Confession Time

I’ve never physically assaulted anyone. Never intended to. Don’t intend to now. I’m always amazed at reports of men abusing their wives. Oh my. If I even thought of it, “Mr. Louisville” would come out from under the bed and I’d be heading for the nearest “hidey-hole.” Even if I intimidated my way out of it, there wouldn’t be a spot in the most desolate place on the planet where I could ever get a night’s sleep. That’s all there is to that.

Anyway, I’ve never thought in terms of violence to settle affairs. That’s what communication is for. I have this deep-seated belief—you don’t have to agree—that people who are prone to violence are those who lack skills in communications. I always wanted to talk them into setting up public speaking courses for prison inmates and warmongers, but that’s another story for another day.

Today … it’s confession time.

Yes, dear reader, there was once in my life when I contemplated violence against one of my human brothers. Please don’t tell the Galilean. I only think about it today because of yesterday’s news. A man pretty much devoid of admirable qualities died. Oh, you should have seen the vitriol heaped upon him in social media. Wow.

I subscribe to the Latin homily, De mortuis nil nisi bonum. It has been translated as:
- Speak only good of the dead
- Speak nothing but good of the dead
- Of the dead speak kindly or not at all

According to the tradition, the author of this sentence is Chilon of Sparta, one of the Seven Wise Men of Greece. Its quoted source now includes about every philosopher produced by ancient Greece or Rome. Nonetheless, I found myself also thinking, yesterday, of the Clarence Darrow quote (usually attributed to Mark Twain): "I have never killed anyone, but I have read some obituary notices with great satisfaction."

Getting back to the topic of exacting violence on another human being, I have sinned, dear reader, at least in thought, and the Galilean did say that’s as bad as doing it.

It happened this way.

In the spring of 1966, the Draft Board caught up with me. I was living, quite by accident, in the Haight-Ashbury section of San Francisco and working for Babcock and Wilcox on Mission Street at the foot of the Oakland Bay Bridge. No problem with the draft. I’d suffered from, and been treated for, asthma as a child. I’d simply contact the clinic wherein I was treated and have the records sent to that obnoxious board. Alas … the son of my original physician was now running the clinic. He let me know that my records had been destroyed and that I should feel honored to serve my country.

Well, crap.

Acquainted as I was with the news, I ran, I think literally, down to the recruiting station and joined the Navy on a six-month delay. Something was bound to happen in that length of time.

It didn’t, and in December I found myself on a plane headed for San Diego and Navy Boot camp. I had this hangover, see, generated by well-meaning but thoughtless friends. It was not your regular hangover, but one where you would sell your mother to Joe Stalin if he would only make it go away. We got there, and they took us in. They put me with 60 of the sorriest looking misfits I had ever seen. As someone said yesterday, compared to them, I was the Messiah, despite my condition.

Next morning, I still had the hangover at breakfast. I had the hangover and piled atop it were tons of regrets. What had I done? I tried to look at my meal but only saw sorrow and despair heaped high in front of me. Oh, did I mention we hadn’t bathed?

That’s when it happened.

A bright-eyed and freckled-faced recruit from somewhere in Texas looked up from the table, and announced to us all, as if it were a message from God, “One thing I can say about this here Navy, they give you all the sweetmilk you want for breakfast.” With that, and I'm not making this up, he raised his glass as in a toast.

My mind filled with images of torn limbs, spouting arteries, and coffins. I’ve always believed that only the physical limitations created by the lingering hangover prevented my violent thoughts from taking action.

I’ve thought often that I would still be in Leavenworth had I followed my inclinations. But, since I later reconciled with my (now) beloved United States Navy, I also think about the fact that, had I followed my alternative and sought OCS in the Army, I’d probably now just be remembered as a name on a wall somewhere. So, I’m glad I didn’t murder anyone, however justified it might have been.

There. Now how many “Hail Mary’s” do I need to say?

I even "friended" some
of my shipmates.