The Spy Who Wasn't

By Jerry Whitworth

The Spy Who Wasn't, Abridged Version by Jerry Whitworth
Copyright Year: 2022
Copyright Notice: by Jerry Whitworth. All rights reserved.
The above information forms this copyright notice: © 2022 by Jerry Whitworth. All
Rights reserved.
Published 03-07-2023
ISBN (ebook): 979-8-218-17117-9

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jerry Whitowrth
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218171179

Book preview

The Spy Who Wasn’t

A Memoir

The Spy Who Wasn’t

A Memoir

By

Jerry A. Whitworth

COPYRIGHT PAGE

Copyright Year: 2022

Copyright Notice: by Jerry Whitworth.  All rights reserved.

The above information forms this copyright notice: © 2022 by Jerry Whitworth. All

Rights reserved.

ISBN (ebook): 979-8-218-17117-9

To the Love of My Life

I Just Can’t Stop Loving You

Roger Olson, no greater friend

Borden Emshoff, a true friend

My Shipmates, they were the best,

Especially Captain Robert Schlenzig,

Commanding Officer,

1978-1979, USS Niagara Falls AFS³, CO ⁷⁸/⁷⁹

Table of Contents

Prologue      iii

Chapter 1: The Beginning      3

Chapter 2: Cottonwood – The Early Years      3

Chapter 3: El Cajon      3

Chapter 4: Foundation      3

Chapter 5: Education      3

Chapter 6: Anchors Away – First Enlistment      3

Chapter 7: Home Port – 1959      3

Chapter 8: Second Cruise      3

Chapter 9: Coalinga      3

Chapter 10: Los Alamitos - Enlightenment      3

Chapter 11: Armageddon      3

Chapter 12: Vietnam Era I      3

Chapter 13: Lynn      3

Chapter 14: Vietnam Era II      3

Chapter 15: PRACDECK      3

Chapter 16: Diego Garcia I      3

Chapter 17: Baja      3

Chapter 18: Diego Garcia II      3

Chapter 19: USS Constellation CV64      3

Chapter 20: USS Niagara Falls AFS3      3

Chapter 21: NTCC Alameda      3

Chapter 22: USS Enterprise, CVN65      3

Chapter 23: Retirement      3

Chapter 24: Arrest      3

Chapter 25: Pretrial      3

Chapter 26: Trial      3

Chapter 27: Post Trial      3

Afterword      3

Abbreviations and Acronyms      3

Prologue

I

had just returned to San Diego from a summer cruise sailing around Baja, San Diego to San Felipe, on a 20-foot Balboa with my best friend, Roger Olson. I was staying at Mike & Sheri O’Connor’s place. Mike was a colleague and a friend. This period was a respite from serious endeavors, effectively a long vacation, my time spent visiting friends, dinner parties, and lots of conversation.

I received a message that Walker wanted to meet me at Boom’s. It was a Saturday afternoon. I’m not sure how he found me, perhaps by contacting a friend or my flight instructor at Jim’s Air.

In 1970 I was a crewman of the USS Ranger, CVA-61, returning from a Western Pacific (WestPac) cruise; most of it spent on Yankee Station. My current enlistment (6 years) was near the end (8/71) when I intended to leave the Navy and return to college. Then came orders that my Chief had played a role in eliciting, unknown to me, for instructor duty at the Communications Schools Command at NTC San Diego. To execute the orders required an extension of my enlistment. I refused. Surprisingly, the orders were executed without an extension.

After instructor’s school I reported to my new assignment, the Practical Application Laboratory (PRACDECK), a division of the Communications Schools Command, where I originally met Walker in late 1970. He was the PRACDECK Division Officer until February 1972, thus in 1974 he knew who my friends were. I considered Walker a friend despite our officer v. enlisted-man status (CWO v. RM1/P01/E6).

An avid sailor himself, Johnny Walker was keenly interested in the details, challenges, pleasures, and mishaps of such an exotic sail. It was on Walker’s sailboat that I first learned the art of sailing, beginning late 1970.

Boom’s is a picturesque modern edifice consisting of a restaurant and cocktail lounge in a perfect location on the Northside of Lindbergh Field where the original passenger terminal once stood.

The conversation was lively and friendly. We caught up on our respective activities then spent hours talking about my Baja sail. After several drinks in the cocktail lounge of Boom’s where one can watch, close up, the airliners land and takeoff from Lindbergh Field, even listen to ground control or the tower communicate with pilots, our conversation got around to what my plans were. I had no immediate plans, but Walker was keenly interested in what my plans might be, plus he was always free with advice.

One definite plan was to reenlist in the Navy before a year passed since my discharge in May 1974. The Baja cruise (May-August 1974) had settled a few things.

July 1968, I reported to the USS Arlington, AGMR-3, off Vietnam. Since then I was in limbo due to a kind of philosophical fog. My first wife, Evelyn (Lynn) Woodhouse, informed me she was with another man, and in the same week I received the news of Ayn Rand’s excommunication of Nathaniel Branden from the Objectivist movement. Both developments were devastating blows to my psyche and philosophical foundation. To some extent I’ve yet to recover.

One objective of our trip around Baja was to test our desire for the cruising life, something Roger and I had discussed for a couple of years. By the time we reached Cabo San Lucas both of us had decided we wanted to cruise and would devote the rest of our lives to this endeavor. We worked out the means and timeframe. I had to return to the Navy and earn my retirement to affect the dream. By his calculation, Roger needed five more years as a high school teacher, his career since 1964. The target departure date for our high seas adventure was late 1979.

