It was the summer of 1966 and the end of August was approaching. I was due to leave for USAF basic training on the 2nd of September. Ten days before, I'd ridden my 650 Triumph five-hundred miles up to the St. Lawrence River Thousand Islands to visit Gram at her cottage on Murray Isle.
It had been a good time - seeing friends, the party in the Danforth's boathouse. We'd even ferried the Triumph on a rented construction barge over to Murray Isle where I'd given bumpy rides over the hummocks around the community house to all the girls, and even Mrs. Merrick.
But now it was time to return home to Maryland and prepare for active duty in the Air Force.
I left at the crack of dawn with all my gear stuffed in a bag and strapped behind the skimpy, rock-hard Bates seat. Even though I had 500 miles ahead of me, I spurned the interstate in favor of good old Route 12 - the two-lane road we took to the River before the interstate. Route 12 roams lazily over rolling farmland, rising and falling around gentle curves with Burma-Shave signs on the straight-aways.
I'd only gone about forty miles when there came from the gearbox some very disconcerting sounds. "Maybe it'll go away" I thought. But it didn't. It got louder and louder until it was apparent that breakdown was imminent.
I pulled into a farm and inquired where the nearest motorcycle shop might be. I'm in luck! A fellow on a dirt road not far away works on Harleys. I manage to find him and an hour-and-a-half or so later I'm back on the road - my wallet thirty dollars lighter, nearly all the money I had.
I got on the Interstate and made a beeline for home. While trying very hard to not go faster and faster, I repeatedly did the distance/mileage/fuel cost mental math to calculate my chance of making it home on my resources - resources which turned out to be sufficient to fill the 1-gallon peanut tank about two or three times before I ran out of gas and money a couple of miles north of Wilkes-Barre, PA.
So I pushed the Bonnie up those long, steep Pennsylvania hills and coasted down the other sides sidesaddle until I reached the next exit which was the north end of Wilkes-Barre.
There I was. No money, no gas, no food. I tried prevailing on a gas station attendant to loan me a couple of bucks or sport me a 1-gallon fill-up. No dice. With no other prospects I began pan-handling. If you want to know what true humility is, try pan-handling sometime.
I wasn't having much luck. The location wasn't exactly downtown and there weren't all that many people around. But after 15 or 20 minutes, a guy maybe a couple years older than me stops and listens to my story. Afterwards he says he'll help me out. He drives me to his place where he makes a few calls and then we take his Harley to a nearby working man's restaurant. There we're met by three of his buddies, their Harleys parked right outside the window. After treating me to probably the best lunch I had ever had, we returned to the gas station, where my "saviour" hands me a twenty dollar bill. I fill up and he and his friends give me the Harley Davidson escort across town and wave me onto the south-bound on-ramp home.
The very next day after returning home I posted my benefactor a twenty-dollar bill and an expression of my thanks.
So, now fast forward two months: basic training completed, I'm arriving at Keesler AFB for 52 weeks of technical training. As we debark the buses and get briefed, we're told that those playing brass wind instruments or drums are invited to audition for the base's Drum and Bugle Corps - with the enticements that Corps members are exempt from KP and get to straggle to classes instead of marching in formation. I decide to give it a try and I audition on tenor drum. After a couple of weeks billeted with regular troops, word comes that I was accepted by the Corps - get my stuff and get over there.
After their initial acceptance by the Corps, boots had six weeks to learn their music and pass their final audition - all the while being hazed by Corps members. Thread on your uniform? Catch yourself a Mississippi cockroach, make it a leash of thread, carry it everywhere, and present it for inspection when requested by Corps members.
Those who didn't pass the audition were out. Those who did were given 72-hours to prepare for their white-glove inspection, during which rooms are literally torn apart. The Drum Major ran his white gloves everywhere in the room including the floor and the insides of electrical boxes. Tee-shirts, skivvies, and socks were rolled in a special way and had to survive three throws against the walls and lockers. Some inspectors would throw the rolls into a corner of the room, doubling the number of impacts to survive. Those who failed the inspection the first time were given 24 hours to put things right for a second and last chance.
So it was that I found myself assigned to a room with two Ropes whose job it was to mentor me through the next six-and-a-half weeks of hell. As we introduced ourselves I discovered that my Polish roommates Rick and Joe were both from Wilkes-Barre. Naturally, I told them my story of being stranded there. Rick asked me the name of the guy who stopped and helped me. When I said the name Rick jumped up exclaiming "that's my next-door neighbor!"
Rick and Joe turned out to be the best roommates I could ever have asked for - they were kind and helpful and at Christmas they shared with me the home-made polish kielbasa that came from back home. Rick loved telling people that he had a "Rolls-Con-Harley" back home - "rolls down one hill, can Harley make it up the next". Ever since then I've had a warm spot in my heart for Wilkes-Barre, PA.
Airmen who wear the black shoulder rope are experts in drill and ceremonies, those wearing a blue and white rope are
members of their base's drum & bugle corps, and Air Force honor guard members wear a silver aiguillette on their left shoulder. All take pride in pristine personal appearance and presentation of the uniform.
Yes, I earned my Blue and White rope, and I still have it!
