A Telegram from the Living Legend

Telegram, circa mid-1960s

An Exchange of Letters Between My Brother and Father from Late 1992

The idea of posting my father’s letters to a blog was for my siblings to finally see what my father wrote about each of us in his letters to the others. To say he was grossly unfair is probably an understatement. He wasn’t ashamed of his cheapness—bringing his own liquor to bars and just buying sodas for mixers or meanness—his reference to my Uncle Marvin and calling my brother a “turkey”

You begin to notice a pattern in his writing, which I noticed to an even greater extent in his unpublished autobiography, and that is the belief that if you write something down and you write it often enough, you give credence to the lie. More on this to come in future postings, but a couple of examples of this from this exchange of letters.

My father alludes to sending me a Christmas gift the prior year, which, if he did, I never received. Nor had I ever received a Christmas gift from him over the course of my entire adult life. In another letter—not part of this exchange—he alludes to having sent me a $500 gift certificate as a wedding gift the summer of 1993. A pretty generous gift for me to have supposedly not acknowledged, except when you consider that I never received anything from him. Nothing, not a card or phone call. Granted, I wasn’t expecting anything since I didn’t invite him to the wedding or even send an announcement. It wasn’t until after his death, when going through his correspondence that I learned that he had complained to family and friends about my not acknowledging the gift. Maybe the Alzheimer’s to which he eludes at the end of the last letter might explain it.

Finally my father claims 1994 would be his 30th consecutive year at the Fiesta of San Fermin in Pamplona. His first trip there in 1966 was well documented in his journals, so 1994 would have been his 27th year.

I also find it strange that my father expresses a liberal viewpoint in letters near the end of a life he spent espousing political ideology that a friend and colleague of his characterized as “slightly to the right of Attila the Hun.” I was with him on one occasion in which he swerved his car into a huge puddle, soaking a line of welfare recipients standing outside the office on Broad Street in Philadelphia, screaming, “Get a job!”

October 24, 1992

Dear Mark,

Saturday night and I'm sitting here reading goddam blue books which demonstrate, roughly, 6th grade levels of grammar, punctuation, and spelling, and, on the average, 3rd grade intellectual levels! I'm torn between last-year tendencies to be generous and very realistic anger and depression at the state to which the American educational system is condemning the next generations to total inadequacy! I can't wait to get out! So, I'm just biding my time until next July 1st when I'm definitely out of here.

Janet has just left, flying her 747 down to Rio and Montevideo--in search of Uraguayan and Brazilian Monopoly sets (I must have about 30 by now, having just gotten one from Australia--to match Egypt, Thailand, etc) My main targets now are Finland, Austria and Greece (to finish Europe), then Mainland China, Philippines, and Korea to finish Asia. Then to work on Africa.  What collections my kids will inherit!

I do hope you're thinking seriously about all of us meeting in London. I am torn between 3 or 4 November . . Janet can drive me up to Newark only on the 4th (and Beverly has sent me a big box to carry over to Jennifer) . . and back on the 7th (when she'll be returning from her own flight over to London). Still no word on the Guy Fawkes party, though I'm sure that someone in Cambridge will be having one. I will be coming down to London on Friday, the 6th, so if you can't get away before Thurs. night the 5th, we can arrange to meet at Jenny's on Fri. morning in London. I will probably spend Fri. night at Liptons, Sat. with Janet in her hotel in Kensington.

I enclose, as usual, advance payment for my pass, and, if you decide to go and can get a Buddy pass for Jessica, I will pay for that. I haven't spoken to Jeff yet, but will presume he can get a Courier flight to get him to London at least by the morning of the 6th, possibly earlier. So . . don't screw up; be Mr. Reliable for a change, forego a little poontang for 72 hours, and help effect a family reunion in London. Believe me, when you're a drooler and your women have all left you, you'll be grateful for having sisters who'll help wipe the drool and see you don't die alone, like Uncle Marv.

