Don't hesitate; space is limited!  Thank You!

Humbly Submitted, June 12th...  Joel K.  

  

  

  

 

 

    

     

From a Fable -- A "Spark" -- Then Brass & Pewter!

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

It may be an old story, an old fable, but it continues to resonate,

have meaning even in today's complex, often strange and 

frightening era!  

This Episode:           From a Fable --  A "Spark" -- Then Brass & Pewter!

 

Along an ocean's coastline, a young woman and her small daughter strolled leisurely, enjoying fine weather, large breaking waves and the beautiful vistas that lay on all sides, like gorgeous paintings of both land and seascapes.

As they continued, in the distance a figure seemed to be performing a dance, a kind of arabesque.  "What is that?  Is that a someone, a person?" the child asked, looking up at her mother.  

"I can't tell from this distance," the mother answered.  As they drew closer, the figure defined itself, a tall man wearing a slouch hat.  In regular intervals, he bent, picked something up and hurled it into the sea.

Eventually, the mother and daughter closed the distance, approached the man, and stood near him, watching in wonder, his odd actions, his "dance."  

"What are you doing?" the child asked

"Sweetheart," the woman admonished her child, "Perhaps the man wishes to be left alone."

"I don't mind," said the man.  As he looked down at the sand, mother and Child followed his gaze, staring in wide-eyed surprise at the enormous number of starfish lying on the beach, many quite obviously dead, sun-bleached and twisted.  Many had bent limbs, oddly curled as if attempting to move and find their way back to the surf.

As the two stared, suddenly recognizing the incredible number of starfish, the man once again bent, picked up an apparently still living starfish and tossed the creature as far as

he could back into the sea, doing his best to heave it beyond the rounded, about-to-be breaking waves.  Some of the waves were so large and so loud they startled the small child.

"Why are you doing that?" the mother asked, amazed and more than a bit surprised as she regarded once again in wonder the enormous number of beached starfish.  "It'll never make a difference!"

At that, the man bent and pickup up another, and in one swift motion hurled it back into the sea beyond the breaking waves, his body seeming to perform again the strange dance viewed from afar by the mother and child.  

"It made a difference to that one," the man said as his posture returned to a straight and upright position.  

And then he grinned at the mother and her child.  They, in turn, looked back at the man, smiles of understanding brightly curling the contours of their young faces.

****************************************************************************

Whether true or a sweet story or a fable conjured by a beach-combing poet or writer, doesn't really matter.  The moral, or the idea is clear...   MAKE A DIFFERENCE! 

Some years ago, as if having heard the fable, the story having penetrated, a spark entering and joining forces with a synapse, like a collision of creative energy, someone borrowed the idea, had to have it, to share it with a group of followers.

The concept then morphed into something tangible.  It had to, and starfish bloomed and multiplied into many incarnations of brass and pewter.   Whatever the event that it spawned, it succeeded admirably.    

To my aged, "geezerized" brain, the idea is a marvel that demands to be shared and re-planted into the heads and hearts of everyone, proselytizing annoyingly if necessary.  We can all MAKE A DIFFERENCE, meaning a positive one, an empathic one that helps others to find paths to do good things, to make a difference in their own lives and those of anyone with hearing or shouting or "throwing" distance.

If you happen to find yourself on an ocean beach, one dotted liberally with beached starfish, bend over, pick one up and toss it into the sea... 

Humbly Submitted -- 05-15-2026 by Joel K.  

       

 

  

  

Probing the Histories That Lie Beneath...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:          Probing the Histories That Lie Beneath... 

I was thinking just the other day...   and, yes, I do think occasionally despite my standing as a geezer of an "historic" age (according to a brilliant contributor!)...     I should perhaps explain.   Many of us have reached an age that should, in the young, I think, prompt wonder, respect and a desire to ask questions, seek answers, probe for history, lest the opportunity is lost forever in the blurred mists of passing time!

I regret I did not ask my grandparents and parents more about their pasts, their own

We / They are not as old as
those fine features on 
the Acropolis in Athens!
Truly, We / they aren't!!  It's
merely symbolic...

histories....   Other relatives and friends too, parents' friends...  I'm guessing many of my contemporaries harbor the same regret.  Shucks, Alas and Drat!  Too late now for too many of us...

SweetHeart and I, some years ago, became "Chief Volunteers" (or Volunteer Coordinators) at a school for seniors, along with installations upon -- having been unanimously asked and appointed to -- its Board of Directors, a dual honor or sorts.  (Again, one of those profound distinctions after it having been determined that we were indeed still breathing!)  

As we've grown into our roles and the comfort levels that come with longevity, we've been privileged to meet a number of extraordinary and talented fellow members and volunteers of "historic" standing!  

