Strange but True Wild Encounters!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:           Strange but True Wild Encounters!   

What a Nasty Looking Beast...  Those Huge Tusks!  

What is it about memory?  Do we strange humans seek to embellish our own stories, our real or imagined lives, our mythology?  Are memory and recollection simply fabricated scenarios, created by writers and film crews for viewing on a big screen, the hero a masked paladin battling miscreants, villains, outlaws and murderers?  

Is all of that the heritage, mere artifice, the inheritance of a long life, of GeezerHood?  We tell ourselves tales of triumph, of what we'd actually like to have become, how we'd prefer others, our peers to perceive us, our self-created and self-aggrandized legends?

Maybe it's all a load of crap.  I don't know...  As a professorial friend suggests, we really don't know who the hell we truly are; we're in a constant state of flux, different personas emerging in different states of existence and personal evolution!  Perpetual mysteries?!  

What the hell's the difference?  Truth?  Pretence?  I'll tell stories in any case, of what may or may not be believable.  In any event, it's true.  Memory demands it must be!  

During my time in military service, in the nation of Turkiye, adventure called, like a beckoning nymph, like a great challenge proffered to a knight errant!  A quest, a need to be brave, heroic.  Or merely curious...

There were beautiful hills, almost small mountains behind the base on which we were stationed.  A friend and I -- we'll call him Webster -- chose a glorious sunny day, and began our trek up those daunting inclines, hoping to find a wild boar, perhaps some wild native inhabitants, living free but undiscovered.  In time, we found both.

The boar did indeed have great and fearsome-looking tusks, fang-like weapon-tools, conjuring alarming images of being eaten alive.  He -- we somehow knew it was a male --
looked at us greedily, menacingly but after a long while, during which we stared fixedly at one another, it hungry, we scared witless, the boar turned and trotted slowly away.  Then another giant shock!...   We hadn't become aware of the dark-skinned man who so quietly, stealthily appeared like a specter behind us, frightening the stuffing out of us in the process.

The man was dressed in a kind of robe, suggesting the guise of an Arab tribes-person.  I knew a smattering of Turkish.  My companion knew not a word.  The man smiled, crooked a finger and insisted we follow.  We did -- sort of hypnotically, cautiously -- eventually arriving at his home, a well-concealed cave-like dwelling.  Wide-eyed, we looked about, both of us in a state of fear and wonder, and then entered...

  Inside it was illuminated by a fire.  Beside the fire was a handsome woman and two dark and beautiful children.  Introductions followed, haltingly, each using signs and language to the best ability of each of the six of us.  Some Turkish, but mostly signs and smiles, facial expressions

and gestures.  It was a magical encounter, delightful, warm and remarkably kind, filled with wonder and curiosity, ultimately quite human, a kind of bonding the likes of which neither my American friend nor I had ever before encountered.  How could we have?  This was entirely new, entirely alien in a way!

       We greatly enjoyed the food and drink we were offered.  (Wild boar, maybe?).  Raki to sip, or maybe not something alcoholic (Muslims!), causing Webster and me to weave a bit as we left the family...  I think it was Raki...  maybe not!  Perhaps a heady reaction, an illusory effect, owing to the strange and wonderful encounter!  

We did not meet another wild boar, but swore we heard snorting and shrieking and eerie cries in wooded environs we passed as we began our descent back to the air base, that place a cluster of nondescript buildings that lay at the bottom of the large green hills we had just traversed and explored, both up and back.

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

Webster and I did not encounter one another for at least a couple of months after the boar and native cave-dwelling Turks adventure.

When we again did, it happened in Istanbul, along the Galata Bridge.  He was wandering aimlessly; I was climbing out of a taxi cab after visiting Turkish friends.  Though traveling in opposite directions, I asked if he was heading somewhere in particular.

"Just seeing the sights..." Webster answered cryptically.  He seemed confused, uncertain, lost...  He sort of mumbled, possibly in a kind of daze or daydream.  

"I'm going to go down to the Galata Port area on the Bosphorus, where big ships dock.  If you have no specific plans, join me if you like," I said.  Webster did so.

At the port, a gigantic and very modern looking cruise ship was docked.  Its stairway or "gangplank" was invitingly down, daring us to board. 