After we exhausted the details of the Baja cruise, Walker began to probe, something he often did when we were alone together. Over time Walker had learned all of the significant developments in my life. He knew my likes and dislikes, my political views and my philosophy. We spent many days leisurely sailing off San Diego with me at the helm while Walker served up beer or wine and snacks, and often leading the conversation. But this evening at Boom’s there was a new intensity to his probing.

I enjoy conversation, the give and take on issues. In this instance Walker focused on what degree I would pursue an endeavor that is illegal. He knew I was a libertarian, left leaning (in the Karl Hess/Murray N. Rothbard mold). He also knew I had no compunction about smoking pot, that I supplied several high school teacher friends with pot, at cost, because I had a good source.

Walker did not ask me to become a spy that evening at Boom’s in 1974, contrary to his testimony at my trial. In his probing walker asked questions such as how far would you go in breaking the law. My answer was, as usual, it depends on the context and the value to me; that the law wouldn’t stop me if the endeavor was important and in harmony with my moral code.

I fell back on my view of government drug policy by way of example: I believed drug use was a victimless crime. By this time I had studied the history of the criminalization of drug use and believed it came about essentially due to the residual Calvinism in our polity, that Christians and others couldn’t stand the thought of someone laying about in a state of euphoria from recreational drug use and flaunting conventional values. Walker didn’t seem pleased with the repetition of my old clichés. I probably would have become impatient with him under more sober conditions. I wasn’t drunk, meaning I knew what I was doing. At some point I said, what the hell do you want to know.

Finally, moving closer, in a quiet, serious voice, Walker asked, Would you ever give up government secrets? I equivocated. My response was, It depend on the situation.

He tried a few more probes before giving up, turning the conversation to our shared experiences and the Baja trip. His final words that evening, which he reiterated were, Be sure to visit me after you reenlist.

Chapter 1

The Beginning

I

’m a bastard, at least that is how I’ve thought of myself for a long time. Technically, it may not be true, that is, mom may have been married when I was born. The reality is I never had a real father. If there was a marriage it was a sham, only to satisfy the predominant cultural norms.

My lineage is very sketchy. I will relate what I know. There is much unknown. I was born in the home of my grandparents where mom and three of her siblings (all adults) still lived. A doctor attended the birth. I was a healthy eight pounds plus baby.

When I refer to my family, it is one-sided, my mother’s side. The paternal side is unknown. My grandparents, Marion Owens and Maud Rogers, are from Arkansas. Neither made it passed the second grade. Grandpa, as a young man, moved to Western Arkansas, at the southwest edge of the Ozarks where grandma, Maud Rogers, lived. I know nothing about grandpa’s family. There is a story that they were from Tennessee, and before that Georgia.

Grandma was an orphan raised as a servant to a poor Arkansas family where she was mistreated, worked like a slave. Somehow she and grandpa met. They married, a kind of rescue, and together created a vibrant family and life in eastern Oklahoma as farmers just across the Arkansas border near Ft. Smith, in Sequoyah County. Oklahoma was not yet a state, still Indian Territory until November 16, 1907.

Grandpa got his start as a sharecropper. He had a cold demeanor, a man of few words, no-nonsense, and was rigorously honest. He resembled Abraham Lincoln in stature and facial features. His wardrobe consisted of several pairs of Big Mac overalls worn with a gray long sleeve work shirt. For funerals he had a suit coat that he wore over a new pair of overalls and a new gray long sleeve shirt. With grandpa it was all work and no play. He went to bed early and was up first, very early. Hobby was not part of his vocabulary. To him there was only one vocation: farming. He was religious and led by example, not preachy. Generally, he was against working on Sunday, but did not forbid it by others.

Grandpa was frugal and diligent. He did so well as a sharecropper that he became a buyer of upland and bottom farmland during the great depression. The homestead is at Cottonwood overlooking the Paw Paw Bottom, where the farm is located and adjacent the Arkansas River about 10 miles from Ft. Smith. Grandpa’s success allowed him to give each of his sons 10 acres of prime farmland as a head start. Each used the head start to grow his own farm and succeed as a farmer.

My mother, Agnes Owens, was born in 1914. She died two weeks after my arrest in June 1985, on a mission to help me in my bail attempt. Mom was killed by a young woman speeding in a deluge by rear-ending mom as she drove carefully in a hard rain near Sallisaw. Mom’s neck was broken by the impact.

Mom had seven siblings: three sisters, four brothers (Velma, Frank, Beulah, Willard, Lois, and Dale), the oldest boy at nine died tragically from a 500-pound bale of cotton that fell on him. Mom and all of her siblings had to work on the farm during the summer. The work was hard, the days were long. This is still the period of mules pulling the plow and wagon.

Despite the demands of the farm my grandparents ensured their children attended school where mom thrived, especially as a basketball player. Her reputation in eastern Oklahoma as a top player was far and wide. For the time and circumstances mom developed into an independent woman. Soon out of high school she took a job in Ft. Smith, Arkansas. She continued to live at home but was financially independent. At 21, some might judge her as a little wild, at least adventurous for the age. Mom and her friends were aggressive in pursuing young men to date. To my knowledge they were searching for the right man for marriage, or maybe just to have fun.

Mom paired up with an 18-year-old, then named Ike Whitworth, of Sallisaw, the same Sallisaw where the Joads fateful journey begins in Steinbeck’s novel, The Grapes of Wrath. Unfortunately, mom’s coupling with Ike didn’t turn out well; she was knocked up. Apparently, Ike married mom some time after she became pregnant, exactly when I don’t know. He had no intention of being a husband or real father. They never lived together.