Still waiting for the Real Estate market to pick up so I can get the hell out of here. The San Diego area is my temporary alternative; I will not spend another winter in Philthadelphia! I think we'll be going into a trade war with England since this U.S.Air/Brit Air deal is dead. The little pissants want us, how­ever indirectly, to do for them what they think we've been doing for Germany, France, and the other European countries they want to give us nothing and give them free reign in the States.

Your nonsense about competition being good for Boeing and HcD/Douglas is just that their governments are pouring millions into their airbus industries, it is hardly fair competition. Continental will soon be forced out of Europe and you'll be working for some Europeans . . but that is only if the reaction of your soon-to-be-out-of-work crews doesn't put your company into permanent manure! Think twice about what's happening to this country, you have swallowed this Welfare shit, the cry for self-sufficiency is a red-herring to get out of the moral obligation of providing for basic needs in this country And remember; whatever your beliefs, don’t manifest them so as to alienate those close to you--on whom you may well want to fall back on when things get bad!

I have signed on for the First Summer Session to make some bread so that I can provide up to $1000 for a 1/3rd share on a seaside Apt. in St. Jean for the month of July. The Grands will come here on November 12; we'll put them to work in trying to find us a first class place for the summer. 1994, my 30th consecutive, will be my last year at Pamplona. This coming year is promising; with the peseta at 109 and climbing, we might get 150 to the dollar for '93! This will still make a rum + coke at the Windsor $3.00, but will help in general . . the room at the Maisonnave will only be $175 for a double (with meals). When you consider that you paid $100 per for a small walk-up at Marceliano's . . that may be a good deal!

Janet's and my next trip will be to India, then to Brazil. United is going to connect up around the world in February and Fly into Johannesburg and New Delhi. We may even get married this Spring! If we fly to Las Vegas, perhaps you and your sweetie will join us there!

Don't let me hear about your coming up this way without seeing you old man--it's been years since you were last here. If I see my sweetie Bonita the beautiful Continental Flight Attendant on the International run, I'11 tell her you'l1 be coming up to see her!

Take Care,

          

Dear Dad;

Thank you for the wonderful letter. . . Your sermonizing is more than amusing. In fact, it moves me to anger.

Your comments regarding the current status of student education and knowledge was very upsetting, but it is hardly news (unless you're suggesting it's getting even worse, which would be hard to imagine). I've often believed the state of education was in collapse, the matter of degree, to me, was never of consequence.

My personal experience, regarding your culpability for this situation is minimal, unless of course I judge you based on your influence in my life. . . That influence, paired with my knowledge of your political views, would only indicate that you are an integral part of this distaste. . .

I might also add, that I think the situation is worse than you believe (I use the word 'even', largely because you concur with Boy Clinton on his assessment of our current state). I say worse, primarily because ideas to correct the situation, like you and Boy entertain, have gained such wide currency.

We have all had to listen to insufferable political musing for the past months. However, nowhere did the Republicans take a bigger liver punch than that the Democrats dished out over there stance on "family values".

Perhaps I'm the first to suggest to you, that you failed on two significant levels when it comes to the disaster in our education system. First, you simply were not present during my educational years... Next, I've have seen no indication that you are of the nature to correct the problem through working with the University, or the schools that turned out your own inadequately educated children (yes, all of them!). I wouldn't even bet the intellectual Rambo of this family even impeded, or slowed the shit pump Temple had working over time spitting these Bovidae out into the streets.

You may have heard the Bush/Quayle support of family values, now you get to hear mine... If these kids don't get a good dose of discipline, and an accompanying lesson in personal accountability (preferably from someone they're afraid of, Dad) during the years they spend in grade school, there's no way they are going to sit still for anyone long enough to learn anything in high school. College is out of the question.

In short, it takes a mother to love and coddle; it takes a father to discipline (preferably a conservative). A female cannot adopt the dual role of kind forgiver and enforcer.

You liberals are only out to make matters worse. You push us further away from personal accountability, every, single, day. You blame everyone else. . . the government, the environment, etc. . . Everyone except yourselves--the fathers, the families, the liberals!