Litva

"What the hell," I said.  "What d'ya say we take a tour?"  Webster smiled and willingly agreed.  We boarded, seeing no one as we arrived at the ship's level reached via the walkway.  We entered a doorway and descended a stairway, reaching a a kind of common room or perhaps a lounge.  On the wall was a huge poster depicting a pastoral scene, another showing a fine-looking town or street scene.  At the bottom of each poster were the words, "Visit the USSR."

Webster, a quizzical look clouding his long face, asked, "Why would a Greek ship wish to promote tourism in the USSR."  I laughed and searched his face, still a grimaced and contorted mask of curiosity.  He had to be joking!    

We walked along the ship's passageways, up sets of stairs and eventually reaching the captain's or pilot's bridge or wheelhouse.  The bridge, the ship's control center, the most

Leander's Tower...
(I think)...  approaching
the Istanbul harbor!

fascinating part of our quest, our "tour."  Still we encountered no one.  Both of us, foolishly and carelessly, began to fiddle with buttons and controls.  As we depressed a few of them, we felt the ship begin an almost imperceptible movement, a listing.   Wait!  Yes, we did experience a movement, a tilting.  Water-tight doors?  Oh no...  

So, too, did a number of crew members.  As if in a chorus of angry barking, we heard men shouting, and they were not friendly. 

"We'd better get the hell out of here," I cautioned.  

Webster said, "Ach...  a Greek ship.  What can they do but order us to leave."

With great haste we ran onto and off of that
gangplank...  Running for fear of our lives!
... A blur!!  We couldn't even see ourselves!!

I shot him a stern look.  "This is a Russian ship, a Soviet ship.  I thought you were joking!  I know some Russian.  I recognize and can read the Cyrillic alphabet.  We gotta get the hell out of here," I repeated.  "We're American GIs.  We have sensitive information in our heads," I shouted as we ran like Olympic sprinters toward and then down the gangplank.

Webster looked stricken.  We ran like hell, panting, gasping...  "Where?," he asked in a muffled, if panicked voice.  "Should we jump off the ship...  into the Bosphorus?"

I had the same thought, but figured we needn't do anything so dramatic, so foolhardy,  so potentially cold and wet and demanding of an arduous swim to shore.  No guarantee of escape.  I could see us getting yanked out of the soup by our hair, burly commie deckhands ready to put us in chains!  Torture and interrogation our certain fate!!    

"Keep running.  Those commies are after us...  damn commies!"  We raced off the ship, down the gangway, then up an incline, round a turn, ducking low, into a throng of Turks, some carrying huge loads on their backs, some with heavy-looking sacks on their heads.  Finally, finally we felt somewhat safe, having been absorbed, having sort of disappeared into the mass of humanity.  

We kept going at a brisk pace, onto the Galata Bridge.  Only then did we dare look back toward the moored ship, toward the Litva!  I spotted a group of agitated-looking men, searching the wharf area.  They spied left and right, but happily not toward the bridge.  They continued to look angry.  I could almost hear them in my pulsing brain, muttering and cursing!    

"Phew," I ventured.  "I think we're safe...  Hope we're safe," I said, reassuring Webster and myself.  Sort of...  He continued to look a bit ghostly pale and stunned.  I thought he would punch me at any moment for getting him into a potentially dangerous pickle!

In time, we made our way back to the quay and the ferry landing.  A pleasant return voyage on the Sea of Marmara, past beautiful islands, eventually docking at the Port of Yalova.  From there by bus back to the base.

On the ferry, I drank a couple of vodka-lemons (pronounced Le-Moans, accent on the

"Moans"!).  Munched on pistachios too, usually served along with the booze.  I exchanged my concerns with Webster.  Our sensitive knowledge.  Soviets.  Commies.  Possible danger to ourselves.  Stupid actions aboard the Litva.  My stupidity, his too, perhaps.  I apologized to him for my own foolish behavior, putting both of us at risk, or seemingly so!  Webster's bravado probably came from the "Greek"...  his confusion!   

"Who uses that ship?" Webster asks, perhaps rhetorically.

"Hmmm...  Possibly wealthy Soviets.  Maybe Politburo members.  Rich commies cruising on the Black Sea.  I don't know..."   

I never saw him again, or perhaps I did, fleetingly, in a common neighborhood.  A brief glance, possible recognition, maybe a mirage?!  I made no attempt to hail him or to meet, nor to effect a rendezvous.  It was enough, what we had experienced together.  It was enough!   