All of the Owens siblings were close, but mom was especially close to her sister Beulah, nearest her in age, and the middle brother, Willard. Willard was like a father to me. We were very close. Over time we didn’t agree on many things, but that didn’t matter. There was a connection laid in my very early years that could not be broken. I liked all of my aunts and uncles, but Willard, Beulah and Lois were favorites.

I have many fond memories from a very early age. Uncle Willard is most often the trigger for these memories. For example, around age four, Wednesday nights were special. Uncle Willard would take mom, Aunts Beulah and Lois and me to church at Lee’s Chapel. He would position me in his lap and let me steer the truck. In some form or fashion Uncle Willard involved me with driving whatever vehicle we were in, including tractors. Consequently, at an early age, nine, I was a competent driver of all vehicles.

I met my father as an adult after joining the Navy. To aid in understanding the mindset of my father when I was conceived, here is what he told me in 1958. But first how the meeting took place. After boot camp my first duty assignment was the Pacific Reserve Fleet (mothballed ships) at the Naval Shipyard, Hunters Point, San Francisco. Shortly after my arrival, Roger Olson reported aboard. In a barracks bull session, my first meeting of Roger, it came out that I had a father who lived in California. Roger wanted to know where. He was taken aback when I said I don’t know. He persisted in knowing more. Finally, I said, all I can remember is seeing a letter on my mother’s dresser from my father, that the town in the return address began with an M.

When I told Roger this story his interest intensified and started naming California towns that begin with an M: Modesto, Madera, Mendota. Mendota seemed familiar and isn’t far from his home. Roger invited me to spend a weekend at his home in Dos Palos to look for my father.

That weekend, early Saturday morning, we stopped at a service station at the edge of town with a phone booth. There it was, a Johnny (Ike) Whitworth, address: Blue Moon Cafe. Under age, Roger had been there as a high schooler buying beer. The Blue Moon was outside of city limits, across the tracks.

The Blue Moon was a simple rectangle box-shaped low-slung unimpressive building with symmetrical picture windows in front and a large weathered wood door in the middle. The bar/cafe was set off the paved frontage road about 50 feet with the area in between serving as parking. The parking area consisted of the natural terra firma with several large potholes and was littered with cigarette butts and other debris.

The Blue Moon was open but empty except for a middle-aged husky woman behind the bar. To our amazement, Juanita, my father’s wife, recognized me immediately, calling me by name before I could introduce myself: Hi Jerry, she said, Johnny is out back, still in bed, go on back and get him up. Through the kitchen we went to the back to see a row of bungalows.

The area was in need of landscaping with grass and weeds growing freely. I knocked. Not hearing a response, I entered with Roger following. It was a relatively small room with an adjoining add-on space, about a foot lower in elevation, that could be separated by a drape when drawn. The place was cluttered and dark except for the light seeping through the front window curtain. Johnny was in bed, apparently having spent the previous evening in the bar, which on Friday’s didn’t close until the crowd thinned out, as late as three o’clock in the morning. My father woke up and responded exactly like Juanita, as if I was a frequent visitor rather than a stranger. Their nonchalant reactions were amazing; for Roger, it was bizarre. It was obvious to anyone seeing Johnny and me together that I was his son.

As I was to learn, Johnny and Juanita had followed my development through childhood via the Sequoyah County Times and knew from the paper that I had joined the Navy.

Eventually, Johnny told me this story. He was 18, living with, in today’s terms, his foster mother, and was out front working on his car, getting ready to head for California, though not right away. While on his back under the car suddenly he saw six legs and a shotgun.

The legs belonged to my grandfather, his oldest son, Frank, and the county sheriff, my grandfather’s nephew. They had an ultimatum for Ike. He was told it was time for him to assume his duties as a husband and father. The plan included Ike moving into grandpa’s place, assume his responsibilities beside mom as husband and father, and work on the farm. He had no choice. Ike didn’t put up any resistance in their presence but as soon as they left, he made immediate plans to leave for California, which he did, eventually settling in Mendota.

I relate his story only to shed some light on the context of Johnny’s decision to leave Oklahoma, shirking his moral duties in forsaking his wife and son. I don’t know if I was born before or after his ignominious departure.

Chapter 2

Cottonwood – The Early Years

G

randpa and grandma’s place, the homestead, is located a mile and a half south of Old Highway 64 at the end of Lone Oak road. It is roughly a 12-acre block of land (though in boyhood memory it is much larger), the central area of Cottonwood where well before I was born there was a business or two. Grandpa donated the northeast corner for the Cottonwood church, which still exists. The Cottonwood cemetery is adjacent to the southwest corner of grandpa’s place where all those that have passed are buried.

The house seemed large; it was fronted by a porch the width of the house with a swing. There were only five rooms, plus closets. The large living room, front-right, with a fireplace, was rarely used. Adjacent, front-left, was the very large master bedroom containing two full-sized beds, dressers, etc., with lots of open space. After the living room was the dining room, narrower making room for the back porch. Adjacent and to the left was the second bedroom, much smaller (width) than the master. A small closed-in porch was located at the SW corner. The last room, which received the most traffic, was the kitchen with two doors connecting the dining room and two more, north and south sides, leading outside via the porches. Against the exterior wall of the kitchen was built-in cabinetry. Between the two doors leading to the dining room was the large cooking stove fired by wood.