Here's the revelation that materializes in the mind as realization dawns like a rising sun on a summer's day:   People in their 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, and centenarian status as well, have histories, remarkable ones!  They were not born in the senior portions of their lives.  They have history, some if not most of it fascinating stuff!

One need merely probe a bit, ask questions, ask them about themselves....   Mind telling us your life story!  Start at the very beginning...!

Where they've been, what PATHS they've taken, where they come from, ancestral homes and homelands, what schools they attended and what professions or career paths they pursued prior to appearing somewhat different -- you know, grey or white-haired, faces and necks lined, hands and arms spotted and creased, road maps of achievement. 

 Like great, glorious and enduring symbols of antiquity.  Astounding!  It's true...    People have history, and they travel along interesting pathways throughout their lives...  Explore those pathways and discover...

In conversation with one of our school for seniors colleagues, those of us listening were delighted and fascinated to learn that he was a lawyer, in fact a patent attorney.  He spent time in the U.S. Army, in Berlin, Germany and other stations during his military service.  He's in his 90s.  And  he was a championship swimmer, having placed 7th in the entire U.S. collegiate swim team population!  He has a helluva history!

On the same board and among our friends, both new and of long standing, we have a past school principal and administrator, a former star reporter and editor, a professor emeritus of anthropology, a former and highly successful business founder and owner...

One of those historic personalities continues to play competitive tennis, another competitive softball.  A few of us played highly competitive volleyball for more than 40 years, well into the venerable 70s.  I mean, all of that background, that history, is quite amazing.  You'd be wrong, and maybe a bit addle-brained if you don't agree!!  Take the time to think and to inquire...  And, you'd make the objects of your inquiries very happy!  That alone is a gift, a significant and generous gift.     

One wonders how many young people would look at those individuals who have achieved "senior status" and register only their obvious ages, never bothering to look deeper or inquire about their lives, accomplishments and experiences.   Seek sit-down meetings and long conversations!  You know, "Tell me about your life...  Leave nothing out...  well, that is, almost nothing!"

And if there isn't enough self gratification in initiating a fine conversation with wonderful older adults, wouldn't it be a great way to "break ice."  An even greater means of making a friend, ingratiating oneself to a person with whom you might just build a friendship, a confidant, someone with whom you might start a valuable network!  

 THANK YOU!   Tune in again for fascinating reading, superb ideas and scintillating conversation, meaning of course sort of written conversation... 

However, I am available should readers wish to have an actual, verbal conversation.  Wouldn't that be swell!!??  

Humbly Submitted 05-09-2026, by Joel K.

  

     

  

A Hoops Revelation...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:               A Hoops Revelation...

🌰🏉🌰🌰🌰

People tend to jump
when playing Hoops!

Our sweet friend Kathy, sometimes an enigma!  She traveled to Indiana frequently to visit with her brother, Pat, and his family.  What many of us did not know, sister and brother had a secondary motive, one of perhaps equal, maybe even greater anticipatory importance.

We, or perhaps just I, discovered that ulterior reason just very recently, and I was very much taken aback, completely surprised, really kind of amazed.  Sometimes we have no inkling about those we think we know so well.  We sneeze in wide-eyed wonder and surprise!

Had no idea "Hoops," March Madness was -- to me, in any case -- a passion of hers, a crazy Mad Passion, something that compelled her to travel to court sides and venues all over the damn place.  Remarkable!

If she couldn't travel to the games, she'd install herself in front of a large plasma television to savor as many of the contests as she could, probably all of them, each and every game until and of course including when the brackets reached the "Elite Eight" and then the "Final Four." Obsessed with buckets!  How 'bout that!  

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm reminded of my great friend, Steve, the greatest -- in my biased opinion, I readily admit -- gatecrasher of all time.  I was aware of his talent, but the variety of it often had me flabbergasted!!  

On one highly memorable and treasured occasion, a group of his friends -- happily, myself included -- albeit a small group, traveled to Louisville, Kentucky to enjoy a slice of the fabled NCAA tournament.  Yes, more Hoops-Centered Obsessions.  But it wasn't just the game itself.  Steve created the "Honor Guard," a fabricated title that had his special group seated right on the basketball floor, meaning right next to the players' benches.  

No tickets for the game, no special passes, just Steve and his brilliance as a creator of special entree to events none of his peers would ever had thought possible! How'd he do that??!

Steve is no longer with us.  Our friend and her brother, those mentioned in the opening paragraphs, are also among the departed, sadly to say the least.  

What a hoot, and what wonderful "Hoops"of action and adventure!  What marvels, what extraordinary people populate our lives.  What memories.  We think we know them, and then remarkable revelations are driven unexpectedly into our awareness.  Like metal-tipped darts hurled into the bullseyes of our consciousness.        

 

  

Days of the "Cowboys"...

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        Days of the "Cowboys"...

