Month: January 2019

Very few things lingered in a teenage boy’s mind, in the sixties, like the obsession with the opposite sex. Although I was not aware of it at the time, subliminal suggestions were everywhere. Magazine covers, clothing displays in departments stores and television advertisements saturated our daily thoughts constantly with permissive guidance and sexual overtones. However, nothing was more persuasive than the lyrics to our most popular music. Most of us had been introduced to The Beatles music through our transistor radios. All of a sudden their music was everywhere and their lyrics were all about what teenage boys and girls were thinking , sex. Or, at least, how to get close to one another in a private setting.

For me, looking was one thing, but touching was hard to accomplish. My buddies and I joked about how to be cool around girls, but no one really knew what to do. Then, here came The Beatles, with songs that gave us instructions as to how to do it. I Want to Hold Your Hand was a song that verbalized my inner most thoughts. “Oh yeah, I tell you somethin’, I think you’ll understand, When I say that somethin’, I want to hold your hand. ….. And when I touch you, I feel happy inside, it’s such a feeling that my love, I can’t hide.” It’s like they were reading my mail. They were saying what I was thinking and apparently the girls were thinking it too, because every time the song came on the radio, the girls went crazy.

Apparently my Mom & Dad were reading my mail too. It wasn’t long after next Beatle hit came out, Love Me Do, that my Father took me to the garage for a talk. The garage was the only place at our house with any sort of privacy, considering that I had three younger siblings, who were always hanging around when someone in the family was about to get a lecture. Besides, the garage was sort of manly, with our car and tools and sports equipment taking up most of the room. I don’t remember the exact words spoken by my Dad that night, but I remember something about hot blood and red blooded and trouble if you get too close to girls. I nodded my head when he asked me if I understood, but the truth was I just wanted to get the conversation over.

Later the next day, I told my buddy who was a year older than me, about the conversation in our garage. “Oh yeah, I got that conversation from my dad last year.” he said. When I inquired if the substance was the same, he said “I’m not sure, my ole man just told me to keep my Buick in my own garage”. Comfortable with notion that garages had something to do with being a man, I dropped the inquiry.

My journey toward getting to touch the opposite sex, continued at break neck speed, as I clumsily worked out scenarios in mind as to circumstances of opportunity. It didn’t dawn on me at the time, that it took two people to mutually achieve this goal. I guess I thought, if I wanted to hold someone’s hand, surely they would want to hold mine. As I would eventually find out, circumstances of the heart, as my Grandpa called them, rarely work out as imagined. Generally, they were presented by happenstance, with very little planning. One thing I did find out during my pursuit, asking permission, rather than expecting compliance, resulted in much better results.

I continued listening to the instructions from the Beatles until I became experienced at achieving my goals. Generally, when asked occasionally what my goal for the evening was from my date. My response was always the same, I want to hold your hand.

He will be 100 years old in a couple of months. His memory is good and his sense of humor is intact. He was a track star in high school and set school records in the 100 yard dash.   A Marine Corps Flag flies in the wind outside his window. He is confined to his living room armchair most days because it is too difficult to move about attached to his oxygen tank. The picture window by which he sits most days, is his window to the world. He is a small town guy, living on a small town street, in the middle of America, and even though he is slight in stature, he is anything but small. He is a true American Hero. 

As a Marine assigned to the Pacific during World War II he saw and experienced the worst that humanity had to offer in the 20th Century. However, it didn’t temper his sense of humor. He once described his job in the war, was to walk backward. Explaining that one of his responsibilities was to lay down communication line, from a big spool, connecting one position to another. Often times he was out in front and an easy target for snipers. When asked why he got to have all the fun, he explained through that ever present smile, that he could run faster than anyone in the company. His legs bear the scars of the volcanic cinder that cover the islands of Iwo Jima and Peleliu in the Pacific Ocean. His memory is anything but faded, like most combat veterans he can recall the smallest detail, often remembering odd things about the weather on a particular day.

Remembrance is what his life consists of now,  returning to his hometown, the job at the factory, raising the kids, the parades honoring him and his high school friends. Saturday nights at the VFW and church on Sunday Morning were part of the protocol and linger in his mind almost every day. He did what everyone his age did when he returned from the War. He got on with life.

There will be a celebration at the Fairgrounds in March to honor his 100th birthday. The kids and grandkids and neighbors will be there. So will the few WW II veterans in the area, that are still capable of travel. His wife will be there, sitting just off to his right, as she does most days now. She still smiles when she hears that story again for perhaps the 100th time. She knows what he went through. She knows that fitting back in to a small town wasn’t as easy as he made it look. She knows that the nightmares never completely went away. She has memories too.

For now, they are looking forward  to the Birthday party. When the family comes to get them for the celebration, he will see them coming, from his armchair in the living room, through the big picture window, beneath the Marine Corps flag flying in the breeze.

A Tribute to Larry Woods