Although there were only two bedrooms, functionally there were four, i.e., each bedroom had two full-sized beds and usually double occupied. At times as a boy I had to sleep between Uncles Willard and Dale. The mattresses were filled with feathers. In the cold of winter grandma used to heat bricks on her kitchen stove, wrap and place them at the foot of my side of the bed and bring me a heated pillow. No one else got this treatment.

The living room was very nice, luxurious to my young eyes. There was a Victrola (record player) in mint condition, one of those with a bizarrely twisting arm, and there was grandma’s piano. I don’t know why, but I never took any interest in playing the piano, to my eternal regret. Grandma was the piano player for the Cottonwood church. The record collection (78’s) belonged to mom. In winter and good weather when the living room was not too cold and I was home alone, I liked hanging out in the living room to enjoy the ambiance, occasionally play records or page through Life magazine. I thought it a shame the living room was so seldom used.

The house was surrounded by maple trees with a cellar, washhouse, smokehouse, and an inter-auxiliary garden for grapes and flowers. The inter-yard was fronted by a picket fence. Between the picket fence and frontage road was an open outer yard that functioned as visitor parking. The inter-yard, north, south and back sides, was secured by a wire fence, to keep out the chickens and livestock. In an adjacent area, to the right, was the fenced-in truck shed. Co-located was the corn shed and the hog pen, connecting to a small pasture for the hogs to roam.

The back yard bordered a large garden (near an acre), divided by a path to the barn area. The house, garden, and associated features were surrounded on three sides by the hog pasture, a large pasture with a pond and trees, NW area; a larger pasture, south side, with a branch running north/south through it with a grove of large oak trees and others, what I thought of as my exclusive playground. Between the larger pasture, south side, and the house was an orchard, about two acres. The orchard had a variety of apple, peach, cheery, and plum trees with a single pecan tree. Grandpa made sure the outhouse was well away from the residence, putting it halfway down the orchard’s west fence line. Within the orchard, NW corner, was the chicken house. They had the entire orchard to roam.

The barn was located in a fenced-in area that functioned as a milk cow pasture. It was a typical large barn for the storage of hay, with a milking area and feed room. Within the barn area was a potato shed, onion shed; corral and pen with associated chute for livestock loading and unloading.

In our very young years (4-7) we (cousins) played hide-and-seek in the barn, where there were lots of places to hide. Sometimes I hung out at the highest point where I could open an access window to take in the view, relax, and fantasize.

In my early years I spent a lot of my time in the branch area exploring and climbing trees. Often my main activity, at a certain age, was on a racetrack with my wagon. The track began with a steep drop-off, descending around obstacles and going very close to the bank of the branch near the end. That was a well-worn track. It gave me much joy, often alone.

We didn’t have electricity until 1952, which came about with the creation of the REA (Rural Electrification Administration). The house was heated by coal in the dining room and wood in the kitchen by the kitchen stove. No other room was heated except the living room for special occasions when the fireplace was fired up. I remember on cold winter mornings the coal stove getting red hot on the outside. It looked as if the stove would melt. Sometime in the early 1950s we switched to propane for heating the dining room and kitchen stove. I believe this changeover took place when electricity became available.

Mom and I continued to live at grandma’s until I finished the first grade. Aunts Beulah and Lois and Uncle Dale also continued living there. Aunt Velma, the oldest, was married before I was born and living with her husband in Paw Paw. Uncle Frank too was married, to a nurse, living on the road just across the branch and up aways. I don’t remember when exactly, but Uncle Willard was married in this timeframe and lived near Uncle Frank’s home for a few years, eventually buying a very nice modern house on Roland road, a few miles east.

A few months after I was born Aunt Beulah gave birth to my cousin Harold. Aunt Lois joined her sisters two years after Harold with the birth of cousin Arletta. For a time, we all lived at grandma’s. Harold’s father was Chock Watts. Apparently, he continued to live with his family west of Sallisaw, until he, Aunt Beulah, and Harold left for California.

In the timeframe of my birth Uncle Frank and Aunt Alean had their first son, M.L., also, called Sonny. A couple of years later Carl followed. In the late 1940’s or early 1950’s Uncle Frank and family moved from Cottonwood to a section of land just west of Muldrow, which ended the limited interaction I had with them. Aunt Alean was very restrictive, or protective of her boys. She also tried to guide them toward more intellectual avenues (rare in the Owens clan) with mixed results. Sonny was obedient, Carl was not. Overall Uncle Frank did well in providing for his family from his small farm by acquiring considerable landholdings. Alean died young. Eventually Uncle Frank married again and had another son, Patrick, and acquired more property. Uncle Frank, like his siblings, never defied grandpa, however, he did smoke, but never in front of grandpa! Also, in old age he divorced his wife and took in a girl friend and became an avid patron of Indian casinos in Mississippi.

Until Aunt Beulah took Harold away, he was my playmate. After he moved to El Cajon, Arletta became my constant companion. We loved to climb trees together. She was fearless and pushed the limits as I did by climbing to the highest possible point where the tree limbs become weak, never an accident on our daring-dos. Arletta ended up a tomboy.

At family gatherings Uncle Willard loved to talk about me and Arletta. He never tired of saying that when I decided it was time to play, I would call Arletta. My name for her was Wid. The phrase Uncle Willard often repeated, quoting me as a very young boy was, Widdy come on. Uncle Willard found my terminology humorous and my relationship with Arletta touching.

My early years to 1947 were blissful. Grandma was a warm and loving woman, but she was especially kind to me. She made me feel special. Uncle Willard and Aunt Lois too greatly contributed to my sense of well being. Not having a father did not concern me, it was not a conscious issue. It was much later before I began to think about not having a father.

