The Foetal Alcohol Syndrome Letter

I refer to this letter to my sister Jennifer as the foetal (or fetal) alcohol syndrome letter because of his suggestion that my other sister Jessica was a victim of it.

The Oleh referred to is Oleh Chernyk, medical student, a former student of my father’s and on and off boyfriend of my sister Jennifer to whom this letter was written. He came to Pamplona with us one year that my brother and I were also in attendance and kept referring to him as the son he never had.

He also mentions in the letter Colin Wilson, an author with whom he become obsessed in the last few years of his life and Dinky toys, of which he was an avid collector.

Judging from the closing of this particular letter, it seems as though Jennifer was the only one of the four of us kids who was in his good graces at that time. That would change, of course, over the next couple of years. It was almost like a game of musical chairs in which there was four of us and only one chair.

December 1, 1992

Dear Jen,

          You can imagine the shock when I opened my telephone bill this afternoon and found it to be nearly $300! By the time you return you will have spent the equivalent of a round-trip airfare!

          You cannot afford the luxury of monthly near-one-hour telephone calls! I presume your telephone love-life has tapered off a bit by now; but it's getting me into trouble as I cannot afford these calls. After taxes, my pittance of a retirement is about $1000 a month. I have Jessica—whom I'm convinced after watching a "20/20" show is the victim of FAS (Foetal Alcohol Syndrome)—which manifests itself in adolescence with unacceptable behavior. Now, Miss Self­-Concerned is moving out of the house, between her meager minimum-wage earnings and my support, she moves out—including the loss of her medical coverage! And she tries to tweak my conscience by saying that she'll have to go to Galveston to get free hospital care! She is 20 years old and has been insisting, for over 2 years now, that she is a mature adult who can make her own decisions, yet she still wants to recross her bridges when the going gets difficult!

          I told her that she must come up to Philadelphia to go to school upon my retirement as my retirement will cover her tuition only at Temple. Two years and I have yet to receive any transcript of any evidence of her grades! One must look ahead to the implications of one's acts!

          I guess she'll want to share a place in Philadelphia if and when you come back to work here. I haven't seen Oleh in a week; guess he's gearing up for Final Exams.

          I have put in to reactivate my early retirement request, so will be pinching a few more pennies now. I left two phone messages with the Liptons, but have not had a call-back yet! I wrote two days ago and hope they will call to confirm Xmas plans and tell me about Clive Sinclair's plans for New Year's Eve.

          Did you get the Dinky that I had the dealer send to you? You can leave it at the flat pending my arrival in December. Janet will look into the dispatch via UPS of the microwave to Huntsville; but to get the 1/2 price rate you'll have to be a little more careful on your use of the phone card! We will be staying, on December 31st, at the Hilton at Hyde Park (and will be inviting Alister & Sam down), then taking off the next morning (it's the only day—Xmas and New Year)—I can get a guaranteed seat!). Since so many shops will be closed in London between Boxing Day and New Year, I will count on you to drop in at the two bookstores with my Colin Wilson list before you go and any other likely candidates.

          My health is okay, but the sooner I retire, the better. Still no word from Jeff; Mark seems to be the same, he's still trying to get Robbin Walker, the USA Video store manager, a job at Continental. We're all anxiously awaiting the final word on the USAir/BritishAir merger (by 12/24), on the NW bankruptcy, etc., etc. It seems likely that there will be mergers—and that United probably will push on, in '93, with permanizing their London base. We will likely rent someplace for the first year, just S. of Cambridge.

          You'll have to let me know when it's time to go 'round and talk to Bo Freeman..

          Hope you're not working too hard..if you want to go down to Kent and see the Lipton's place there, you can call 0303-840839 and go down from Charing Cross.

          The papers show a small-group family rate on European trains, so, we can all go down to Pamplona by train from London for the cost of 3 r/t fares—so, 5/6 can go down for that price..sort of like how we went with John, Terry, you, your funny friend, and I. But..nothing is for sure..and I'm a bit pinched these days..so it might behoove me to fly to Paris ( or London) and train from there. Oleh wants to go..but is strapped to figure how he can go to Pamplona, then to Randy's wedding, then to Norway, so he might invest in a Railpass for one month.

