Reassigned

I pulled into the parking lot of Jittery Joe’s coffee shop in Watkinsville, Georgia, and looked around the almost empty parking lot. I was meeting Bob Bolton at the iconic coffee shop to review and select photographs for our upcoming book, U.S. Air Force Tactical Missiles – 1949-1969 – The Pioneers. Bob had driven over from Lawrenceville and was waiting for me in the coffee shop. My wife and I drove up from Port Charlotte, Florida, and were staying with our daughter just outside Athens, Georgia.

While sorting through a double-table spread with photographs of Matador and Mace missiles for possible inclusion in our book, we came across a photograph taken of a TM-61C Matador at Wheelus Air Base in Libya. The photograph, taken in 1955, showed a Matador being prepared for launch in the Libyan desert during Operation Suntan, part of the Annual Missile Launch Operation in North Africa. The AMLO, as it was known, was an annual launch exercise attended by all the active US Air Force tactical missile launch squadrons in Germany. This particular missile was from the 1st Pilotless Bomber Squadron at Bitburg Air Base, Germany. One of the comments written on the photo identified the officer seen on the far left side of the photograph as 1st Lt. John Gibbs. Bob and I decided to use the photograph in the book. 

A year or so later, after the book was published, I got an unidentified telephone call. I rarely accept unknown cellphone calls, but for some reason, I took this one. It was John Gibbs. His name rang a bell but I couldn’t remember why.

Wheelus Air Base Libya, AMLO 1955. TM-61C Matador -  Lt John Gibbs is on the far left

“Hey, George, I’m a former missileman and found out about this group called TAC Missileers Association. I found your telephone number and decided to find out what this is all about.”

“What this is all about,” I answered without realizing who I was talking to, “Is documenting our place in Air Force history, and the guy you need to talk to is our membership director, Max Butler. We’d love to have you join us.”

It didn’t take long for John to join the TAC Missileers Association and almost immediately catch Max’s ear about an Air Force tactical missile he found in central Florida that was looking for a new home. John drove by the American Legion post in Wildwood, Florida, not far from an area known as The Villages, and saw a weather-worn, CGM-13B Mace missile on display in front of the American Legion Post 18. He stopped to see if the Legion post would be interested in a historical presentation about their Mace missile.

CGM-13B (TM-76B) Mace missile on display at the American Legion, Wildwood, Florida  1997

To the contrary, the American Legion post membership had already voted to remove the Mace. Several post members had issues with paying the liability insurance required by the National Museum of US Air Force, owners and trustees of all Air Force vehicles on loan for display. The CGM-13B - originally known as a TM-76B, known simply to those who were assigned to her as the “B” bird - was moved from its duty station at the Tactical Missile School at Orlando Air Force Base, some fifty miles south, to the Wildwood American Legion post when the 4504th Missile Training Wing at Orlando AFB inactivated in 1966. The Air Force Museum at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio, already has a pristine CGM-13B that served combat duty in Okinawa in its static display and did not have a new home for the old Wildwood Mace. They hadn’t yet decided where to relocate the missile. 

A1C Bob Bolton, 887th Tactical Missile Squadron,  with a MGM-13A (TM-76A) Mace with at Grünstadt, Germany - Summer of 1965

A1C Bob Bolton, 887th Tactical Missile Squadron, 

with a MGM-13A (TM-76A) Mace with at Grünstadt, Germany - Summer of 1965

Bob Bolton - TAC Missileers Association

CGM-13B (TM-76B) serial number 59-4871, manufactured by The Glenn L. Martin Co., Baltimore, MD, was accepted by the U.S. Air Force in December, 1960, and sent to the Tactical Missile Combat School at Orlando Air Force Base. The Tactical Missile School was operated by the 4504th Missile Training Wing, Ninth Air Force, Tactical Air Command. The school was inactivated in 1966, concurrent with the phase-out of the “A” version of the Mace, the ground-hugging ATRAN – Automatic Terrain Recognition and Navigation – model that comprised most of the 38th Tactical Missile Wing in Germany.

 All “B” Bird missile training classes were then reassigned to the 3415th Training Wing at Lowry AFB, Colorado, until the inertially-guided Mace “B” was removed from the operational inventory in 1969. The “B” Bird, renumbered several times until finally designated the CGM-13B, remained on duty in Germany, reassigned to the 36th Tactical Fighter Wing at Bitburg and with the 498th Tactical Missile Group at Kadena, Okinawa. The forlorn school Mace from the inactive 4504th MTW had been on stand-by in the middle of Florida ever since the school closed. It was simply awaiting further orders. With Max Butler in the loop, a request for a Permanent Change of Station began processing.