Within the larger family there was some resentment of grandma’s special relationship with me through the years, and to a degree Uncle Willard’s vis-à-vis the other cousins. This was mostly by Uncle Frank’s wife, Alean. For example, never was I whipped by grandma or anyone else. Conversely, I couldn’t stand seeing my cousins whipped. One day around age five Aunt Lois was upset with Arletta for something, grabbed her by the arm, took her to the nearest maple tree, ripping off a limb and began to whip Arletta. I immediately told her to stop. When Aunt Lois didn’t stop, I grabbed her whipping arm and bit down as hard as I could. That ended the whipping, and nothing was done to me. I can’t remember what Aunt Lois may have said to me or how severe the bite was. Aunt Lois was always very loving and kind to me.

In 1943 there was a great flood. At this time Paw Paw was a thriving community, the only community in the Paw Paw Bottom. It is located in the southeast corner of the Bottom adjacent to the river. Paw Paw had a 1st through 8th grade school. Many families proudly called Paw Paw home. The community was dotted with a few successful businesses.

The main entrance into Paw Paw Bottom is the Paw Paw Central road, running north and south. As one approaches the high point of the upland portion of the road, before descending into the Bottom, the vastness of the Bottom comes into view. This portion of the road became a vantage point to view the flood of ‘43 and marvel as the waters rose higher and higher up the incline. This meant most of the entire Bottom was covered by the overflowing Arkansas River. Aunt Velma and her husband, Uncle John, lived at Paw Paw. Soon the Army came to the rescue of the residents with large amphibious vehicles. Though I was four, I remember these events well.

Throughout the day a large crowd had gathered, along the road where it descends into the Bottom, watching in awe as the waters climbed the hill. At the water’s edge, markers were placed to mark the progress. We were amazed at how the water kept rising, covering the markers one by one. This must have been a 500-year flood. Paw Paw was devastated.

Some residents returned after the flood. A couple businesses reopened. But it didn’t last. The school closed. The businesses gave up. Eventually all but two or three families moved to high ground, out of the Bottom. Aunt Velma and Uncle John gave up and moved to Holtville, California, where they raised two wonderful children, Betty and Bobby. Once settled in Holtville, Aunt Velma lived with her family in their original house, and long after the children were gone and uncle John’s death, Aunt Velma lived there independently until she died at age 103.

In the early 1940’s Aunt Beulah and Uncle Chock joined the migration to California, dropping anchor in El Cajon, near San Diego. World War II caused the California economy to boom, attracting a lot of Oklahomans. Chock did well working for a San Diego aircraft builder.

In the period of mom’s siblings marrying and starting their own families, grandma’s place continued as the center of family gatherings and special meals. During the winter when farm activity was curtailed, the men folk would meet at grandma’s and with grandpa, over coffee or milk; talk farm. I liked listening in.

To the degree that grandpa and sons were political they were shaped by the great depression, consequently, were New Dealers, but I never heard politics discussed by grandpa. Frankly, I never heard him discuss anything other than farm planning and the weather, as related to farming.

In the summer months there were family picnics at Lee’s Creek in the hills north of Muldrow, which had a great natural swimming hole. I loved these outings. The food was delicious. The cousins had a lot of fun diving, some from a rope where one could swing out over the water then let go. The water was crystal clear.

An example of how grandma treated me: one summer day the three of us were home, grandma, grandpa and me. This was typical. Grandma needed a fresh bucket of water, which had to be drawn from the well about 25 yards from the house. Grandma said, Marion, we need a bucket of water. Grandpa’s typical response, after first coughing loudly two or three times was, (slow with emphasis). What about Jerry? I would quickly jump up saying, I’ll get it grandpa, internally smiling. The point here is, grandma would never tell me to do chores, mainly because she didn’t have to because I took the initiative when I was aware of the need. At the same time, I think it irritated grandpa more than a little that grandma always called on him.

Though grandpa was no-nonsense and cold in his demeanor, he always treated me fairly and with respect, partly because I never hesitated to pitch in on any project. As we (male cousins) got older I was the only one that demonstrated an eagerness to work on the farm.

A big difference between grandma and grandpa, grandma liked to fish. Grandpa never did anything so frivolous. Our nearest neighbor was an old couple, the Duvalls, living in a kind of retirement mode. They liked to fish. Grandpa was usually away on the farm. When they went fishing, they often asked grandma to accompany them. They fished at Camp Creek, a short walk up Lone Oak Road and never failed to come back with a good catch. Grandpa resented grandma’s fishing, especially with the Duvalls. In his mind it was recreation, at best, a waste of time. No doubt he feared grandma’s independent streak and the possibility that grandma might grow attached to the Duvall’s laid-back lifestyle. Recreation was foreign to grandpa. Deeper, he resented the Duvalls lifestyle, i.e., their leisurely retirement mode. He thought them lazy.

Grandma was anything but lazy. Fishing for her, I’m certain, was relaxing but at the same time constructive by providing a fresh catch for the supper table. I loved her fish suppers, a real treat, which came with excellent cornbread and beans and a delicious pie. Grandpa certainly didn’t reject the fish suppers.