          Take care, be happy, don't work too hard, see London, enjoy your friends, remember, Dad loves you and is proud of you! (At least one out of four isn't bad!).

          

Astronymphs!

Here’s the last of father’s NASA stories. This includes a lot of what my father’s officemate, Bart Hacker, has referred to as “apocryphal” anecdotes, though Tom Wolfe mentions the Turtles in his book, The Right Stuff. 

               One day as I was walking down the hall of Building #1 towards my office noticing subconsciously all the ID tags affixed to each and every door. Everyone had a number-designation from “116a – MEN” to “184 – Maintenance” (i.e., the broom closet); every object, from the desks and chairs to the typewriters and in-baskets, had a metal tag superglued on it somewhere. It became kind of a game when you were idling or waiting around, to pick up an object—even an ashtray—and look for its tag. Obviously any item not tagged was clearly not G.I.—and therefore up for grabs. We never did find any such item. But, as I turned the corner that morning bound for my office I came face-to-face with a glaring exception—the door affording direct access to my office. Not a single government designation as to what lay behind it. It could have been a missile silo or a broom closet! Determined not to put up with this humbling anonymity, Bart and I spent a good deal of the morning trying to come up with a designation.
               As the morning wore on and we got back to space matters, we began to muse on the absence of females in the Astronaut program. Bart offered that, as there was a dearth or, even absence, of female pilots in the military, from where the greatest number of recruits were solicited, it would account for there being none. But, he added, they were trying to rectify the matter and actively searching for women astronauts. Then it came to me in a flash! We must contribute to this effort. And we must do so in the best government fashion; we must form a committee!
               Since any bureaucratic unit worth its salt was denoted by an acronym, like NASA itself, we must create one. First things first, I always say. We put our heads together to come up with a name.
               “Prostinauts!” urged Hacker. “No,” said I, “It would conjure up images of sexual shenanigans in space. And the Puffers of the world would go berserk. Besides, it was fundamentally disrespectful and had no class. Then I got it . . . “Astronymphs!” It kind of went with astronauts. And I knew that certainly Wally Schirra would approve. He was, among others, the creator of the Turtles.
               Now the Turtle—or Space Turtles as they were distinguished at NASA—was an informal group of Astronauts and the good-looking, well-endowed young women who doted on them. Women were solicited for inclusion in the group, usually by horny astronauts, from the public-at-large. When a good-looking girl was spotted, she was asked “Are you a Turtle?” If she had been so appointed her standard reply must be: “You bet your sweet ass I am!” If she just looked puzzled, she was then asked if she’d like to become one. If she responded as to what she would have to do to become one, she was told that she merely had to answer four questions correctly. If she agreed, she was asked the following questions:

1. What goes in hard and dry and comes out soft and sticky?

2. What does a man do standing up, a woman do sitting down, and a dog do on three legs?

3. What is it that a cow has four of and woman has only two of?  

4. What is it on a man that is round, hard, and sticks so far out of his pajamas that you can hand a hat on it?

                And so it was that all over the MSC and elsewhere attractive women were recruited into the Space Turtles. It was with this in mind that I decided to create the Astronymphs—and I knew that we’d enjoy the enthusiastic support of that most prestigious and respected group in the Space Program, the astronauts themselves.
               So, on that fateful day in late November, 1966, we created ARBTO, modelled after hundreds of like acronymic groups in the program: the Astronymph Review Board and Training Office. When I returned from the sign shop downstairs with the “A.R.B.T.O.” tag for our bare door, it was done. Bart and I spent our lunch hour designing the appropriate ARBTO questionnaire. After lunch I would pop over to Building 4 confer with Schirra and whichever other astronauts I could find in their offices.
               Needless to say, ARBTO was a big hit—particularly with the Astronauts who had been resigned to never having a say in the selection of their female counterparts and who shuddered at the idea of having to spend countless hours in training, simulators, and deep space with possibly less than attractive females. It clearly appealed to their well-known sense of humor and their love of practical jokes. But few of them had had the intimate contact with Rod Puffer that I had experienced!
               In the following days, ARBTO application/questionnaires found themselves all over NASA-MSC. Even a few in the clubs of Houston and Clear Lake (where the MSC was located).
               On the morning that the “Puffer—stat!” note was impaled on my pen again, I knew that I’d achieved another major milestone at NASA. First I’d created a NASA engineer, then an embarrassing photo-montage of failure, now an entire branch of the Space Program! Puffer would probably be in restraints by now! And I might end up in bandages! Puffer had convinced himself that now, at least, he had gotten me. This would be the last straw, the final nail in the coffin. I had at last gone too far.
               “Well, you really outdid yourself this time! Even [Robert] Gilruth has seen this.” He was waving an Astronymph application form. “By now even Washington has seen it. This will end where it belongs,” he said, crumpling it up and tossing it in his wastebasket, “in the trashcan!” I had never seen Puffer so beet-red, apoplectic. His near-thirty years in the Marines had never brought him as close to a stroke as I had in 90 days.
               “Well,” I mused, “Captain Schirra will be very unhappy to hear that.” Puffer’s eyes shot up to meet mine.
               “Say what?"
               “I said Wally Schirra and John Young (I knew first names would grab him) would be sad to hear that.” I could see him looking quizzically and disbelievingly at me. “They were just beginning to enjoy themselves.” He paused for a second, not sure whether to believe me, then proceeded.
               “Well, they amuse themselves too often at the expense of the seriousness of our efforts.” I could see that he was weighing how to deal with the situation in the light of this new information. He held the astronauts, like so many in the program, in the highest esteem—they could do no wrong. If the occasional clowning and practical joke happened to be their way of relieving the ever-present tension, so be it.
               “But you’re no damn astronaut!” He thought to remind me. “And I don't think you’re much of a historian” (a clear non sequitur) “And I don't think we need another clown around here!” I watched him reach down into his wastebasket and retrieve the crumpled form. Then, placing it on his desk, he smoothed it out, walked over to the ever-burgeoning file drawer and pushed it down into the Vorzimmer file.
               “That file of yours is getting bigger by the week. It’s going to burst one day.” (And so are you, I thought to myself.) Making no reference to any form of punishment, he showed me to the door.
               Grimwood, always attuned to what was going on, was waiting for me on my return. He could see from my relaxed mood that I was off the hook—for the moment.
               “I’ve never seen anybody get Puffer’s goat so much—or so often—as you have and come away unscathed. You watch it, boy, one day he’s going to get you!” I joined Bart back in our office and we chortled about it, even coming up with the idea that we announce a Major Myla Milestone as a new Astronymph in the program.

Last Letter to My Sister Jessica

This was the last letter my father wrote to one of his children. This letter to my my sister Jessica was dated January 7, 1995, just eight days before his death. She received it within a day or two after his death.

I can’t help but think he would have written quite a different letter had he know it would be his last. Maybe not.

Peter J. Vorzimmer
12, Martingale Close
Cambridge, Cambs.,
ENGLAND CB4 3TA
( (0223) 357833
                                                             

January 7. 1995

Dear Jessica,

      One of these days you're going to have to face up to the consequences of your own actions; and that confrontation, painful as it is sure to be, should result in some small incremental addition of maturity. Self-pity is a useless manifestation.  Your mother, although she is the last to preach the ways of independence and self-sufficiency, nevertheless is not thrilled to have a 22½ year old daughter still living at home and still a year from finishing college and still not sufficiently mature to give promise of future mature judgements or who will be entering a working, self-supporting world-in-recession showing, despite above-average intelligence, that she's not yet found those talents that will enable her to begin a relatively challenging, enjoyable working life.

      Too much concentration on honing those skills which will enable you to manipulate others into providing for you, are inadequate to a reality in which adversity has insisted on proving productive skills.  Those, like working adults and vets, who have gone to college at a later stage in life, generally do much better and, if not too old, generally get the jobs. They know how their education relates to their future employment!

