Friends and Why

As I sat down to write this, this piece about friendships come and gone, and some come again, this song by Robert Earl Keen came on Pandora and seemed appropriate.

Coming Home of the Son and Brother

Time for the singer

Time for the singer boy to make his way home

A prodigal I’ve been distressed

This lonely child can’t make it on his own

I’ve been traveling states away

I’ve been playing in a bluegrass band

Now it’s the coming home

Of the son and brother again
Time has slipped away

I don’t know if I can play another tune

They want me to build single handed

A road up to the moon

They only pay me nickels and dimes

In a game that I can never win

So it’s the coming home

Of the son and brother again
It’s been a long long time

Since I’ve seen all of my family and friends

I want to hear them tell their stories

Tell ‘em all about the places I have been

So open all your doors up wide

Invite all the neighbors in

For the coming home

Of the son and brother again

A couple of days ago I posted pictures from what shoulda/woulda been my high school year book (I didn’t get in the year book because I dropped out – twice). The pictures were of three friends from early high school; Bud Hansen, Stan Ferrell and Tony Hansen.  Another friend, Pete Hoffman, emailed me and apologized if it was his fault we had drifted apart. It wasn’t Pete, it really wasn’t.

My life has been periods of ups and downs in many, many ways. My early life, let’s say from birth (1949) to Sixth grade (1961) was a pretty normal, middleclass, rural life. For those twelve years I had basically the same circle of friends, some school friends, some neighborhood friends and some both. Twelve years is a long time for some friendships.

But in 1961 my life, or my family’s life, took a nose dive. We started the school year in Coventry but I think in late October we moved to Bridgeport. The move, even if everything else had gone well, was hell for us kids (my older sister Sandy, younger brother Doug, and me) because we went from a very idyllic rural life to living in a “big” dirty, ugly city. For the first time in our lives we encountered other races, mainly African American and Latinos, (I think there were two African-American families in Coventry) in fairly large numbers. Sandy was just starting high school and her school had a split day – one group went in the morning and one in the afternoon.

But everything else didn’t go well. It was the end for my mom and dad – they split, reconciled, and split again. Each one of us kids dealt, or didn’t, with it in a different way.

Early spring we moved back to Coventry. I don’t remember that much about school when we got back. I think I ended up in a different class than where my friends. But that wasn’t the hardest part.

I think we all tried to be “normal” but let’s face it, we weren’t. We now came from a broken family. And we were poor. Mom was a teacher but there were no teaching jobs available when we moved back. She finally found a job with some small manufacturing company South Windham but it didn’t pay much. We lived in an apartment on South Street, some old 3-story Victorian house that had been made into apartments. We lived on the second floor.

September 1962, I entered 7^th grade, then at the one year old Coventry High School. I was with most of my friends still. Coventry like I guess many schools had different levels for each class (something like A, B, C & D) with A being the “smart” kids. I, along with most of my friends, was in the A class. But something was wrong with me. I had been a pretty good academic in grade school but my mind just wasn’t there anymore. Later on in life I realized that I like so many children from a busted marriage blamed myself – if only I had been a better person, blah, blah, blah. At the time I just knew something was wrong with the world and somehow I was a square peg in a round hole.

As happens so often with kids who have lost their way my grades suffered. Maybe not immediately but by the time 9^th grade came I was no longer in the A group. I started acting up, barely passing classes I should have aced. I just didn’t give a shit.

More than likely this affected friendships. I wasn’t in the same classes as my friends anymore so we didn’t hang out together as much. I became a “bad” kid. I smoked, swore and didn’t really fit in with anyone.

Sure I still had friends – Bud from my original group of friends hung in there with me for a bit – but some of my friends were different now.

But I guess I’m off track. My point, the point about friendship, is that they have come and gone. I think I’m to blame. I don’t know why. Oh the best friends I’ve had, so many that I’ve left behind. I moved either emotionally or physically. Maybe it was a defense, to be unemotional so that when the inevitable happens and we are no longer near each other I don’t feel the loss.

Now I’m an old man and sometimes I do feel alone and I wish I had my friends around me. I’ve become a solitary guy. I have Nadine. But really no one else. Part of me is afraid to become close to anyone because it hurts so much when they leave. But still I miss the friendships I’ve had.

I’ve connected with some friends through Facebook. I wonder what they think of me now. Do they think that all the ranting and raving I do is strange?

I sometimes envy them, especially those that stayed so close to home and at the same time I wonder how they put up with it. Yes I miss Coventry and Connecticut but whenever I’m back I feel that I’m being drawn into a time that has passed. There seems to be a complacency that I don’t have and haven’t for so long.

I’ve probably rambled for too long. To all my friends throughout my life, thank you. None of you left me; I left you for reasons therapy would take years to unravel. But I never really left you; I am what I am, at least in part, because of all of you. And if we were physically close again you’d see far too much of me. I can’t list all of the people in my life but I’ll do the best I can. In no particular order; Pete Hoffman, Burt (you’ll always be Bud to me) Hansen, Barry Hansen, Tony Hansen, Stan Ferrell, Bernie Costello, Ronnie Anderson, John Fraser, Richard Brownie, Brian Schwarkopf, Mike Thomas, Tony Leopardo, Danny Dorval, Mark French (who I spent a few weeks with in a haze after leaving the army), Al LaRocque, Pete Crowley, Paul Morgan and some of the girls too; Linda Hazen Adamson, Linda Canfield Garrison, Sue Douville. I miss you all.