Until the early 50’s when all of-the Owens children were married and building their own families, the Owens homestead was self-sustaining. Milk cows, cattle/calves, hogs, and chickens were ever present. Once a year in winter, everyone gathered to butcher hogs and cattle. It. was an all-day operation starting early. Uncle Willard did the killing with a 22 rifle. There were 55-gallon barrels partially buried in the ground at a 45-degree angle filled with boiling hot water to submerge the hogs to facilitate scraping the skin free of hair. Large stanchions were pre-erected to hang the carcasses for the gutting process. This took place in the truck shed area.

The women were set up within the open truck shed to perform the finer points of preparing meat for putting up. The entrails were cleaned for sausage casing and appropriate parts of the hogs were cut into small pieces to put through the sausage grinder, seasoned, then stuffed by hand into the cleaned guts (casing). The beef was portioned into the appropriate cuts for salting, same for pork cuts for bacon and ham, to be hung in the smokehouse. Fat was trimmed to render into lard. All of us kids were too young to do anything constructive other than run and fetch kind of stuff.

Early in the day I stayed close to Uncle Willard when he shot the hogs and cattle then cut their necks to bleed. I wanted to try shooting a hog but was never given the opportunity. Observing my aunts and uncles work as a team in turning live animals into a form that ended up on the table as delicious entrees was impressive to a young boy. In my young eyes everyone was an expert in their various division of labor functions. By age five they had my highest admiration. That admiration translated into my desire to emulate their work ethic, including grandma’s, and be as good when I was given an opportunity to perform a task on the farm or at home. I even copied grandma in making beds. To this day, even in prison, I continue to make my bed as taught by grandma’s example.

Grandma had an icebox (pre-electric refrigerator) that was cooled with 50-pound blocks of ice that were delivered by the ice man. One or two cows were milked every day. Grandma usually did the milking, but as I got old enough, I did the milking if I wasn’t busy at other chores. I was never as good as grandma as a milker. Butter was home made. I did the churning when very young. What was left over in this process was the buttermilk that Uncles Dale and Willard loved, especially with cornbread. I could never stand the taste of buttermilk.

During the garden season the large main garden was fully planted. It was long lengthwise, about fifty yards. One side had the common vegetables and depending on what was on the farm or in grandma’s plan, at a minimum she had two rows of tomatoes, carrots, onions, radishes, green peppers, okra, and cucumbers. She also planted sweet potatoes, peas, strawberries, watermelon, and cantaloupe; sometimes growing sweet corn.

At least once a year the Owens women did canning: green beans, peas, greens (wild and domestic), and other items I no longer remember, were processed for canning then placed and sealed in sterilized Mason jars. Cucumbers were pickled. Eventually everything was stashed in the large cellar, the storage location for canned goods. Jams and jellies were home made, some from grandma’s grapes, some from wild berries. In short, there was always an abundance of a wide variety of good food.

Weekdays, and Saturdays during summer, the evening meal at grandma’s, called supper, was the main meal. By comparison, lunch was a snack, often leftovers, and brown-bagged when working on the farm. In summer the supper table had an abundance of fresh vegetables. The tomatoes were luscious and delicious, something most modern Americans have not experienced. The only veggie dish I didn’t like, which was cooked exclusively for grandpa was stewed okra. I loved grandma’s fried okra, but the stewed okra was repulsive to me. I looked the other way as grandpa ate it. Ironically, at Leavenworth (prison) I discovered that stewed okra is savory, and I became very fond of it, but my friends there had the same attitude I had as a young boy.

Family gatherings with large dinners (noon meal) at grandma’s were common. Her dining table was large. Grandma was a great cook. Grandma’s baked pies were greatly anticipated by all. I really looked forward to them, they were the best. Her crust made them perfect. As a young boy I ate the leftover pieces, which grandma baked on the side for me. All of her pies were great, but if I had to name one it would be coconut-cream as number one, but her cherry and apple pies were awfully good too.

I was born as the Second World War began. I don’t know what the rules were but somehow farmers were exempt from the draft. However, Uncle Willard volunteered. He didn’t like the Army. Before he finished boot camp grandpa somehow arranged his release or discharge using the farmer ticket.

Army boot training was at Fort Chaffee, a suburb of Ft. Smith. Both Uncle Willard and Uncle Dale trained there. Uncle Dale, the youngest of mom’s siblings, volunteered. Unknowingly the war was near the end. He ended up a part of the occupation force in Japan.

During Uncle Dale’s training, Uncle Willard, mom and sisters and I would visit Uncle Dale at the Fort on Saturday mornings, bringing a chilled gallon of fresh milk, which Uncle Dale guzzled in one setting. I was amazed. I don’t remember us ever getting out of the truck, so our visits may not have been exactly proper. Uncle Dale was in uniform and the streets of Fort Chaffee were full of soldiers and activity.

In eastern Sequoyah County, like much of the United States in that era, church was where virtually everyone came together Sunday morning. Grandma and grandpa attended the Cottonwood church for Sunday services. I don’t recall the church ever having a resident preacher, it was usually lay led. There was Sunday school for the kids. Until a certain age I attended Sunday services and Sunday school. At a preschool age I participated in Christmas plays at Cottonwood. Grandma was the resident piano player until she got too old. There was no denominational control at Cottonwood, the Bible was its guide. There was one family that came to church in a Model T Ford. It ran like new and drew a lot of attention. None of my aunts or uncles went to church at Cottonwood. They preferred Lee’s Chapel, about two miles away.

Outside of Muldrow, Lee’s Chapel was the largest church and always packed. It had a popular resident preacher, Carthel Ramey. The guiding doctrine was Pentecostal. The most avid church goer, and true believer in our family, was Aunt Lois. I really liked Aunt Lois, she was very loving and kind to me, but in church she became a different person.