      $600 per month is a high rent for Houston.  College dorms abound and, although they leave much to be desired, are generally passable. They allow you to save money for more tangible uses.  I lived 1½ years in the dorms and 2 yrs. in such shared places as reconverted 2-car garages, seedy ex-motel apartments, etc.  I drove an old, gas-guzzling Buick which made me a bit of a laughing stock, but I got but 2 tickets while in college (and they were for going just slightly over the speed limit on the California Coast Highway which I drove about 40x a year!)

      You are paying a bit of a price now for turning your back on your father for your own psychic comfort.  Not sharing your educational dreams or consulting with me in any way on that head, has cost you more than one extra year--and still I'm not consulted! 

NSA FOIA Request

I have up to this point omitted any of my father’s references to working for the NSA, both in what he’s written in his unpublished autobiography and in the stories he told until I could get some kind of confirmation that he was employed by them in any capacity.

This reply to my FOIA (Freedom of Information Act) request arrived today. The highlighting is mine.

To this date I still have note heard anything on my request for my father’s NASA file. 

The Summer of 1977, Part II

If you’ve read the original post, The Summer of 1977, then you’ve read the brief introduction below. You can skip to the text of the letter. I hesitated including this earlier letter as it’s not as interesting as the previously-posted letter of July 26, 1977. As always, I’ve not deleted anything, not even my father’s racist epithets or other embarrassing comments and you can find a link to a scan of the original letter at the end.

In the spring of 1977, when I was 18, my father and I planned to take trip together to France and Spain. We were to drive down from England, where he was spending the summer, over to France and then to Spain by car, and back again. He promised to cover my airfare from New York to London while I covered the rest of my expenses. After my spring semester at Temple in Philadelphia, I went to visit my mother in Michigan after which I would fly to New York and then on to London.

At the time, my father had three houses, the Wallace Street house in Philadelphia and two in the UK, one in Cambridge on Highworth Avenue and the other, south of the city, in the village of Pampisford. He told me of his intention to leave my stepmother and sisters at the house in Pampisford once they got to England and move into the Highworth Avenue house.

Sometime during the spring semester, my 40-year-old father, had begun an affair with one of his students, an attractive 21-year-old girl by the name of Lucy. I had met her when I attended one of my father’s lectures for the class in which she was a student. I knew of the affair and was even asked to cover for him at times. Without consulting me, my father decided to include her in our summer plans and clearly intended for her to spend the rest of the summer with us at the Highworth Avenue house.

Friday, May 13th, 7 p.m.

Dear Jeff,

It's been a very busy week for me . . . but everything is humming along fine. Guess I’ll start where we left off. Saw Lucy for the last time on Friday. Managed to get everything done in Philadelphia--exams, grade sheets, papers, etc. Things were moving apace with regard to Mary Ann and Stanley . . . it was to be up to Stan on Sunday night. Everything went smoothly on Saturday. Susan was about 20 lbs. overweight but got away with it. We got up at 6:15 pm, Susan boarded her flight about 7:20 and just grunted a goodbye, Good riddance to her and all her kind, I say. We boarded an hour later. Good flight . . . got in on time . . . 8:50 a.m., our taxi man waiting, we got here in Pampisford at 11 a.m. Bev was tired. I moved about 35 boxes because I knew I was going out around 7pm and wanted Bev to have something to do in the evening. Went 'round to Stan's. We went several places and then went to the boathouse. Mary Ann's phone was busy from l0:30 to about 11:15, so, since I knew Lucy would be home by then I called her. She was glad to hear from me. Stan has this bird coming over, not May 2Oth as he had previously said, but on June 2Oth. She's about 27, married to a Finn, lives in Minn., and is coming with a 15 year old brother . . . what a rip for Stan.  He'll wind up showing them around everything . . . then says he'll pay for her to come back on her own as soon as she ferries her brother home! He started pissing me about with regard to money and so, since Lucy was also dickering around about her bloody graduation, I decided to start thinking about #1 for a change . . . particularly as Mary Ann knew we were calling and somebody damn well didn't get off the phone. Lucy, no longer under my Svengali influence, is procrastinating. But things did get a little difficult what with Mary Ann backing out and her father so insistent on graduation day. Said she would come on May 28 (arrive that day. Well, what could I say? I was a little disappointed, but then I've been thinking very selfishly. So . . . I spoke to her Tuesday and again today. She doesn't think she can hold out for 2 more weeks, has told her mother she doesn't want to go through the bloody ceremony; but that's different from telling her father the same thing. If she breaks down and comes, it will probably be next Thursday the 19th--if she comes early--otherwise the 28th. She's depressing the hell out of me because she keeps repeating that it will only be a summertime thing. Now she's talking about leaving at the end of July . . . sounds to pat and premeditated to me . . . but why knock a good thing, eh? If I can have a great June and a great Pamplona, what the hell do I care? Right?