Musicians

We went to a show at the Venetian tonight. I get two free passes every time I donate blood (every ninety days but I usually wait for tickets to something we'll like). This time the tickets were for a group named "Human Nature."

Human Nature is a four white guys from Australia who sing (basically) Motown songs. They put on a good show.

Seeing Human Nature got the wheels in my head turning back to when my first wife, Ruth, worked with musicians and other artists, first when she worked for UNICEF, then when she was with a dance company, and then on her own as an artist representative.

I got to meet more than a few artists, some actually famous, at various functions and gigs around Toronto and such.

Human Nature piqued a memory about a UNICEF event for something, I really can't remember what. I remember it was held at a restaurant on the second floor on Bloor Street West. And Eddie Kendricks, formally of the Temptations, was there along with some Canadian artists and actors.

As usual Ruth promised she just had to take care of a little business and that she'd spend time with me (I really hated going to these artsy things because I am about the anti-thesis of artsy). Anyway it never worked out; Ruth would go do her business and that would be the last I'd see of her until she decided it was time to go.

So I was just hanging out, being a wallflower, when Eddie Kendricks came over and leaned against the wall with me. He was a kick for sure. Kendricks was a real hound dog, regaling another guy and myself with stories about how he'd like to get it on with just about every good looking woman in the crowd. There we were, three guys who really didn't want to be there, talking crap about the women (man look at the ... on that one) in the room.

Then there was the time we went to the pre-opening party for the Irish Rovers Pub on Bloor Street. The Rovers were associated with UNICEF Canada so Ruth got the invite. And as usual I ended up being left alone. So I found a corner to hide in and ended up having a damn good time. The corner happened to be at the back of the pub and they'd set up a mountain of raw oysters. I'd never had oysters before but I learned to like them that night. There were two others that sat themselves next to the oysters too - a good-looking woman and one of the Rovers, I think one of the Millars but not the leader Will.

The rumor was it cost a million dollars to open the bar. It lasted less than a year.

I would say the absolute nicest artist I met was Richie Havens. Ruth did some work for a record company he recorded with and there was a party someplace that I went to with her. Richie was the sweetest, most unpretentious and sincere artist I've ever met.

Then there was Dave Edmunds who was at a Concert for Kampuchea thing. I like Dave Edmunds but he really wasn't that big. But you wouldn't have known it from the way he acted. For almost the whole get together he was either talking to a music critic or standing in a corner behind a body guard.

I think the first time I met some famous people it was by accident. We had gone to Stratford, Ontario to see Peter Ustinov in King Lear. Ustinov did a lot of volunteer work for UNICEF Canada and Ruth got tickets. We sat in about the third row center and directly next to me was Gena Roland and next to her John Cassavettes, her husband. I hardly remember the play.

I got to meet Ustinov at a film shoot for UNICEF. Peter Ustinov and Maggie Smith had both agreed to make some PSAs for UNICEF and I sat through the entire event - being ignored by my wife of course.

There were others, many Canadian artists of varying stature. Brent Titcomb, who had been in a group named 3's A Crowd in the '60s. Brent was a well respected singer and sometimes songwriter. Ron Nigrini, another singer/songwriter, and one of the hardest working guys around. Ron's biggest problem in my opinion was that he was too nice a guy to make it in a cut throat business but he made a living at it.

Through Ron Nigrini, Ruth and I met Rich Dodson of the Stampeders, who owned a Canadian record label and was a producer.

There was Daisy DeBolt who during the '60s was half of a duo named Fraser & DeBolt. Daisy was a character for sure. She had a great voice but she just was too out there for me. I remember once she did a showcase at the Brunswick House. I forget exactly how much she was getting paid but I think it was $1,000 for the night. Daisy seemed to think that every gig was a party so she gathered about eight or nine musical friends to accompany her and promised each one $100 for the night. Ruth got stiffed for the work she did.

Daisy was in a play. I wish I could remember the name of it. It played at some "hotel" (bar) in Western Ontario. It was a pretty good play too and should have gone further.

Ruth's time with the modern dance company was probably the worst for me. I got dragged to so many modern dance shows that I began to dread them. I'm sorry but those people are weird. I've seen so much "interpretive" dance that meant absolutely nothing to me. The only saving grace was that some of women, and some of the men, seen to interpret life naked. It's difficult to look someone in the eye after you've seen every square inch of their body.

I'm glad I can say I've met some of these people but for me, sitting in a hotel room talking about racing with Dan Gurney was so much more important.

Everyone has a skeleton in the closet don't they?

There was a time in my life when I wasn't exactly a saint. Sure there was the normal teenage stuff - driving too fast, smoking the tires, drinking, sex, some drugs but there was more. There was a time when I did some things that could have put me in jail.

I can't remember the dates of these events and they weren't always my idea. (Usually if I wanted to steal something I did it on my own.)

Bennie and the Harley - My sister's first husband was a piece of work. I looked up to him and hated him at the same time. He was fearless while I was not. But I never could have lived his lifestyle.