 Humbly Submitted 10-09-2025 -- by Joel K.

 

 

  

 

     

 

         

   

The Thing about Music....!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:         The Thing about Music....!

Those Marvelous Turks make the Most Wonderful Music.. Oh and that's a Picture of Ataturk in the Background! Thank you...
(Can you Spot the Baglama?.... Or is that an Oud?)

That's Him...  That's
Mustafa Kemal
Ataturk!

    Reflection:   Is it a highly prevalent sort of contemplation, or         maybe meditation? A  practice among those who have entered     into the realm of, how shall I put this... GeezerHood, maybe?...  the     Age of "Greater Wisdom" or Elderlyness, perhaps, Historicalness     (could be?)...! Take Music, for example...

    I readily confess that my knowledge of and taste in music is         anything but exemplary, eclectic, or broad based, or extensive.  (Hope I'm not being repetitive or redundant or monotonous or     constant...   You may weigh in with your own observations about my     redundancy, if you wish!)  

   Where was I?!  Oh yes, the realm of music.  As a youngster, or an                   adolescent, I was eager to escape my home life, and thus I resolved to dash away, straw suitcase pre-packed, near at hand, or to seek and find a more propitious means of finding my way in life.

In the end, having come to my senses and having heeded advice from those brighter and perhaps more insightful than my, then, young self, I chose to enlist in the U.S. Armed Services.  You know...  ready availability of shelter, food, clothing, etc.    

Fresh out of secondary school, I reported to the local military recruitment center, swore

the appropriate oath, and before I could ask myself, "What the hell are you doing, you ridiculous bubblehead?..." I was on a Braniff flight, bound for a basic training center in Texas.  The weather was hot in June!  We did a lot of sweating.

Eventually, if we were well behaved (or our training leaders, perhaps, were sick of the sight of us!), we were offered what our lead Training Sergeant termed, "a Patio Break."  The music on its ancient jukebox was exclusively Country, not a standard nor an aria nor an R&R tune within ear shot.  I began to taste straw and alfalfa; I imagined tucking my thumbs into bib overalls, drawling and dribbling "Dixie Speak" and lots of Y'all's, Yonders, Reckons and fixins!

After suffering through the ear-piecing bellowing of training sergeants, calisthenics far too aplenty, "Attentions," "Forward or Backward Marches," and more insults than even my own dear father heaped upon me, I was dispatched to a training school in another

Texas location.  (Thought I'd never get out of Texas...), not to mention never hear another but a country ballad by George Jones, Buck Owens, Patsy Cline, Merle Haggard, Bob Wills, Texas "Fats" Pimpslee...   Hell, even a quite young Willie Nelson?

Then, before I could ask my pal, Rex Winkle, who originated from an obscure village in Southern Utah, "Hey, y'all goin don to the boozy waterin' hole made just for enlisted trash...?" I was sent to a strange foreign land...  TURKEY!  That extraordinary land southeast of

Bulgaria, south of the Black Sea, southwest of Georgia and Armenia, west of Hellas (or Greece, to lots of Americanos!)...  where I listened to lots of Turkish music...

Dede Efendi, Serdar Yilmaz, Baha Yetkin...  and the beautiful tunes of the famous, Zeki Muran (two dots above the "u), including "Let's Tweest Agin Lak We deed Last Sooomer"!  Zeki was the Turkish answer to...  I don't know...  maybe Elvis, maybe Bill Haley...  

We listened to that and other of Zeki's fabled melodies whilst speeding along dark, narrow, gravely roads at night courtesy of our favorite taxi driver, Hikmet, his ancient cab fitted with a 45 RPM record player buried somewhere in the dash board!  He spent more time looking at us in the back seat recommending others of Zeki's modern tunes!  "Face forward, look at the road!!..." someone hollered, brow dripping with sweat!

I mean, the point of all of this is this:   I missed my teenage music years!  Had no idea who were the Beatles, Everly Brothers, Byrds, Doors, Stones, Who, Floyd Pink, Beach Guys...   Truth is, I am very fond of all sorts of music -- Rock, Blues, Standards, Opera,

Who the hell are these oddly
appareled guys again??

Classical stuff, Country too...   It's just that I missed the 60s!  (I was keeping the world safe for democracy after all!!...  something like that!!)