You've got a job waiting for you at the pub, in fact they're hiring new people right now. I wouldn't advise waiting longer than arriving here on June 7th, tho. Two cute chicks working at the pub; Jane, aged 22, beautiful red hair, short, cute as hell, and Diana, about 20, short and dark . . . rest are the usual, Judy and her fiancé, David the pub manager. The usual fort crowd. The nigger had left Highworth Avenue--in a bit of a shambles--filthy beyond belief, but nothing stolen. One mattress had to be thrown away, one bed broken. Place a pig sty.  Roland started work on Tuesday, same as me--he also has another man. Status report as of end of work today: one bedroom done--painted and papered; one bedroom about l/8 done. I have the kitchen 2/3rds done . . . it was really rough. I have torn up and scraped the floor and put one undercoat on everything . . . cabinets, window trim, door, etc. Not to mention cleaning stove, fridge, etc. Central heating working fine. It is 4:30 here and has been raining on and off, lightly, since we arrived. Top temp is 60º. Bought a beautiful 2.4 Jaguar saloon car, 1968, with 50,000 original miles on it, for $510.  Everything is fine . . . has passed inspection and a11. Will put a coat of paint on it (just dull at the moment while I'm in Spain and think I'll bring it back to America with me .. what a steal! Don't get it until May 22nd. House will be in good shape in a week's time. Bev is adjusting well, but my 'procrastinating' is of course pushing further away the moment of truth . . . and Lucy isn't in the picture yet.  I've been out every single night for 5 nights now and she hasn't said a thing. Of course Lucy will tip the balance completely. Wish I could say that I wasn't slightly depressed about her, however . . .  The kids were out at Highworth Ave., today, they liked it. I will move in on the 22nd, when I get the second car . . . Bev knows that. Of course, it might be 3 days sooner if Lucy opts for the early arrival, which I don't think she will. Ray Walker turned me onto the Jag, he has driven it and says it's OK . . . in fact he said it was worth 500 pounds, but says I could drive it to London and sell it instantly for 800. I reckon with a new coat of paint on it (metallic grey) I could get about $3200 in the States. With the purchase, the painting and the shipping, will get it to Philly for just under 1000. It has real leather seats which are just supple now . . . really pleased about my purchase. Expenses are mounting on the refurbishing of Highworth Ave., it cost $150 to put in the front lawn. Then inside and outside work will cost me another $450; but it will be a little dream house when it's done

Tomorrow there's an antique and toy dealer's Fair, lots of lead soldiers and dinky toys. But also have to paint the kitchen and lay the new vinyl floor. That should finish the kitchen; bathroom is next.

Hope all is going well with you; hope Michigan turned out as expected. Keep me informed of your plans. Tell Mark I'd be interested to hear his as well. I've talked to Clive twice; he was coming up Thursday but didn't make it. Called on Wednesday, thought it was Monday . . . said, "Christ, what happened to Monday and Tuesday". Let's hear from you, 

 

A PDF of the original letter can be found here:

NASA’s Greatest Failures

Here’s another one of father’s NASA stories. This includes a lot of what my father’s officemate, Bart Hacker, has referred to as “apocryphal” anecdotes. Another apocryphal anecdote appeared years later at the end of the Cold War. After the fall of the Soviet Union, some Russian and American scientists compared notes. The American scientists lamented that they were never able to successfully create a pen with which you could write in space. They asked their Russian counterparts how they solved the problem, to which they replied, “We used pencils.” This might be the actual source of my father’s space pen.