One night I went over to their house, they were living near Daly Road and Rte 32. My sister wasn't there but Ben asked if I'd give him a ride someplace. Of course I said okay. He gave me directions out toward the Lucky Strike Lanes. As we passed a house he told me to make a u-turn and park. Ben got out of the car, ran across the street and disappeared into the darkness.

Next thing I knew he came running out pushing a motorcycle. As he ran past me he hopped on the bike, yelled "follow me" and bump started the bike. I was stunned but I followed him back to my sisters place. He, I guess we, stole someone's Harley. I don't remember much about the bike except it was chopped some with a huge rear tire.

The VW engine - This happened one night, again I can't remember when. My friend Danny picked me up in his '62 Impala. There were a total of four of us in the car, Danny, Jimmy Shelto, someone else I can't remember, and me. We were going somewhere but Jimmy asked if we could make a quick stop someplace. He directed Danny to parking spot just up the hill from Pelletier's Chevron.

Jimmy got out of the car, opened the trunk and disappeared for about ten minutes. When he came back his hands were greasy and he wanted all of us to get out and help him. We walked to a nearby driveway where there was a VW Beetle with the engine on the ground. We lifted the VW up while Jimmy slid the engine out, then the four of us carried it to Danny's car. The engine fit nicely in the trunk. I guess Jimmy needed an engine.

We heard the next day that the owner of the VW pushed it to Pelletier's because it wouldn't start.

Franc Chevrolet - Not every caper was successful. My buddy Stan and I headed out to Franc Chevrolet on River Road in Willington. I'm pretty sure I was a willing participant in this caper. I don't remember why but Stan wanted a 4-speed and he knew they had a Camaro with one. We drove out in Stan's GTO, parked way back on Baxter Road and lugged a couple of jacks and some tools over towards Franc.

We crossed the road north of the parking lot and walked along the railroad tracks until we got to the back of where the Camaro was parked. We set up the jacks, and raised the car. Stan did most of the work and in no time the trans was almost out. Then a car pulled into the lot.

I don't remember if it was the police (if it was it must have been the State Police) or not but we hightailed it down the embankment, over the tracks and into a marsh next to the river. We stayed there for over an hour, soaking wet, scared shitless. They (whoever) didn't find us but Stan lost two bottle jacks of his dad's and some tools.

We slogged north through the swamp, crossed River Road and sprinted up Baxter to Stan's GTO. We did get home without getting caught. I think we came up with some story about the GTO getting stuck in the mud and losing the jacks in the dark.

I am not celebrating these incidents. They happened a long time ago and I'm not proud of that part of my life but I can't deny it. I believe I learned from them and grown.

Memories of Coventry

It's funny how my mind works. "Poison ivy" popped up on the TV and my mind went to my sister Sandy who used to have a severe reaction to poison ivy and poison sumac (I don't know if she still does, have to ask her). Seems she used to spend a good part of each summer covered with calamine lotion.

My mind then went to our home on Seagraves Road in Coventry, and what a wonderful time and place it was. From when we moved there in 1952 until we moved out to Bridgeport in 1960 was a very idyllic time, a very white bread, TV perfect time (not in reality but in memory for sure).

Our ranch house sat on about a half acre; there was a beautiful oak tree in the back yard, a huge weeping willow out front and a row of pine trees along Seagraves. I remember a cherry tree and a crab apple tree, lilacs, morning glories - so many flowers (the previous owner planted all kinds of flora). The house itself was really an expanded cottage like so many others in Coventry (Coventry used to be a summer place for people from Hartford, New Haven, and even New York City) but it was a castle to us kids.

Across the street was the Nathan Hale State Forest. Directly across from us there was a swamp full of skunk cabbage. Down the street, with an old road across from the Forrest's was the dry pine forest. We used to go in there and make lean-to huts out of downed pine boughs.

I remember in the spring and early summer we used to go out to South Street just a bit towards the Nathan Hale Homestead and pick wild strawberries from the side of the road. They were tiny but so sweet! If we went down Seagraves toward where the Dory's lived there were blackberry or raspberry plants growing wild.

My brother Doug (Hotch) was born while we lived on Seagraves. He used to cause us all kinds of trouble and fun. I remember once when we had relatives over, must have been some kind of family picnic, Doug disappeared. I remember my mom and dad frantically searching the woods - all the neighbors were involved. Everyone was sure he was trapped in the swamp or something else terrible had become of him. My cousin Betty Jean Lacelles eventually found him asleep in our bedroom. I can't remember for sure but I think for some reason he was under the bed. He'd just gone inside to play, gotten tired and fell asleep.

My mind keeps wandering - My mom and dad had a nice circle of friends. Some were from the American Legion Post 57, one family was related to my dad (the Gronbacks) and one, the Morgan's I think from my dad's service station.

The Morgan's lived on a large "estate" in on North River Road, North Coventry. There was Ford and Helen, and four boys of which I can only remember two, John and Paul (Paul was my age). The Morgan's had horses (Morgan horses of course), a large pond (that used to be part of a fish hatchery, rabbits, chickens, probably a cow or two. We used to spend a lot of time at the Morgan's. Mrs. Morgan seemed like a perfect TV mom, always cooking, always dressed nicely, etc. I remember she used to make root beer and ice cream from scratch.

I think my mind has stopped reminiscing for now.

Just Weirdness

There have been two times in my life that I can remember when things were just so weird that we had to get the hell out of there. I say we because there was always someone else with me.