When at last I matriculated, that is, entered University Life, having been honorably dismissed from military service, I had no idea what the hell my classmates or contemporaries were talking about!   "Who the devil are the Shondells, the Rhondells, Pips, people Grateful to be Dead??!!"  I was lost, out of it, ridiculed, but I could sing "Merhaba," "Nasilsinez," "Bishey Deyil," "Teshaker Ederim," and of course "Let's Tweest Again......."   

I should of course mention that one of my military compatriots in Turkey (there were four of us to a barracks room!) had a boat load of 33-1/3 RPM recordings of Warbling Persons...   E.g.  Julie London, Frankie Sinatra, Dean-o, Sammy Davis Junior Junior, Perry C., Billie, Nat, Ray, Mario, Ella, Bing, Pat, Dinah, Judy, Tony, Louie, Eartha, Dorseys, Mills Bros., Woody, Sarah, Fats, Vaughn, Mel Torme (I just remembered his surname!)

In the 70s and 80s I caught up with Willie, Waylon and the boys, having been indoctrinated by them on the aforementioned "Patio's"...  State Fairs, Summerfests, other concert venues!  I'm still a bit dense about popular music.  I constantly ask SweetHeart, Tad, and others, "Who's that?"....  Who sang, "Norwegian Wood Floors...  Do I like that one, SweetHeart"...? 

And thus, to end this foolish reminiscence, I apologize to music purists, to those with encyclopedic knowledge of modern tunes and their composers and singers of songs!  I apologize to Bob, John, George, Ringo, Paul, Norman, Tad and SweetHeart...  (Was there a Norman?)...

(Special Note of Dedication:  For SweetHeart, Tad, Alie, Bethie...  and for those four "insect guys," Zeki (who's probably dead), that saloon owner in Okauchee, and all others dedicated and devoted to all manner of music and to keeping memories alive and tunes warbled when lyrics and melodies or wandering notes wafting on the winds of time enter their thoughts!)

Humbly Submitted 07-16-2025 -- Joel K.

 

   

In Turkey -- the "En-Chant-ed" Sounds of Street Sellers and their Wares!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:                     In Turkey -- the "En-Chant-ed"                                       Sounds of Street Sellers and their Wares!  

When the sounds of memory crawl back into our consciousness, do we, in our GeezerHood, hear them faithfully?  Or do we embellish them in an effort to enchant and enlarge our fragile psyches, our imagined statures?   Do we hope to impress others, those with whom we share the ancient times and tales of our youth?  One does one's best (most of the time?!) to render with integrity the stories and legends we want to believe are true!

When stationed in Turkey in military service, specifically on an air base near Yalova, a

port city on the Sea of Marmara, leisure time was a precious commodity for the curious, the tourist and the traveler in many of us.  Like Marco or Vasco we imagine ourselves as wandering camels, ships, vessels of discovery, boldly curious and bravely adventurous.    

Some of us, those who chose to embrace the opportunity of living 18 months in a beautiful foreign land with an extraordinary major city, spent a great deal of time in Istanbul, a 90-minute ferry crossing over the blue waters of Marmara.  We'd pass two beautiful islands along the way, drink a bit or a lot of vodka with "lemone," munch fresh pistachios.   Finally we'd cruise into the port, past Maiden's (Leander's) Tower in sight of the port of Uskudar on the Asian side of that remarkable city.   

Our usual route into the heart of the old town required a crossing of the Golden Horn

over the Galata Bridge.  In the early to later evening hours we'd visit a series of Pavyons (bars / nightclubs), drinking too much and "talking treason" to mates and native patrons alike, including young Turkish women who had little interest in us or our inane ramblings and boastings.

In the "yellow time," the early morning hours, as dawn assaulted our blood-shot eyes, we'd trip along the narrow city streets to a basement apartment lended by a friend to my friend.  The friend of the friend's name, I recall was Thom (the "h" is silent!).   She had a delightful, sort of musical family name that I can't recall.  

The apartment was at basement level.  We had a perfect view of feet and lower leg portions from our street-level windows.  In the still early hours of the morning, usually beginning about 6:00 AM, the street vendors would begin their daily chants, or shouts.  Among the words that pierced our injured and hung-over ears was "Sicak, Sicak," (sounds like "Cee-Jak") always repeated at least twice.   It means Hot!  The words would travel up and down the brick-paved streets until patrons spilled out of their doors to breakfast on the sweet and savory offerings of the loud and energetic street-food merchants. 