Wednesday nights was the service for dedicated true believers. On these nights preacher Ramey masterfully tailored the service for the call to come forward and join with God to be saved and rewarded by a journey to that beautiful place where the streets are paved with gold, where there is only joy, peace and happiness, and of course, eternal life. I was never tempted by preacher Ramey’s calls. I can’t remember ever feeling comfortable in church. It was during these calls to come forward that the true believers became active participants. Occasionally Aunt Lois would rise at her seat, begin a loud demonstration of talking in tongues. As a young boy her behavior scared me, it was similar to a person in the mist of an epileptic seizure. I didn’t understand it. Other activists in the church loved it and would gather around Aunt Lois in support, eventually guiding her to the alter where this bizarre ritual could go on for a long time. It seemed to end when Aunt Lois became totally exhausted. Preacher Ramey used her demonstration, and others, as a sign that God was with the subject and speaking through her and that those of us who weren’t saved needed to come forward or simply raise one’s hand to indicate a willingness at which point church lieutenants would help in guiding the uninitiated into God’s realm and grace. In all of my time spent with Aunt Lois I never brought up the subject of religion, her belief, or her conduct in church (speaking in tongues). I guess I feared the response and possible ramifications, meaning I didn’t want to alienate her.

One day there was a funeral service at Lee’s Chapel during a weekday afternoon. Uncle Willard took me with him to this· service. We sat on the right side, near the back. The church was packed with an overflow crowd. It was summer. The windows were open. I’m not certain, but I believe I was around age six. Preacher Ramey gave a roaring sermon, not a celebration of the deceased man’s life. What I clearly remember is taking the service seriously. The preacher basically accused all gathered of living a life of sin, doing all kinds of bad things. Our recourse was to repent and be saved. I took his words personally. In my young mind I thought I was innocent of all accusations and resented being falsely accused. I believe this was the beginning of my conscious questioning and slow drift away from religion, which culminated in my irrevocable rejection of religion in 1964 when my sister, Regina, tragically died at age 16 of cancer.

An aspect of church service at Lee’s Chapel and others in the rural areas was the hangers-on. Every Wednesday evening there was a score or more of men who hung out at the church during service, congregating at the northeast corner (right rear side). This occurred at other services too, but less so. Typically, eligible girls would sit in the right-rear area. Throughout the evening the boys/men outside tried attracting a girl or girls. I’m sure this drove the preacher crazy, but as a true believer he must have assumed it was better that they were there (even outside) and would eventually hear the message of God and react appropriately.

Outside of the church the guys were smoking, joking, boasting, and soliciting, but showing no interest in the actual church service; the passing of a pint was not unknown. They were mostly young men, 18 to 30. Some married men hung out too while their wives were inside. I guess they didn’t feel a calling or maybe thought church was for females, that it wasn’t manly. Looking back this entire scene was bizarre.

About the time I was permitted to drive Uncle Willard’s vehicles on the highway I stopped going to church, around the age of 14. I don’t recall grandma or anyone else saying I should be in church. I was granted a lot of independence, partly because I was trusted implicitly.

Chapter 3

El Cajon

M

y memories of World War II are mostly from the Movietone News and the pictures in Life magazine. Movietone News was a weekly short film of the previous week’s news that the first-run movie theaters ran prior to the feature film along with a cartoon and a short documentary film. The Movietone News had extensive coverage of the war (WWII). It was professionally produced with great narration and was a unique public service, not something corporations of today would even consider.

As the war was winding down a soldier came calling at grandma’s. He was in uniform and was there to see mom. I was not introduced, nor did anyone tell me what was going on. Like grandpa, mom had a cold personality. With her siblings she was voluble but not with me. When she and sisters were together, their conversation was gossip as I remember it. When they came to what they consider sensitive information, they spelled out the words, assuming we kids would not know what they were talking about. An example: they never spoke the word pregnant but spelled it. Even then I resented their spell-speak.

In May 1945, I was enrolled in the first grade at the Muldrow school, a 1-12 system in a single one-story building, U shaped, with grades 1-6 on the east side and 7-12 on the west side with the study hall and admin offices at the bottom of the U, looking south. Because of growth in the early 1950’s two new buildings were erected, one between the two legs of the U, the other connecting to the 7-12 grade side by a walkway, at the NW corner of school property.

Muldrow is west of Cottonwood five miles via Highway 64. Muldrow town had a population of about 1,000 in 1945. The Muldrow school drew students from a large part of the eastern side of the county, consequently there were many buses transporting non-town students to and from the school. The bus I rode started on Highway 64, picking up students in the Lone Oak area, then south on Paw Paw Central going all the way into Paw Paw, then doubling back, taking the Cottonwood road, west, continuing to Wilson Rock. At Wilson Rock the bus doubled back to the Lee’s Chapel grade school, taking the Lee’s Chapel Road, north, to Highway 64, then west to Muldrow, the last leg. The afternoon return trip was a reverse of the morning. The bus stopped at the Lee’s Chapel grade school, located at the T intersection of Lee’s Chapel and Cottonwood roads, to let the big boys (juniors and seniors) off to relax while waiting for the bus to make the round trip to Wilson Rock.

One day in my first year of school the big boys tossed me out of the bus via a back window. Their objective was to initiate me into the world of smoking. I refused to smoke but using force they made me chew cigarette tobacco. I became very ill. When mom came home from work, finding me sick in bed, she picked up the odor of tobacco and accused me of smoking. I told her I did not smoke. I can’t remember if I told her what actually happened. I may have remained silent on what actually occurred to keep the big boys from taking revenge for telling on them. That mom wouldn’t believe me was frustrating. Accusations weren’t frequent but they did occur, too often in my view.