The first time was not long before I was inducted into the US Army. It was either late January or early February '69. Stan and I drove to Key West in his new Triumph GT6+.

The drive down was strange enough. I think we drove straight through to St. Augustine because I remember visiting the fort there. I do remember that it was almost a blizzard on the New Jersey Turnpike. And I think we both hallucinated from lack of sleep through the Okefenokee Swamp (I have no idea why were so far inland at that point).

But it was Key West that was weird, or rather the people and situation we found ourselves in. I do remember that we did some sight seeing because I remember Hemingway's house and a bar he used to frequent. I know we ate conch chowder at a restaurant near a marina. And it was in that marina that our lives almost changed.

I'm pretty sure it was Stan (he was more outgoing than I am) who struck up a conversation with a bunch of people on a boat. They were all a bit older than us (I was 19), maybe early twenties and a mixed group. They invited us on board to smoke some weed. We hadn't carried any with us and it sounded like a good idea at the time.

They said they were plying the Caribbean looking for sunken treasure, doing odd jobs at different ports of call to buy food, fuel, and drugs. We spent the better part of the afternoon toking up and listening to their tales. One guy, the leader I guess, talked about being chased out of Costa Rican waters by a gun boat. Visions of pirates were in my head.

Then they decided we should join their merry little party. Who doesn't want to be a treasure hunter and pirate? Especially when you're so high. They didn't care that I had been drafted, in fact they thought it would be the perfect way to avoid induction. But the kicker was they wanted us to sell whatever we owned and buy our way in.

Who knows, maybe it was paranoia creeping in from all the pot we smoked in the hot Caribbean sun but for some reason both Stan and I started to freak out and wonder if they weren't going to Shanghai us. It was getting close to dinner time so Stan and I begged off. They said they'd be leaving around 9 a.m. the next morning and they wouldn't wait for us. We didn't make it.

The weirdest time though was after I went to Canada. Tony, my brother Hotch and I drove to somewhere outside of Toronto, someplace in Mississauga, Ontario, and decided to camp in a public park near the lake.

Around five in the morning we were woken by the local cops and told we could camp there. We promised to pack up and leave and they left us alone (Canadian cops were so nice back then). As we were trying to decide what to do a car drove up and four guys our age got out. We chatted and they said we could follow them back to their farm and crash there for a bit.

We followed them for what seemed forever through some southern Ontario farmland until we got to this remote Victorian farmhouse. We all went inside into an interior room - windows hung with heavy drapes, maybe blankets and two doors. They produced copious amounts of pot and hash, put on some records, and we all got wasted.

Then one by one they left the room. The stereo was in a different room and they put on side one of Winds of Change by the Animals. Cool LP right? Yeah right up until "Paint It Black" and then "The Black Plague" came on:
ohohohohoh

the bell tolls
the black plague has struck
diseased eyes roll upward
as if knowing which direction their souls will travel
(bring out your dead)
a woman in black cries
as the deathly procession passes by
and monks moan en masse

ohohohohoh

the yet clean pleasant pounds upon the castle door
for it is safer inside the walls
their knocking pounds a dull tone across
the quiet, deserted courtyard
the bodies of unfortunates bloat in the hot
sun outside the castle walls
and ones ignorant of all facts
plunder the diseased corpses for
remaining riches
(bring out your dead)
and the bell tolls on

a man walks around the castle walls on the outside
the light from his lamp dancing shadows as he moves
he tends the sick
gives comfort to all he can for
dying woman and crying man
but he feels it most for the children
(unlcean)
tears glisten on his cheek
did man ever deserve this death?
and not all will die, just the poor
for the rich are inside the castle walls
and he knows he could be with them
and they laugh at this fool of a man
through the stone fortress windows
and the bell tolls on

(unclean)
and many deaths and many days later
many tears have been cried but in vain
for tears can never erase the pain of death
only time has that talent
his hands are now blistered but this man walks on
the only element of sanity that the
people look to him for answers and
he answers all
and the bell tolls on inside the castle wall
(bring out your dead)

the dead are now buried and the plague is at its end
life for the people flowers again
they breathe fresh air like they did once before
and there is not a sound from beyond the castle walls
the bell has stopped
and only silence is heard
ant the peasants outside wonder what happened within
in their bones they feel something is wrong
the bell has been silent much too long
for many days not one soul has
stirred  from the stone fortress
where the rich people live
no one came and no one went
fear can do many strange things
and even though the water ran low
their mouths burnt and bellys caked dry
not one person put a foot outside
no had that much courage
for they feared the peasants and their world outside
so they played it safe and didn't move
but one by one they perished and they died

Still no one came back into the room. The three of us were completely freaked out. We cautiously opened one of the doors and found our way to the kitchen. No one was there. We went out the back door to where both cars had been parked. My Mustang was there but their car was gone.

We were high as a kite, in a strange land with no idea where we were but somehow we found our way back to civilization. We were all sure we had stumbled into some cult that was going to make human sacrifices of us.

Wall Street Doug Fraser

My brother Doug was more outgoing than me. I had my small circle of friends and so did he but he was quicker to make friends when we moved to Wall Street. Doug is the one that brought Doug and John Fraser into our lives. It was because of the Frasers that my brother became "Hotch." Doug Fraser was older than my brother. Because of his age he took precedence over my brother who first was called Doug Hotch and then that was shortened to just Hotch. So from hereon Doug means Doug Fraser and my brother is Hotch.