The word for cold was also heard echoing along the pavements -- Soguk (sounds like So-ook).  And then we'd often hear "Eskigee" (I paraphrase or "para-spell"?).  It means "old" or old clothing for sale or other ancient articles for sale or barter or bargaining.      

If we could actually rouse ourselves from peaceful slumber -- profound, like things long dead -- we'd crawl or stumble our ways into the streets and purchase a hot breakfast.  We'd "Yemek" (eat) our ways through the pain of aching heads, or drink the soothing cold brews on offer.  Strong, hot and thick enough to chew Turkish coffee, or "Chai," a wonderful Turkish tea.   And Oh yes...  Can't forget to mention, "Chitir" -- Fresh Rolls.  Those we'd also "Yemek" voraciously, like wolves devouring a fresh kill! 

A favorite meal was "Ekmek" (Turkish bread) stuffed with lamb (Kuzu) balls sprinkled with powdered salt.  Delicious!  The Ekmek was huge and crusty and flavorful, and the meat inside was equally tasty.  This was often our lunch or dinner of choice.  One had to hold it with both hands, as it was as heavy as a long-eared rabbit or a large river stone!

If a day was to be filled with exploration, we'd take the local bus to Yalova and await a different bus, this one to Bursa.  The call was powerful and resonant -- Boo-sah, Boo-Sah, Boo-Sah -- always shouted three times, accent on the second syllable.  Yes, actually, "Bursa," but it sounded like "Boo-Sah"!  Bursa was another beautiful Turkish city, located in the northwestern corner of the country, a hilly nearly mountainous region.  

   

Not long ago, I was telling the "Chants" tale to certain family members, those who'd listen!  One has to wonder why certain thoughts and recollections suddenly appear in the mind, like a film clip accompanied by the distinctive sound of a 16-mm projector, re-running frequently, a recording stuck on "Memories."  

 

Enough!  All that remains is to post an image of a Pavyon and then to end this posting, but hoping that Travelers and Turks and other devotees will enjoy this retrospective, the thoughts, ideas and flashbacks it may (or may not!) evoke.  Thank You!  

Humbly Submitted September 5, 2023 -- Joel K.

 

    

      

Our Passage to Istanbul... Adventures and Minor Revolutions!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:       Our Passage to Istanbul...  Adventures and Minor Revolutions!

It was a Tuesday, or maybe not...  Might have been a Thursday, even a Friday!  Trouble is, when you work shifts -- Days, Swings, Midnights -- the days not working became blurs of memory, blending or crashing into one another as if becoming single, enormous knots.  The year was 1962 or maybe 1963?  We were in the military, the US Air Force to be accurate, assigned to the USAF Security Service, stationed near the town of Karamursel, Turkey at an Air Force Station on the shores of the beautiful Sea of Marmara.  

This is a tale told not during the era of GeezerHood.  But recollected stories and memories recently shared have a way of insisting, inserting themselves into our consciousness, demanding that we put ink to paper and recall adventures frozen in a still-functioning psyche!  

The station was some 20 KM from the city or town of Yalova, a ferry port on the aforementioned sea.  We'd ride a bus, about a 45 minute to one hour trip.  We'd drink Raki, a licorice-flavored and highly potent spirit the Turks would pass around to those of us brave or stupid enough to take large swallows from the omni-present jugs that always traveled with us on the bumping blue busses.  

The Port of Yalova

Never entirely inebriated, but close, we'd step off the bus and walk the short distance to the ferry terminal, purchase our low-cost tickets, and cruise the 90-or-so minutes from Yalova to Istanbul.  We'd drink "Vodka-Lemones" or more Raki, crack their shells and consume large quantities of pistachios.  Sometimes the Marmara would be angrywould bounce the ferry vigorously aided by large swells delivering to passengers near the rails stormy showers of salty and cold sea water.

We'd sail past Buyuk Ada and Heybeli Ada, the former the island home of some Armenian - Turkish friends, the latter the site of a Turkish naval base and a branch of its naval academy.  

Turkish men would approach our table or chairs or, if we were standing, directly to our ears, in any circumstance, about an inch or two away, and state loudly, emphatically, "Deniz, Chok Fenah."  (Two of the words are printed phonetically for ease of pronunciation!). The phrase is translated, "The sea is very bad."  