Don't forget, the free market system is the last vestige of accountability left in this world. It's our golden goose. I'd like you liberals to quit chasing it around the yard with an axe.

The reason we can't compete with foreign, albeit subsidized products and services, is because we are the lazy, stupid shitheads (of the sort Temple is churning-out), not concentrating on producing the one sure fire answer to these imports. . . A good fucking product!

I trust the market. I don't trust any check-bouncing, pork-barreling, politically correct, tree huggin', owl spotting, grinin' and gripin', bone-head, trustee of JFK son-of-a-bitch to spend one dime of OPM wisely! And I don't recommend you do either.

By the way, even a highly subsidized Airbus (I'd capitalize it if I held myself out as a judge of others spelling, grammar, etc. . .) is just competing with the U.S. aircraft industry. Care to guess what country would be selling all the planes if we didn't have excessively burdensome union work rules, litigation, environmentalist, and on, and on, and on. . . Besides, John Maynard, it's a worldwide slow-down in new aircraft orders, not a domestic problem.

With regard to your comments on welfare. . . I feel a moral obligation, only to those truly in need (the crippled, the insane; those that cannot provide for themselves), not the permanent caste of able body loafers with their asses parked on my paycheck that aren't willing to work. Shit there's probably a significant number that attended Temple, and yes, Northern Michigan University (and every other liberal piece of shit pinko university out their confusing the fundamental elements of accountability with right-too, "access" horseshit diarrhea of the sort spewing out Clinton's mouth).

I would not want to alienate you, or any others with my personal views. However, I might also suggest the same to you. . . The way I see it, there's just as strong a chance that others will need to count on me, as there is, I'll need to count on someone.

[Attachment (fax):]

TO:                  Mark Vorzimmer
FROM:             KB
DATE:              October 28, 1992
MESSAGE:       This is not the one I had, but it is pretty similar, enjoy!!

PSALMS OF ARKANSAS

BILL CUNTON IS MY SHEPHERD, I SHALL NOT WANT.

HE LEADETH ME BESIDE STILL FACTORIES,

HE RESTORETH MY DOUBT IN ARKANSAS POLITICS, HE GUIDETH ME TO THE PATHS OF UNEMPLOYMENT,

HE ANOINTETH MY WAGE WITH FREEZE, SO MY EXPENSES RUNNETH OVER MY INCOME,

SURELY POVERTY AND HARD LIVING SHALL FOLLOW THIS ADMINISTRATION AND I SHALL LIVE IN A RENTED HOUSE FOREVER.

5000 YEARS AGO, MOSES SAID, "PACK UP YOUR CAMEL," PICK UP YOUR SHOVEL, MOUNT YOUR ASS AND I WILL LEAD YOU TO THE PROMISED LAND.

5000 YEARS LATER, F.D.ROOSEVELT SAID, "LAY DOWN YOUR SHOVEL, SIT ON YOUR ASS AND LIGHT UP A CAMEL; THIS IS THE PROMISED LAND."

TODAY, BILL CUNTON WILL TAX YOUR SHOVEL, SELL YOUR CAMEL, KICK YOUR ASS AND TELL YOU THE PROMISED LAND IS IN JAPAN."

P.S. I AM GLAD I AM AN AMERICAN.

I AM GLAD I AM FREE.

BUT I WISH I WERE A LITTLE DOG

AND BILL CLINTON WAS A TREE.

December 3, 1992

Dear Turkey,

You keep pulling that "Call you right back" shit .. and there is never less than a week between calls--if that.

Robbin Walker hadn't a clue as to why she wasn't offered a job at Continental--she thought she'd done very well on the interview--only to get a brief form-letter rejection. We were not all that unhappy as (a) we thought a ramp agent job would be closer to home (b) would be better paid and (c) would have better hours. We were convinced that an airline could not do better than to have someone like Robbin; but she got short shrift from Continental--and little assistance from you!