CGM-13B Mace On Duty with the 71st Tactical Missile  Squadron, Bitburg, Germany - 1960's
USAFE Photo from Wayne Douglas

Frank Roales, a volunteer for a new military museum project in Vincennes, Indiana, and a contributor to our book - his specialty was the Air Force MM-1 Terracruzer transporter – previously contacted Max Butler looking for any available Mace or Matador missiles the TAC Missileers Association may have known about. It didn’t take long for Max, Frank, and John to mix and match the need of both the American legion post and the fledgling Vincennes museum. The mayor of Vincennes, Indiana, officially requested approval from the Air Force Museum to display the missile at the new Indiana Military Museum project. The Museum agreed and the project was in motion. All that was needed was the method and money. Again, Max Butler and the TAC Missileers were at the forefront.

Bob Bolton, editor of the TAC Missileers newsletter, published a request about the upcoming project and caught the attention of Jerry Brenner, a former nuclear weapons mechanic on the Mace. Jerry contacted the Commander of the Indiana Air National Guard’s 181st Intelligence Wing, in Terre Haute, Indiana, asking for assistance with the move. Jerry sent photographs and documentation from past missile moves, including a photograph of the Mace missile in Wildwood. It wasn’t long before Jerry received a telephone call from 1st Lt. Randi Brown, Wing Executive Staff Officer, 181st Intelligence Wing, asking how they could help. Jerry gave her Max’s telephone number and the project began to take shape. Lieutenant Brown coordinated the Air Force/ANG side of the 840 mile project with Max Butler and provided the truck transportation and two drivers. All Max Butler had to do was figure out how to make it work. And when. We needed some serious planning.

Bob called me in February, 2010, asking if I could meet him in Wildwood, almost in the dead-center of Florida. The association was having an on-site planning and measurement session – Max called it a scope meeting – for the up-coming move. “Great,” I thought. Probably my last chance to see a missile I worked on for eight years. “I’ll see you there!”

The last operational CGM-13B Mace Missiles were taken out of combat service in October, 1969, from Kadena Air Base, Okinawa. The 71st Tactical Missile Squadron, my unit, had inactivated in Germany on April 30th, some six months earlier. The Mace continued in service for several years as target drones fired from Eglin AFB as target practice for the Air Defense Command at Tyndall AFB. One gained international notoriety when it continued to fly down-range, crossing over Cuba despite being raked by cannon fire and being hit by at least one air to air missile in the Gulf of Mexico gunnery range. It crashed somewhere on the other side of Cuba after running out of fuel.

Most of the combat unit personnel had moved on by then. Many of our peers migrated to Strategic Air Command Titan or Minuteman launch or maintenance crews by that time, but, after eight years of tactical missiles, I separated from the Air Force for civilian life.

​March 15th, 2010 – Scope Day

I headed out of Port Charlotte early enough to drive the two and a half hours and still be there well before everyone else was due to show up. I should have known better, I was the last one to arrive and I was an hour early! Bob had driven down from Atlanta and other members of the association had come from as far away as Jacksonville. Max was staying an hour or so away and acted as if it were in his backyard. A tall gentleman watched from the edge of activity, and when all of us who knew each other were finished with our cordialities, walked over and introduced himself. It was John Gibbs. He was the First Lieutenant in our Wheelus photograph and the catalyst in moving the Mace missile to its new home. John was a former member of the First Pilotless Bomber Squadron at Bitburg Air Base, Germany, the very first operational missile squadron in the United States Air Force. John was a pleasure to meet and his knowledge of early missile operations in Europe was fascinating.

How big is a Mace missile? How much does it weigh? Nobody knew, or more correctly, no one remembered. It had been fifty years since the last time I worked on one and I wasn’t alone. We measured, photographed, videoed, measured again, and measured serial number 59-4871 yet a third time. The J-33 jet engine had been removed as had almost every other piece of ancillary hardware. Everything except for the network of impact fuses still mounted to the inside of the nose cone. The small, innocuous, static, piezoelectric generators that, crushed all at the same time, created enough current to detonate the High Explosive trigger that was absolutely the last way to detonate the Mark 28, 1.2 Megaton thermonuclear warhead, were still in place. The small, plastic-appearing gizmos were no hazard of any kind. The minuscule voltage each one created during its one time, destructive activation, was like having a rack of double “A” batteries that only worked once mounted in the front of the missile. This training missile had never mounted a live warhead.

Then it was time to count the money. The TAC Missileers Association would pay the estimated $2500 for crane service and insurance and the 181st Intelligence Wing, Indiana ANG, supplied the transportation. The rest was volunteer effort. Max penciled in April 14th, just a month away, as M-day and we were committed to the move.