Doug was a year younger than I was and John was Hotch's age (Hotch is four years younger than me). They all started to hang out together. At first I wasn't a party to their antics. I think it was the Great Coventry Gumball Machine robbery that brought me in.

Down on Main Street near Jim's Hardware and Dr. Duboff's dental office was one of those gumball machines, you know, put in a penny and twist the handle and you'd get a gumball. The three of them had stolen the who machine but they couldn't get in open. So they enlisted me figuring I'd have a bright idea. I couldn't get it open either. Someone had the bright idea of breaking the glass globe which worked but none of them wanted to cash in the pennies. Because I had not been seen grabbing the machine (I doubt that any of them had either) I was elected to take a paper bag full of pennies to the bank. I think we got about fifty cents each. Big score.

Throughout our time on Wall Street, Doug, John, Hotch and I had many adventures. Some were just kids stuff - telling dirty jokes, trying to pee our names in the fresh snow, stuff like that. We always seemed to be on the verge of crossing "the line" and I guess some times we did. I remember getting a stern lecture from State Trooper Kolodziej for throwing snowballs at cars from the Nathan Hale Monument at top of Monument Hill.

We thought it was a perfect place to ambush unsuspecting drivers. I guess it was but some of the drivers didn't agree and complained. The date must have been before Coventry had its own PD and was covered by the State Police. I don't remember how we became the prime suspects but it probably had something to do with being recognized (Coventry was and is a small town).

Many of my escapades with Doug revolved around cars. I had a 1949 Chevrolet Torpedo back that was a real piece of shit. It was my first car; I was probably around 14 at the time. I knew very little about cars but was determined to drive the Chev. My mom was teaching in Marlborough, CT by then so she usually didn't get home until two or three hours after we got out of school. I'd tinker with the Chev and then try to start it but usually the battery was just too weak to get it to fire. I think if there had been a hand crank on the engine I could have cranked it over faster. So being a bright young guy I'd push it out of the drive way and down the slight hill to bump start it. Except it rarely fired on the first try so the guys and I would push it as far back up the hill as we could and try again. The problem with this was that if it didn't start we weren't strong enough to push it back into the driveway. 

One time it didn't start and we just couldn't get it into the driveway. Time was of the essence because my mom was due home. (It may have been a couple of times we got caught out like this but I've condensed them to one.) So Doug got the Fraser's riding mower and John got his pony. We got the Chev back into the driveway but if I remember the riding mower got toasted. Doug's dad, a big hulking guy, was not happy. 

Then there was the time Doug and I decided to run away to see my dad in Chicago. I was 16 and had a '57 Ford. Like most cars I owned back then it was crap. I remember my Uncle Gibby saying it looked like "an accident waiting to happen." So of course Doug and I thought it was the perfect transportation to Chicago.

We headed west late afternoon. For some reason we decided to the old highways (I can't remember the exact route). I know we went through the Catskills. Anyway it was getting late, it was dark and I was tired. Doug had been bugging me to drive and I let him. Doug was only 15. 

For some reason a New York State Trooper started following us. Like two idiots we decided to switch places while we were moving, I mean what could go wrong? I guess the view of a beat up piece of crap weaving all over the road while the people inside climbed over each other might have been a tip off that something was amiss. The Trooper pulled us over.

Didn't really matter who was driving. In New York at that time if you were under 18 you could only drive between dawn and dusk. We were busted. In some ways it was comical. 

We were placed in the cruiser and driven to a Justice of the Peace - at about two in the morning! The JP was in his pjs at his kitchen table. I was charged with driving under age or something like that. The verdict was swift - Guilty! The JP asked us how much money we had (not much, maybe just enough for gas to Chicago - it's not like we thought this through). BAM! Down went the gavel and that was our fine, exactly what we both had in our pockets except for some small change.

We were then taken to the nearby State PD Barracks and our parents were called. My mom wasn't home (I can't remember why, most likely something to do with the American Legion) but Doug's dad was. He came to pick us up. The trip home was just about the worst trip I ever took. Doug's dad had a Chev pickup, maybe a '63 or '64. For some reason I sat in the middle. Doug and I both were dead tired but his dad wouldn't let us sleep. Every time I'd start to nod off I'd get an elbow in the ribs. 

Running away didn't turn out to be such a good idea. We ended up broke. My car was impounded and when my mom took me back to get it a week or so later windows were broken and stuff was missing. I'm pretty sure I was grounded forever and Doug and I were forbidden to see each other. At least that didn't last.

Doug was super competitive. My friend Ronnie Anderson had a Ford F-1 with a flathead V8. For some reason he and Doug raced - Doug on foot and Ronnie in his truck. It maybe was only 100 feet. I'm pretty sure Doug won; there is no way he would let himself lose. He rarely lost.

Doug and I drifted apart (oh sure we had a few more adventures before that happened). I quit school and went to work for Joe Pelletier's Chevron. Doug quit school about a year after I did. We moved from Wall Street to Avery Shores, and the Frasers moved from Coventry to Windham.

I knew Doug had joined the Army before his 18th birthday. I didn't think it was a good idea but Doug was determined. Doug had always been a competitive guy and I think part of it was to prove his manhood. I think another part was to get away. Doug idolized his dad but I also think he feared him. I don't know what was going on in Doug's mind; we were friends but we weren't soul mates. I probably shared more of my inner feelings than Doug did.