So .. what are your plans for Xmas? Are you going to Cleveland? I am off from Dec.15 to Jan.15th--though the University wants me to retire on January 1st (they were so dilatory last June that I had to rescind my application to retire on July 1st--principally on the stated grounds that I needed more than 5 days to make an important life decision; so now they come up with January 1! But I'm going to hold my ground for June 30th.)

Janet is in Colorado, but will come back this Saturday (the 5th). She's free until the 24th whence she's off to Narita again. As I said, I'm planning on going out on the 25th, even though I've not heard yet from the Liptons--and need to be put up over there from Dec.26-29--then coming back on January 1st (Janet will try to join me if she gets a line for January that gives her off until at least the 3rd or 4th).

I will need you to send me an r/t for ConEx between PHL + EWR, I will probably only use the one-way up to EWR since I don't want to take a car up if I come back down in Janet's on the 1st, but will have the r/t for a back-up if she can't come over.

My friends Alister & Sam are coming down from Cambridge to go with us to Clive Sinclair's New Year's Eve party .. so we're getting side-by-side rooms at the Hyde Park Hilton for the 30th and 31st, then off the morning after the party. Jen will be back on the 30th, so she'll probably come along as well. You could be her escort if you like! I think you'll find her English room-mate, while cute, is a bit young for you... Anyway, give it some thought--the last New Year's Eve party had real class--a huge luxury boat with overflowing champagne--which parked immediately below Big Ben at the stroke of midnight. A tot of rum as one ascended up the gangplank upon boarding was a good sign. New Year's day is a pain-in-the-ass to come home on, but it least promises a first-class seat!

Still no word from Jeff .. probably on his way to Brazil! Called in a real estate man to appraise the house and its sale-worthiness. Market has collapsed around here. I could, right now, only get $179, 500 [down from $250,000], but if things go optimally, I might get $200,000 by summer. Only good thing is that prices are down more than that in England. Janet wants to take a temporary shift to Hawaii for six months (which would create a moving-mileage for use for an England move that would save us some $25,000); so I guess things could be worse than having to spend 4-6 mos. in Hawaii. Jennifer would hope to come back to a job in Phila at the end of the summer .. and then Jess would move up here and go to Temple (the Pa. supreme ct. just ruled that fathers are no longer obliged to provide college education + expenses to over-18 year olds--and while there is no retroactivity, that would impact on Jess' last two years. But since it remains free if she goes to Temple, she will have to come up here once I retire. Actually, she would like that--providing she could live here with Jennifer. She has already burned her bridge with Bev and Alan by moving out; so she has gone way out on a limb. This latest Pa. Supreme Ct. decision has really twisted Bev's gourd! Jessica now realizes that by giving me the finger and changing her name she also burned another bridge! When all I have is $1250 a month taxable, it will be hard to get money out of me--if Jeff wants a Christmas present from me, he better fucking well acknowledge the ones he received from me last year! His lack of taste one can do nothing about, lack of manners is something else!

The weather is closing in here in Philadelphia .. and I'm not looking forward to this winter .. just have the summer to look forward to...so...don't forget the ConEx passes (you have plenty of advance payment from me..$400 paid for 3 Y class tickets to London and one Business .. why don't you come up for a weekend? I hardly remember what my children look like .. better get here before my Alzheimer's flares up irreversibly.

   

The Bust of Verdi

One of the things I enjoyed doing with my father was hanging out at Freeman’s Auction House in Philadelphia. It was the only time I ever saw my father spend money in a manner that could be called frivolous.

He would buy books and accoutrements for his study. Some of the things I remember him bidding on, in competition with area dealers, were antique firearms, phrenology heads, sculptures, mannequins and, once, the figurehead of a ship—which he won, by the way.

Sometimes, usually near the end of an auction, there would be some object that nobody would bid on. It was usually something hideous or, at the very least, in questionable taste. I remember such an object that no one showed any love for, perhaps because my father and I decided to be the lone bidders and it ended up being an object that would play a part over the course of the rest of his life.