We followed the Mercury team’s pattern by dividing the Gemini Project into three parts—Concept & Design, Research & Development, and Operations—and I would select which of us would take which segment of the history to write. As I was the only team member with no degree in the physical sciences, plus the fact that the Gemini flights were just then taking place, I picked “Operations” for myself. To this end I would have to go to the Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, Alabama, as well as to the Cape in Florida.

In the meantime, as we reviewed aspects of the evolution of Gemini, we were impressed by the number of sub-programs that went into the development of the final program and of the millions of dollars spent on them. There were two major duds among them. Two ground-landing Air Force program—Dyna-Soar and NASA’s Para-Glider—which never did get off the ground and cost millions! Our team was also struck by the cost of the space pen—$27,000+ to write notes in outer space! By the time we finished our preliminary research, we had counted more than a dozen costly sub-projects which failed to contribute anything obvious or useful to Gemini. This corresponded with our realization that, having settled into our History Office, we needed to make it more comfortable—and attractive. On a trip over to Gilruth’s (the MSC Director), I had noticed some stunning, large color photographs that had been taken in space. These were not uncommon in the hallways of the executive buildings. I thought we should have something comparable for ourselves.

Since we prided ourselves on being detached civilian “outsiders” determined to create the record of the program’s “achievements”, I thought we should have our own photographs of NASA’s lesser known achievements which, while never quite as triumphant as those festooning the higher corridors of NASA powerdom, had nonetheless been paid for at considerable cost to the U. S. taxpayer. Their framed appearance on the History Unit’s walls would serve as a daily reminder of NASA profligate use of public monies—a caution, if you will.

The Dyna-Soar and Para-Glide

From the photo lab in the building, I placed an order for about a dozen 16”x20” framed color photos, suitable for framing. In less than a week, our co-worker James Grimwood would come to work and be overwhelmed by our decorations. We had a picture of the Para-Glider and, beneath it, a little card with the name of the project—and its number!—and its cost in millions of taxpayer dollars. As one gazed ’round the walls, they were all there! The space pen, Dyna-Soar, “Shorty” Hetzel (the test pilot who lost 2”+ off his spine in hard landings), and nearly a dozen other projects we had rescued from oblivion. Grimwood was not amused—and neither would Security Officer Rod Puffer!

The first inkling I had that something was amiss, came the very next day, when I arrived at work. There was something decidedly new and different about our office . . . the walls were bare! And once again, impaled on my desk pen was a call-back memo: “Security Officer Puffer—stat!”

Grimwood was already in his doorway, pipe in mouth, as I left for Security. When I entered Puffer’s office, I could see a file cabinet, on the far right, with a drawer partly open—obviously crammed with large folded-over mounted photos. My eyes quickly shot back to Puffer whose neck veins were visibly distended, clearly from the mass of blood that had been pushed to his ruddy face by ever-mounting blood pressure.

“I’m not supposed to ask this question, but what exactly are your political affiliations?” Puffer glared at me as the surprise reaction set in.“Huh? I don’t know what you mean” I couldn’t see the purpose in starting this colloquy this way.

“I mean are you trying to subvert the work of this Agency—or what?” He thumped his desk for emphasis.

“I don’t understand.” I was indeed mystified.

“Parading NASA’s expensive failures all over the walls of the MSC—and at company expense I might add—is downright subversive! If it was up to me I’d can your sorry ass right now! . . . What the hell are you playing at?!”

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice all the photos decorating the halls in Building #4. Especially in contrast with the blank walls of our history unit, so I thought I’d order some to liven up our own quarters. There wasn’t the slightest intent of subversion.” I could see Puffer de-puff himself a bit. Well, at least this was not active, intentional subversion. Realizing that he would not be able to prove intent, he was stuck with the unauthorized requisitioning of government property—at about $125 top cost—and he knew it was hardly worth the aggravation.

“Look,” I added defensively, “NASA spent millions of dollars—and Hetzel nearly lost his life—on a program that the public has never heard of. Not to mention the $27,000 space pencil. What’s wrong about giving a token of recognition for the taxpayer’s?” Puffer broke the conversation off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Get outta my sight you candy-assed intellectual!” and, as I turned to leave, “I’m keeping my eye on you. I’m going to get your sorry ass out of here yet!” My file was obviously growing.