Doug died in Hau Nghia Province, South Vietnam on July 6, 1968. The "Casualty Type" was listed as "non-hostile." I'd heard that he and some buddies were proving their bravado. I don't know; I wasn't there.

I went to the funeral with my mom. Doug's mom, Mary, was very torn up. I was just stunned like so many of Doug's friends who were there. Doug was so young, just barely 18. One thing sticks in my mind. I know it had some bearing on my future actions. Doug's mom said to my mom, clutching my mom's arm, "Don't let them take your sons Elaine."

Doug Fraser was a friend of mine and he died way too young. I still think of him. He had a smile that could disarm almost anyone.

The Army and/or Vietnam didn't get me but they got my friend. It still doesn't seem right. This is for you Doug.

Fear can be a good thing

A while ago I was talking with my friend Rick. Somehow the conversation got around to jobs and taking a risk. I told Rick that I was always afraid of failure, afraid of being "found out" of being a fraud. Let me explain.

I am a high school drop out. I quit high school twice, both times in the tenth grade. I eventually got my GED and got it early thanks to my mother (don't know how she did it but I was allowed to take the exams in August or September of 1967; I should have graduated that June).

For the first ten years or so after it never really bothered me. While still in Connecticut I had a decent job where they seemed to appreciate my abilities. And then in 1969 I moved to Canada.

I took some university (in Canada you go to university where you might attend a college just like England) courses but I probably only have a couple of credits. I took a few jobs in gas stations but that didn't bother me; I guess I didn't have much ambition.

Around 1973 I then entered the auto mechanic apprenticeship program in Ontario. I'd been floundering around for a couple of years, jumping for job to job, not really satisfied with where I was going (nowhere). I finished my apprenticeship and took the exam to become a Certified Automotive Technician in the summer of 1977. It's the first and only certificate course I ever finished. I was quite happy to be a mechanic. I maybe wasn't the greatest but I could hold my own.

Fate intervened and the place I worked went under. Around 1979 I was looking for a job again. I'd worked in a couple of places since my first real job as a mechanic but I wasn't very happy turning wrenches after all. My then mother-in-law had a friend who knew of a job opening at the Canadian Automobile Association-Toronto (CAA-Toronto). I applied and got the job in their "Inspection Center." It was a decent job, regular hours and I learned some new skills.

Then an opening came up at the CAA-Toronto as a Technical Advisor in their F.A.C.T.S. (Free Automotive Technical Services) Division. It was a big step up and for the first time in a long time I had my doubts about my worth and abilities. But I got the job.

From that point on I was always unsure if I really was qualified for the next step. But I kept going, kept trying. Yes there were a few missteps along the way; a few blows to my confidence. But for some reason I didn't hesitate to apply for jobs I felt I really wasn't qualified for.

I applied for a job as a Fleet Maintenance coordinator for Petersen, Howell and Heather, a large fleet leasing company (I really can't remember the exact job title, basically I had to authorize repairs for vehicles that were leased from the company). I figured I could do the job but I was nervous and figured that my lack of a high school diploma would sink me. It didn't.

The I took a short detour to California for a writing job that ended badly. It was a big blow to my confidence  when I got fired and it took me a few months back in Toronto to recover.

Then I got a job with American Motors (Canada) Inc. in customer relations. It was really the start of my corporate life. I was scared stiff - it really was a big step up for a high school drop out. When AMC got bought up by Chrysler I feared for the worse but they kept me on. It really felt like the big time.

But the drive (about 35 miles each way) was killing me and I started to look for a job closer to home. I applied for just about everything I could find advertised anywhere. Honda Canada Inc. advertised for someone to work in the Service Engineering Department at their HQ in Scarborough, about 10 miles from our house. I applied figuring I had absolutely no chance. I was not an engineer and I'd really only had a couple of years experience as a Certified mechanic.

I went for the interview and did fairly well. Then they gave me a hands on test. I was handed a box of transmission parts, a micrometer and a list of things to measure. I'd only ever used a micrometer in school during my apprenticeship and I figured I was doomed. I studied the micrometer trying to envision what the measurements meant. I scribbled down some measurements and thought I had surely failed.

Then about a week later I got a call to come back. I was told I was hired, what my salary would be, work hours, when to start, etc. Did I really do that well? Was it a fluke? I was elated but scared. What if I really couldn't cut it? Part of me, a big part, wanted to just cut and run but I didn't. I stayed and I think I was an asset to the department.

That's been the story of my life for a long time now - scared to take a chance but more afraid not to. It was that way in my divorce. I'd been married for so long yet I knew it wasn't working. In many ways it would have been easier to just stay but I took the scarier path because I knew it was right, because I had to push on.

Yes I've failed in life. I've made some stupid decisions. I try not to have regrets but of course I do. But none of this has kept me from moving forward. Thankfully most of my decisions have turned out right, or for the best. It doesn't mean I don't continue to be scared because I am. I am always scared of failure. But to sit and do nothing I guess is the biggest failure.

Wall St - Guns Do Kill People, At Least They Try Now and Then

My mind works in mysterious ways. One minute it's dwelling on my military past; the next it's somewhere else. Right now it's somewhere else.