A random thought, a cliche...  He thought of stuffing a plug of tobacco into the empty pouch of his left facial cheek, just to appear more natural as an authentic chaps-wearing, gun-packin' cowhand!  But, he didn't like chewin' nor did he fancy six guns, or any other bullet-firing contrivance, for that matter.  Didn't have a plug of tobacco in any case.  (Gave up the "shootin' life" when he left military service!)  

Jack was a journalist, a writer.  He sometimes looks behind himself from the heights of GeezerHood and wonders if his memory is intact, accurate, correct...   Years past, he

lived in Cheyenne, Wyoming and his labors earned $75.00...  hmmm, was it per week, or once a month? Must have been per week.  Who could possibly live on $75 a month, even in 1969 and 1970!?
 

Jack worked for a daily newspaper, and often wrote for the morning daily's evening companion paper, and its combined Sunday edition.  He was young, often foolhardy and not terribly conscious of safe behavior or the needs of self-preservation.  Who the hell is at 25 or 26, or thereabouts, in the prime years of youth or early manhood?  

There were two colleagues, or associates, maybe, at the same newspapers.  One was the Sports Editor, the other the Staff Photographer.  The former had some difficulty with strong drink, spirits, alcoholic beverages.  The latter was ancient, maybe old as the geysers at Yellowstone, and magnificently nicotine stained.  Jack thought he resembled a totem made of seasoned wood, or a carved figure standing sentry at a main street cigar store.     

The sports editor sometimes did not appear for days.  The photo chap was often taken ill

or maybe, himself, stupified or overly stimulated by an excess of refreshment --  strong spirits, booze-glutted tumblers of rye whiskey, for example.  As a consequence of the aforementioned, Irving or Edgar -- Editor in Chief and Managing Editor, respectively -- would ask Jack to step in and fill the empty roles.  Jack was delighted to accept, and so he did on several occasions. 

A Cowboy Football Player from the
University of Wyoming, in Laramie

As fill-in sports editor, Jack would feature much of the sports section with appropriate local news (e.g.  Laramie's University or Wyoming Cowboys football squad), but some with stories close to his own heart -- copy featuring Midwestern sports teams -- a bit subjective, maybe selfish or self-absorbed, but no one ever seemed to complain.   

The other fill-in role, as erstwhile photographer, was far more exciting, fun and adventurous...  like a cavalry scout or a horse-mounted cowpoke herding and driving hundreds of head of cattle to a stockyard, or a bold and brave buckskin-clad hunter slaying and bringing home fresh game for denizens of the Wagon Train! 

Hmmm...  Maybe, Possibly...  Jack might have
concealed himself, for safety sake, in that
kind of barrel...  Might could be the 
actual one, come to think....  maybe...

At Cheyenne-based rodeos, as the "man with a camera," Jack would position himself if a padded barrel, pop up as required and shoot pictures of bronc riders, or steer ropers or chuck wagon racers or even bull riders!  It was a helluva hoot was for a cub reporter, an  occasional fill-in editor and photo journalist.   

These are the tales, the adventures and memories he liked to keep in his Psychic album for posterity, to relate to family members, relatives and friends...  Materializing occasionally, like specters that appear to the unsuspecting in old houses and haunted inns or English castles or mist-shrouded city streets on moonless nights.      

Whether people, the aforementioned, wish to believe it or not believe it, the tales were mostly true, if sometimes embellished or enlarged, like a retouched photo or a poster painted by the story-teller him or herself, possibly re-touched to include and suggest something larger or bolder than the thing or event of origin.

When the sports editor and photographer were at their respective desks or at the horseshoe-shaped table near or across from "the slot" occupied by the editor, Jack would return to the more mundane tasks of writing up the days news he had gathered on his rounds, his beat.  At a relatively small newspaper, a reporter would cover everything...  Police news, the State House

(Wyoming's capitol building), crime, fires, accidents, academic news, community services, federal happenings to which the state might have been affected or economically allied...  all of it and more, everything!   

On occasions of so-called "slow news days," Jack longed for the barrel or the sports desk, not always, but on those rare, spare news days, something itched.  Those times when the excitement of the dust-choked rodeo grounds and the hoof beats and the drama of cowpunchers being thrown from bucking broncos and huge, snorting bulls...  The sights and noise of rocketing chuck

wagons, racing round barrels....  When those images came to mind, Jack fell under a spell, a kind of irresistible beckoning, and let his thoughts, his attention and daydreams be lassoed, captured by a band of shadowy cowhands!   

*******************************************

"Ahem...  Jack..."  Edgar was an excellent managing editor, always quiet and composed.  But he never lost sight of the objective, get the paper out; do it professionally, and on time.  He was always, in Jack's view, an effective leader and manager of the reporters under his supervision.  Edgar coughed lightly and cleared his throat...    "Jack, snap out of it.  We have deadlines to meet."  

Humbly Submitted 03-17-2026...   by Joel K.