“As our last item I have a plaster bust of Giuseppe Verdi,” the auctioneer said. “I’ll starting the bidding at $10.” The auctioneer went through his patter over the sound of people milling about or filing out. Then he stopped abruptly. “Do we not have any opera fans in the house?” he asked with arched eyebrows. Although it’s plaster, it doesn’t show any visible signs of cracking or chipping.” I would also add that it was painted to look like aged-brass—not quite trailer trash tacky, but in questionable taste.

Giuseppe Verdi

I turned to my father and said, “I love Verdi.”

“I do too . . . Oh what the Hell,” he said, as his paddle shot up. I carried it into the house that afternoon. It was all we had to show for that particular auction.

“I don’t want that thing in my house,” my tasteful Texan stepmother said to us upon seeing it cradled in my arms. My father took it from me and placed it on top of the antique bookcase in the living room. And there it sat, unappreciated for years, until the unlikely event of my father’s divorce put it center stage for a brief and shining moment.

In early October of 1977, my father’s marriage was all but over. All that remained was for them to split the furniture and the rest of their belongings and my stepmother Beverly would take my sisters with her and return to Texas.

It was a beautiful fall day on campus when my father caught me leaving my last class of the day. “You got to get to the house right now,” he said. “I just got a call that a moving van is parked outside Wallace Street and I suspect Beverly is taking everything. Just get down there and make sure she doesn’t take anything from the study or the bedroom. I still have one more lecture and I’ll be home after that”

By the time I got to the house it was too late. I saw the large moving van pulling away as I arrived. I dreaded what I would find—or more accurately—what I wouldn’t find in the house. I walked in the front door of Wallace Street to find the living room empty except for a bookcase on the opposite wall, to the right of the door to the dining room, and the bust of Giuseppe Verdi on the floor where the antique bookcase had been.

I went through the dining room. It was empty, as was the kitchen. I went up the steps to the parlor. It was empty, then through the family room. The television was there, as were the shelves surrounding it. Then one step up to my father’s study, which was relatively intact. There were bookcases lining both sides and his huge roll top desk between windows that looked out onto Wallace Street.

It turned out that the house was pretty much empty with the exception of the study and my father’s bedroom. My bed and wardrobe were gone and my clothes were in a pile on the floor. I went down to the basement to find a sleeping bag and a card table for the kitchen, so we would have something on which to eat. I set up the card table in the kitchen and some folding chairs. It didn’t look a lot less empty. I went and got the bust of Verdi from the living room floor and set it on the card table.

I sat there thinking about how different life would be without my stepmother and half-sisters, not to mention the always-helpful, always-available, au-pair girl. Of course, it wouldn’t have made much sense to leave the au-pair, but I’d grown quite fond of her.

So, my father and I would be baching it. He would probably start charging me rent if he didn’t throw me out entirely and move in one of his mistresses.

About half an hour later my father came home. He plopped down on one of the folding chairs looking a little dejected and said, “Well?”

I couldn’t feel sorry for him even at that moment since he had brought this all on himself with his extramarital activity that included students, au-pair girls and some of my college friends.

“The study and your bedroom look pretty much unscathed, although my bedroom is empty.”

“Well, we’ll have to get you a bed. If you’re going to stay,” he said.

“I got nowhere else to go,” I said.

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Well, there’s lots of room,” I said, trying to see the glass as half full.

“Good point . . . Hey! Let’s have a party!” He said, his spirits seeming to rise again.

“What, to celebrate being newly-separated? Nothing says desperate, horny, old college professor more than a party celebrating his wife’s departure.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said—words I rarely heard from my father.

“We could find something else to celebrate . . .”

“That’s it! We’ll find another reason to have a party,” he said, rather enthusiastically.

“Let’s see, Oktobefest? No, that really needs an outdoor venue . . .”

“Wait, the answer is right in front of us!” he said as he went running upstairs to his library. He came back down leafing through a biography dictionary. “I thought so!” he said. “Giuseppe Verdi’s birthday is this weekend!” he said, nodding toward the bust on the table.