Anyone who's followed my Facebook posts knows I'm for gun control. Some people figure I'm afraid of guns. Not really. But there have been a couple instances in my past that altered my view.

It seems to me that for most of my childhood and teenage years I owned at least one gun. I started off with a pellet gun my dad bought me. It was fun and good for plinking tin cans. I think it was a .22 caliber.

Next I had a single shot .22 rifle. I guess I got it from my dad but I really don't remember. I loved that gun. Mostly I used it for target shooting - tin cans, bottles, things like that. But there was an incident that eventually scared the shit out of me.

I must have been 14 or 15. My mom and dad had split and we lived on Wall Street, Coventry, in a Victorian house. My mom rented out rooms to help make ends meet. Fourteen or fifteen is not a good time to own a gun; the testosterone is going nuts in a teenage boy. In my mind I was the "man" of the house, the protector.

One night, early winter I think because there was some snow on the ground, as I was going upstairs to get something from my room, as I passed the front door (there was a small foyer and the stairs went up from there) I saw a pair of eyes peering in at me. I freaked! Thinking we were being cased for a robbery or worse I ran upstairs, grabbed my rifle, stuffed a cartridge in the chamber and rushed back downstairs. I threw open the door and saw in the moonlight a figure hot footing it up the road. I threw the rifle to my shoulder and tried to aim. I pulled the trigger. Thankfully I missed. I fumbled for another cartridge but before I could reload I saw the guy run down into the apple orchard.

A long time later I heard from someone that the guy I tried to shoot was the brother of one of our roomers, Roy Michaud. The guy had come down from Quebec asked at Mike's Pizza where his brother lived and was simply trying to see if he had the right house. He told everyone that some crazy guy tried to shoot him. I was the crazy guy.

Lucky for me that the cops in Coventry at that time were pretty easy going and never followed up on it. Lucky for me I didn't take time to really aim.

The next run in with a rifle came later, probably 1968. I'd bought a semi-automatic .22 Savage Arms rifle. I think it was supposed to be for my brother Hotch but I used it most of the time, again for target shooting (although I did go squirrel hunting once with my friend Danny).

At that time we had an exchange student from England staying with us. For some reason he went into my bedroom and started dry firing the rifle. I think my brother's friend Barry was in the room with him. They must have dry fired the rifle a dozen times. Barry then came back into the living room and shut the door behind him. All of a sudden there was the crack of a shot being fired and a bullet ripped through the bedroom door missing Barry's head by a couple of inches.

That was the first time the rifle "hid" a round. At first I thought maybe the English kid had found my cartridges but he hadn't. It wasn't the last time the rifle did that, hid a round. I had it happen a couple times when we were target shooting. It was bizarre, you had to count the rounds and make sure they all were fired or you might end up with one stuck somewhere only to be found who knows when.

I took the gun to the Savage Arms factory in Westfield, MA and they kept it for a couple weeks but never found the problem. I think we scrapped the gun, the gun that tried to kill someone.

Ottawa FBI

During my time in Canada I knew the FBI and probably the US Army was looking for me. This was confirmed soon after I applied for Landed Immigrant Status (permanent status). I received a notice in the mail to call Canadian Immigration. When I called I was transferred to someone who identified himself as an FBI agent. He wanted to know what my intentions were, did I intend to stay in Canada. I'm pretty sure I told him to go fuck himself and hung up. Canadian Immigration was at that time in trouble for too much cooperation with the FBI over the US "draft dodgers" and I heard nothing else about it.

In August 1971 my father died. I was stunned. I remember talking to my grandmother, his mother, who told me to not even consider coming home for the funeral because "they" would be waiting for me. I don't know if it's true or not but there were rumors that some guys in suits were on the periphery and thought my brother was me.

It's kind of funny that the Federal government spent time and money looking for draft dodgers and those of us considered deserters. At the height of the Vietnam war there were an estimated 50,000 young men and women from the United States living in Canada. I was just one of them.

Avery Shores The Summer of Open Hiding

I made plans on where to go before my leave expired. No I wasn't heading to Canada, that came later. A friend, Tony, offered me a floor to sleep on in Hartford and I took it. Another friend suggested that his brother, who ran a small gas station/repair shop in Vernon, might be willing to hire me under the table. I was set.

I figured that as long as I stayed out of Coventry and maybe Manchester I'd be okay. It worked for about a month and a half, from mid-May until the end of June.

My mom lived on Coventry Lake and her next door neighbor was a part-time Coventry cop. His son-in-law was a full-time cop. One day, must have been in late June,  my brother Hotch was on the association raft (long gone due to legal issues) when the son-in-law swam out. He mentioned to Hotch that "they" knew where I was and that they were planning on arresting me soon. Hotch let me know. Now whether it was true or not I knew I had to get out of Dodge and quick.

I pulled together all the money I could, mostly donations from friends and family. My friend Bud connected me with the Unitarian Church and they gave me a contact in Toronto that would help.

It was only by chance that I left Connecticut with my friend Tony and Hotch at the start of the July 4th weekend. I packed some clothes, tools, and my LPs and headed north on I-91 towards Montreal. Shortly after clearing Canadian Customs (who seemed okay that we were "on vacation") the first song that came on the radio was, "I"m Free" by The Who. Honest. (The next song I remember was Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da in French.)