We would respond, "Evet, effendum, chok fenah "  Meaning, "Yes sir."  Optionally, "Evet, akadaash."  Meaning "Yes, friend," always repeating or affirming the "very bad" addendum to emphasize and acknowledge our understanding.  And then we'd continue to drink the refreshing Vodka Lemones, or the more powerful and quicker-acting Raki.  

The ferry would enter the gorgeous port of Istanbul, past the Tower of Leander, finally into the quayside, depositing its complement of passengers who always rushed off, as if on missions of great import.  We, too, were eager to begin our days of leisure and entertainment.  We'd drink in the beauty of the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia and Topkapi Palace.  We'd board taxis or busses and head for the Pavion district  (possibly "Paveon," meaning tavern or bar or inn that sells spirits!) or other neighborhoods with which we had become enamored and intimate.  Some would aim their sights on the "Red Light" district, where "women of the evening" would pose seductively in what seemed like large-windowed "Store Fronts" to attract their clientele.

Leander's Tower

On one of our Istanbul forays, in a popular pavion district, a small revolution was gathering strength, the perpetrators "Young Turks" of student or military issue, displeased with the current ruling body at the time, and hoping to encourage more of the like-minded citizenry to join them in attempting to overthrow the government, or at least to demonstrate extreme antipathy.  We were trapped in the middle of the crushing throng.  A Turkish man, recognizing and regarding us as unlikeable or evil Americans -- or so we thought in retrospect -- thrust a knife, but was happily restrained and managed only to penetrate a shirt front slightly and cause a small wound in the soft flesh of the belly of one of us.

In the end, everyone survived.  As day surrendered to night, and traffic -- particularly taxi traffic -- increased dramatically, we walked the narrow streets to a favorite haunt.  Trying to cross a street, the feet of one of us were run over by a taxi cab.  They travel so fast, as if in a race, as if competing for a lucrative fare, as they all in fact were doing, all of the

time and everywhere in that great city. 

Miraculously -- most likely a memory drenched in a bit of hyperbole -- the feet were uninjured, owing perhaps to soft tires or the non-feeling result of strong drink.  In the pavion (or paveon), we spent the better part of the evening consuming more Turkish beer, raki and other boozy potables.  Eventually, we wandered the late-night and early-morning streets of Istanbul, scoring pills and cannabis along the way.  

One of us was "treated" to a bit of LSD, mostly ignorant of its often gruesome affects on both the human body and brain.  The rather bold if stupid half of a drunken duo took the LSD, experiencing the terror of being devoured by a giant cartoon rodent.  The other half of the duo wisely demurred, and would not sample his portion of the nasty potion that resembled, we remembered, a frozen dot of raki, at least in color.  

The Galata Bridge, spanning
the Bosphorus!

We woke in the morning in our respective beds at a clean but inexpensive hotel, ravenous and exceptionally hung-over.  Over a delicious breakfast of cheese, tomatoes, eggs, cucumbers, jam, honey, kaymak, sucuk (a spicy Turkish sausage), pishi (a kind of fried dough) and soup, having met up with our fellow travelers, we discussed the revolution, the stabbing, the taxi's attempt to assassinate one of us, and our collective adventures.  No one talked about the LSD incident.  

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

Why the obscure use of "we" and "us," rather than identifying specific victims, fools and buffoons, we can only point to the cerebrum and memory draining effects of alcohol, and its extreme and often completely foolhardy misuse.  However, on balance, young men in military service, trying valiantly to experience every manner of frenzied and half-crazed behavior before death overtakes them, are often known to engage in activities that they'd never care to share with a mother or a father or a confessor, or any other sentient being with a working brain.  

What fun we had, though.  What adventures we can now share!  Long after the facts of them, of course -- with equally demented friends of similar, shared experience, grown children, perhaps even with grandchildren and grandnieces and nephews of appropriate ages, intelligence and temperaments.  But only if they'll listen, only if they're even moderately interested in the odd if true ravings of a Wizened Geezer!  

(Special Note of Dedication:    for Tad KM who listened so politely to my latest "historical blather," and encouraged the writer to fashion a posting or two on various topics, this one included...  I think?!...  The extraordinary young man, a superb writer himself, urged me to "write it all down..." for future generations and, of course, posterity.  As such, I was naturally compelled!  Thank You, Tad!).  

Humbly Submitted, 10-08-2021 -- By Joel K.