We started collecting and disseminating information on a daily basis. Request for copies of old Air Force Technical Orders brought a wealth of information and soon Max and Roger St. Germain began the tedious, time consuming task of designing and building precision wooden cradles, exactly fifty-four inches in diameter, to be mounted to a yet unseen Air Force flat-bed trailer, that would secure the missile during its eight hundred, forty mile trip to its new home. It was decided the removed wings would be mounted either under or alongside the fuselage. The horizontal stabilizer would be removed from the vertical stabilizer due to its width and the two would be strapped together with the wings. It sounded good in theory, at least.

​

April 14th 2010 – Move Day

Most of the license plates parked under the old Spanish Moss-draped Live Oak trees at American Legion Post 18 that beautiful, sunny morning were from counties all over the state of Florida, but plates from Georgia and North Carolina were there as well. Luckily, we had a pretty good spread of Air Force Specialty Codes, or skill sets represented but we did have one problem: we had no Engine or Airframe mechanics among us. None of us had ever taken a Mace apart before. The youngest one of us Missileers gathered for the project was sixty-eight years old. We figured we could still do the job, it just might take a little longer than planned.

Undeterred, we stuck bookmarks in our dog-eared Technical Orders and started on our work plan. While we had many launch crew members, several guidance technicians and test equipment specialists, many trained only on the older Matador, only Max and myself were Flight Controls and were familiar with the wing layout. Max was a TM-61C Matador troop, he had never seen a Mace before. I told him, “No problem, Max, the wings come off the same way.” That proved to be an almost correct statement. Step one however, was to mount the custom wooden cradles to the US Air Force flat bed trailer, driven down from Terre Haute, Indiana, by T/Sgt Stacey Snow and T/Sgt William Curtis. Stacey and William listened carefully to Max describe our plans, then they both smiled and said, “Sounds good, let’s do it!”

While Max and his group finagled the shipping cradles into position on the flat-bed trailer, another team laid out sand bags on the lawn where they wanted the crane operator to place the missile once it was cut free from its secure pedestal. The pedestal turned out to be a facade, simply bricks arranged around a steel frame with two vertical steel rods mounted to the frame that thrust upwards through the missile’s belly. The missile was also tethered to the pedestal with a cable attached to the nose and a second cable securely attached to the tail.

George Mindling - TAC Missileers Association

The crane moved carefully into position alongside the missile to start the removal process. Robert Pyne and Billy Graham from Graham’s Trucking mounted huge lifting straps fore and aft on the silver, forty-four foot long fuselage. Billy signaled to the crane operator and the missile gently lifted just enough to take weight off the stand. Cutting the cables and steel bars was our first step in freeing the missile. After the second cable was severed, Billy again signaled the crane operator. Everyone held their breath as the crane engine revved up and 59-4871 gently lifted free of its home for the last forty-four years.

Max Butler - TAC Missleers Association

With guy ropes tied to the nose and tail – and a myriad of attentive supervisors scattered safely outside the work zone – the Mace was slowly swung over the sandbags and gently lowered to the ground. Stepladders appeared from somewhere and we were soon walking along the top of the missile as if it were fifty years ago. Waves of nostalgia overtook all of us during that first few minutes, bringing back memories of scampering up and down the alert-ready missiles in their angled launch bays. In our late sixties and seventies, we were no longer a scampering crowd.

There were five or six of us standing on the wings and fuselage as Max started removing the large, Phillips-head screws that mounted the crown panel over the wing mounts. The first three panel mounting screws, untouched in four decades, protested but slowly broke loose and were removed. The fourth screw proved to be a foreboding of things to come: it was frozen solidly in place. It wasn’t one of the original Phillips head screws, but some odd screw someone used simply because they thought it fit. After bathing the stubborn screw in every known kind of penetrating lubricant and many varied attempts at removing the balky screw, it was finally cut out with a small sledge hammer and a cold chisel. Max knocked it loose almost an hour after we started. He sat back on the wing and looked around, sweat dripping from his forehead. “I’m getting too old for this high tech stuff,” he said.

Robert Pyne, Graham Trucking on the wrench with Russ Reston, George Mindling, and Max Butler

During the Scope meeting a month earlier, Bob mentioned to me there was a slight difference between the left and right wing. One wing had the track in the root section used to mount primercord, a linear, rope-type explosive used by the “B” bird to separate the wings at dump to facilitate a supersonic terminal dive. I asked Bob if the “A” Bird, the model of Mace he had launch-crewed on in Germany, had tracks in the wing roots. “Nope,” he answered, we didn’t need to do a terminal dive, we were low altitude attack. So our missile, 59-4871, had one “A” bird wing and one “B” bird wing. Bob laughed and said, “Well, it is what it is. Besides, there’s one more thing, the trailing tip of the “B” bird wing is bent.”