We made Montreal around 5 or 6 pm, pulled into a parking lot where the attendant said something like, "Five dollar, want to buy some hash?"

The next day we drove to Toronto.

Avery Shores Military Madness

I promised bits and pieces of my life here. I talked briefly about my military non-career already but I'll try to fill in more of it the best I can.

I guess I got my draft notice sometime in November or December of 1968. I was working at a job I enjoyed and I was pretty much against the Vietnam War. It seemed immoral to me, I really had no desire to kill anyone or to be killed. I wouldn't say I was a pacifist but this war was different than many the US had been engaged in. The South Vietnam government was corrupt, which kind of meant we were too. People far smarter than me were against the war for so many different reasons. And the nightly news painted a grim picture.

I weighed my options after getting my draft notice - enlist and hope for a non-war posting, suck it up and be drafted, refuse induction, or go to Canada or Sweden. A friend of mine, Bud, was going to school in Boston and he suggested I go up there and talk to people in the anti-war movement. Sounded like a good idea.

So a couple of friends and I drove up to Boston and talked to a few people at the anti-war office. First was a really wasted guy. He talked about how he had dropped a massive amount of acid prior to going for his physical, which had been months prior. I guess he failed the physical but man he was pretty burned up. Next guy was bragging that he had refused to be inducted - twice. Each time they locked him up for two years. And he had been called up again. He said they'd probably keep calling him up until he was too old.

So none of those options sounded good to me. And at that time I was not ready to leave "my" country. Some time in late February or early March (my memory is a little fuzzy on exact dates and I'm too lazy to dig through my paper work) I boarded a bus for Fort Dix, New Jersey. I knew as soon as I got off the bus I'd made a big mistake.

The degradation and humiliation, normal military procedure to break the spirit at the time, was bad enough but the attitude towards all things Vietnamese was disgusting. During my short time at Dix (I did not finish the eight week basic training) I learned about fragging green lieutenants (seems enlisted men didn't like college educated, ROTC-types and sometimes killed their own, or sent them into deadly situations knowing they wouldn't come back). I also learned that it was true what they say about the military; if you're a mechanic they aren't going to make you a mechanic in their army. I was just more cannon fodder.

Let me point out a couple of things about when I got drafted. First in the first three or four months of 1969, they were drafting 30,000 + per month. With all the student deferments other deferments were few and far between. (The lottery did not come into being until December 1969.) There were guys in my platoon that had no right being drafted; some for physical reasons, others for mental reasons (there was at least one kid who at any other time would have been classified as mentally defective). One kid who passed the physical finally got sent home because his right hand had been severed at the wrist when he was a kid and reattached - but he had no feeling at all in the hand. Basically if you could stand upright and you weren't a student you went.

I spent about six weeks in basic training before fate intervened. I got sick. Not just a cold, not even just the flu, I had pneumonia in both lungs. I passed out during morning formation one day. They sent me for xrays and found I probably shouldn't be playing soldier for awhile.

The hospital at Fort Dix was almost as scary as basic training. By the time I was admitted there had been six (I think) deaths that winter from spinal meningitis and there was some kind of a congressional investigation. I spent about two weeks in intensive care and another two weeks in some recuperation unit. Once they deemed me fit enough to be checked out I was given leave until mid-May when the next basic training would start.

I made tracks home as best I could (it must have been around Easter because I do remember there were no flights available). I took a bus from Dix to Neward Airport, and then the Port Authority to Hartford by bus. I remember telling my mom when I got to the bus depot in Hartford, "I'm never going back." She didn't believe me. But I never did.

Who The Hell Is Bruce Hotchkiss?

Let's clear one thing up - I am a born in the USA guy. My meanderings through life have confused people as to just where I am from. Mostly I've just let them be confused. But I'll try to clear things up.

I was born on March 28, 1949, in New Britain General Hospital, New Britain, CT to Elaine C. Hotchkiss (nee Clark) and William C. Hotchkiss. When I was about 2.5 years old we moved to Coventry, CT where I lived until 1969 (with a short stay in Bridgeport, CT in 1960/61).

In February 1969 I was drafted into the US Army, a situation I did not appreciate. Over the July 4th weekend of 1969 I went to Canada. I lived in Canada until December 1990, and I became a Canadian citizen in 1977.

I was arrested in 1976 as I flew to the USA and spent a couple of months in a military jail, first in Illinois and then at Fort Carson, CO. I was released, returned to Canada, and was given an Undesirable Discharge in 1977.

In 1984, I took a job in San Jose, CA. The job did not last but while in the USA the US government tried to take my US citizenship away, claiming that by being a citizen of another country automatically meant giving up my US citizenship (funny that it doesn't work that way for everyone but that's another story). I appealed the decision and by a vote of 4 to 3 I won my case. I was only in San Jose for about 3 months.

In December 1990, I moved to the San Francisco area and lived there until I retired and moved to Las Vegas, NV in January 2011.

I was born a citizen of the US and I am still a citizen of the US. I do not know if I still hold Canadian citizenship.

I am proud of everywhere I've lived. My families have a long history in Connecticut. I consider Coventry my hometown. I lived in Ottawa, Pickering, and Toronto, Ontario and have fond memories of all.

Although legally a US citizen I prefer to think of myself as a world citizen, influenced by everywhere I've been.