Some years later when I got off the bus at Lee’s Chapel to hangout while the bus made the loop to Wilson Rock and back, as usual the boys were smoking, the main purpose of this respite. Just being there caused my clothing to pick up the odor of cigarettes. When mom got home from work, she immediately picked up the odor and accused me of smoking. Denials were futile, she never backed down, simply assuming that I was lying. This greatly distressed me, undermining my respect for her.

My refusing to join the smoking fraternity at that early age I was setting a pattern that stayed with me all my life. How it came about is a mystery, but from a certain age when independent thinking began, I saw myself as a nonconformist, an outsider. Generally, whatever direction the crowd was headed I went the other way. Peer pressure, to the extent it existed, I ignored. I had rational reasons for my actions.

At some point I actually tried smoking, inhaling. It was painful. In fact, it was impossible to get past the pain in my lungs. That told me smoking wasn’t good for me. Logic supported this thinking, i.e., the inhalation of smoke, no matter the source, hurts your lungs. Smoke from a fire will kill you. So how can smoke from a cigarette be good for man? My answer was, it’s not.

The summer of 1946 mom and Aunt Lois took off for California with me and Arletta. We traveled by train. I loved traveling, especially by train. At a young age I fell in love with the sound of trains. Certain summer mornings, at grandma’s, with the bedroom windows open and with me still in bed, I could hear the whistle of a train in the distance, across the river in the next county, south. That sound was music to my ears, still is today in prison. Images of exotic places come to mind, adventure, romance, and beauty, then and now.

We were headed for El Cajon. Mom told me nothing about our plans, only that we were going to California. I don’t remember much of the trip except the excitement of being on a train. Also, mom and Aunt Lois brought a lot of food to feed us. I don’t recall us ever going to the dining car. No doubt they were being frugal, one of mom’s lifelong attributes.

At El Cajon we were put up in the same motel-like cottage complex on the main street of El Cajon where Aunt Beulah and family lived. I remember doing tourist stuff, including a visit to the Salton Sea and one to Tijuana. The San Diego Zoo was visited several times. I remember many excursions to the beautiful beaches of San Diego, my first exposure and the beginning of my affinity with the sea. There are many pictures of me in all of these places and situations. Mom always took a lot of pictures.

Before the summer was over, one Saturday night mom was acting strangely and secretive. She was about to leave me with Aunt Beulah, but I threw a fit. The soldier that came to see mom that Sunday at grandma’s in 1945 was showing his face in El Cajon. It turned out that he had a married older sister living there.

Mom ended up taking me with her and Bill that Saturday night. It was late when we left El Cajon. I was in the back seat. I remember little because I fell asleep. The only thing I remember is waking up briefly. The car was parked on a street somewhere I didn’t know, nor did I know what was going on.

Mom and Bill got married that night. Why she didn’t tell me what she planned I’ll never know, but it is indicative of her behavior with me throughout life and a cause of tension. I don’t remember when or how I learned she had gotten married. I felt betrayed, even unwanted. Materially mom was very good to me, but emotionally there was no connection, no feeling of being loved.

After the marriage we moved into a backyard rental on the property of Bill’s sister. His sister and her husband were very nice people and lived in a very nice house. The rental was extremely small. I hated it. We lived there about a year and a half, moving back to Oklahoma midway through my third-grade term.

I had a bicycle; with it I explored the El Cajon area far and wide. Harold and Arletta were again my playmates. Occasionally we all went on long bicycle excursions.

The family living across the street had a boy my age. We became close friends. I was invited to sleep over a lot. During a certain season, with his dad, we went to see the races, the smaller Indy-type cars. Everyone was very kind to me.

There was another family nearby with a bunch of girls. They seemed to like having me around. I had fun times at their place. Overall, these were happy days. Bill more or less left me alone. He never tried befriending me. Because his sister was so nice, I gave him the benefit of doubt.

I remember little from school at El Cajon. I could draw an exact image of the building and I’ll never forget the location. It was on El Cajon Boulevard near the downtown area and just a block away from where Aunt Beulah lived. The school was set off El Cajon Boulevard with a distinct picturesque frontage, a half circle driveway lined with tall palm trees, symmetrically positioned. Very memorable.

On the east side of the school was a junk dealer. His property was large. In the back field he had geese. Harold and I used to mess with the geese. They were quite aggressive, especially concerning their eggs. I was fascinated by the size of the eggs.

El Cajon Boulevard, in those days, was the last leg of the southern gateway to San Diego. A little further east on El Cajon Boulevard was a corner bar. Often Uncle Chock and Bill hung out there. When Aunt Beulah and mom got impatient, wondering where their men were, we all would head for the bar. Compared with bars in Oklahoma that I was familiar with (dives), this place was well lit (inside) and nice to my young eyes, but still it was a bar, which had only negative connotations. I remember the walls were lined with very large, beautiful paintings of dogs. To this point in my life bars and booze had a very negative image. It seemed to me only losers patronized bars, plus in Oklahoma they were illegal, thus associated with the unsavory element. Additionally, the odor of an alcoholic breath was repulsive. In no way was I attracted to that way of life, but this bar in El Cajon was different. It was roomy, clean with nice furnishings, civilized, and a new experience. Eventually my view of bars would change.

Uncle Chock was a mean drunk, especially to Aunt Beulah. I witnessed his drunken behavior several