 “We’re not really fans of the opera,” I said. Which wasn’t entirely true. My father loved Gilbert & Sullivan and I had a fondness for Wagner.

“He’ll be a 164 years old. I’ll print up some invitations tomorrow and we’ll start distributing them right away. It’s kind of short notice, but I need you to round up some hot-looking coeds.”

We had the party. My father and I cooked our own specialties. I remember making pizza from scratch with ingredients we picked up from the Italian Market in South Philly. I also remember making something we called “clam blobs,” which were a mixture of canned clams and cream cheese heated in a toaster oven.  Of course we played Verdi operas and the bust of Verdi, festooned with a laurel on his head, took a place of honor at the hors d’oeuvre table.

Thus began the tradition of having a birthday party for Giuseppe Verdi every October, about a month into the fall semester. My father held the party every year for the next, and last, 18 years of his life.

The Fiery Birth of the Living Legend

The New York Times headline, May 7, 1937

Tomorrow would have been my father’s 79th birthday. He was born just hours after the Hindenburg disaster, a fact that I’ve spent some time pondering over the course of my life. I’ve often wondered if the soul of some dead Nazi aboard the Hindenburg was able to travel the 70 odd miles to the hospital in New York City and inhabit the body of my yet unborn father.

My father as a maladjusted teenager

I say this with the utmost sincerity. It would explain his love of all things Teutonic—Nietzsche, Wagner, Goethe, Clausewitz and, of course, his favorite pistol, his Luger. It would also explain his belief in the superiority of Aryan people, his preference for fair-skinned, blue-eyed blondes and his doctoral thesis on Darwin. In his library at the time of his death, he had more than fifty books on Germany, the Nazi’s, the Third Reich, Hitler, Göring, Himmler, Goebbels and Speer.

One of my father’s most prized collections, though, was Hermann Göring’s toy soldiers, which he had bought from a British officer who had pilfered them from Göring’s office in the Reichstag after the Nazi’s had fled in the closing weeks of the Second World War in Europe. As context my father always said that, as the Allies descended on Berlin, American soldiers were looking for women, the Russians for booze, and the English for collectibles. For many years the collection hung from a custom-made Plexiglas case that was suspended from the ceiling in the living room.

The Daily News, May 7, 1937

Ironically, I had at one time a German girlfriend named Anke and the one and only evening we spent together with my father did not go well. It was one of my father’s notorious game nights that he almost always insisted on when there were at least three of his children around. We would play the horse racing game, Monopoly or Risk, the game of world domination. It was the latter my father chose on this particular evening with my German girlfriend. Both my sisters, Jennifer and Jessica were there that night as well, much to their ultimate embarrassment.

It started off badly enough with my father choosing black—“SS black” I recall him saying—and addressing my girlfriend as “Fraulein” in a bad German accent. Appropriately enough she started in Europe, which my father told her was indefensible and to which she demurred. It was after she had conquered all of Europe and was making advances on Russia that father started referring to her as “Fraulein Clausewitz,” after the great German military tactician, Carl von Clausewitz.

Of course, my girlfriend Anke won the game and my father being such a bad loser was in an awful mood the rest of the evening. It got awkward especially after my sisters begged off to bed.

It was my father’s one and only encounter with Anke. She must have made a lasting impression, though, because she was specifically mentioned in a version of his will from 1992. The exact phrase from the will was “I leave nothing to my son Jeff if he is still with that Nazi bitch Anke [last name withheld (it was misspelled anyway)].”

The International Drivers License of the Living Legend

When I got an international driver’s license from AAA in the early 1980s, some expat Americans laughed at me and said it’s not recognized by most countries and a waste of $15. My father confirmed this and, having found his among his papers after his death, he was apparently speaking from experience as it was obviously unused and unsigned. He would have known because no other American I knew then or now has driven as many miles around foreign countries as he.

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.