Again, nostalgia swept over me. I was there with Bob Harkins and Leonard Estrada in our B-Bird flight controls class when a fork lift sped out of our checkout hanger with his lift raised. The driver looked over his shoulder, but not up. He had raised the lift high enough to solidly catch the low-hanging wing-tip of the incredibly strong, honey-comb cathedral wing. The missile shuddered with the impact that slam-lifted the back of the forklift off the ground. but the damage to the missile was minimal. Only a few inches of the trailing edge of the wing were deformed. If it had been an operational bird, the wing would have been depot repaired, but apparently there was no urgent need to repair the training missile. That accident was sometime during the summer of 1961, and here I sat, in 2010, looking at the distinct, bent up wing, mesmerized as if I were in high school. I felt a sudden fondness for this old, weather-worn bird.

Bruce Hynds and Roger St. Germain - TAC Missileers Association

We eventually dismounted the wings with close coordination with everyone involved, safety being our utmost concern, but it wasn’t easy. The huge, shoulder mounting bolts were as corroded as the ones on the access panel. We had help from Graham Trucking which loaned us not only the use of their professional truck and crane tools, but their muscle as well. We never would have made it without their assistance and the five or six cans of penetrating lubricants they expended removing the bolts. Removing the missile shoulder bolts proved to be a hard, tedious time consuming task.

Mounting the removed wings on the trailer proved to be another challenge. Max had mounted the fuselage cradles so the separated wings would easily slide onto the back of the trailer. With a wing span of only twenty-two feet, it was naively assumed the length of an individual wing wouldn’t exceed eleven feet. Wingspan does not translate to wing length, as we did not consider the swept length of the wings, only the distance from tip to tip when mounted. We were off by over a foot and a half on each wing. After quick, emergency consultations with Stacey and William, who by now were known to everyone by their nicknames, Gunny and Snowman, the two front cradles on the truck bed were relocated far enough apart to slip the wings in between them. A few sand bags under the wings for shock absorption and we were in business.

Russ Reston - TAC Missileers Association

The last task, removing the vertical stabilizer was almost a show stopper. Lindsey Cosby of Graham Trucking arrived with more tools including the biggest ratchet wrench I have ever seen. The wrench, mated with a six-foot long, iron handle extension and manhandled by Pyne and Graham, two of the strongest men there, slowly, painstakingly, brought forth a metallic squeak as the first bolt finally broke loose. Removing the remaining bolts was as time consuming and nerve wracking as the first one. By the time the crane was ready to attach to the stabilizer almost an hour later, tension among all the onlookers was at its highest for the day. The crane gently lifted the stabilizer, but it didn’t budge. It was still firmly attached to the missile. It took several, intense moments of frantic work to pry it loose from the fuselage, but when it finally lifted free, you could feel the wave of jubilation sweep over the onlookers. That was the last major mechanical task before loading the fuselage on the waiting flat bed trailer. After setting the stabilizer on the ground, the crane swung back to pick up the missile. Everyone silently watched as the missile slowly, almost gracefully lifted off the sand bags. This time she was being finally loaded for its trip to its new home.

Both Max and Roger are union certified master carpenters, and no one expected problems lowering the missile into the cradles, but the missile didn’t fit. No one said a word as Max and Roger glanced at each other. The perfectly round fuselage simply would not slide into the first cradle. The crane operator lifted the bird up several inches and waited for instructions. Max leaned over and inspected a thin strip of felt that had been added to the rim of the cradles to prevent possible scarring. Max carefully pulled out the strip of felt and the crane lowered the missile perfectly and firmly into all three, perfectly radiused, hand-made 54.00 inch wide cradles.

Max directed the strapping of the missile, then waited as I struggled with another group to separate the vertical and horizontal stabilizers. The two had to be separated to avoid the extra-width the stabilizer gave the trailer load. To get permission from four states to haul an over-wide load was out of the question, so the two units had to be separated. Again, after careful analysis, Max found if we turned the stabilizer assembly a certain way, it would fit laterally on the trailer in front of the missile and we wouldn’t have to separate the two stabilizers.

The whole assembly strapped in securely and we all stood back for one last look at the Mace, almost defiantly displaying US Air Force boldly emblazoned on its side even though its wings had obviously been clipped. The moment for most of us was a somber one. Our tool bags would be put away with our memories.

After photographs were taken and we double checked everything on our lists, we all watched in the late afternoon sun as the flatbed pulled carefully onto Highway 44, headed for nearby I-75 with our weather-worn icon strapped securely to it. I’m sure there were more than a few startled motorists on the Interstate as 59-4871 headed north through the Smoky Mountains toward its new home. I have no doubts the question, “What is that? A rocket?” was uttered more than once.

Somewhere in the process, the old bird picked up a new name. When she arrived at Vincennes she would be known as “Miss L.” But before “Miss L” could once again go proudly on display, she needed a makeover. One that was forty-four years overdue.​

T/Sgt Stacey Snow and T/Sgt William Curtis.
181st Intelligence Wing, Indiana Air National Guard

​Post Script

TAC Missileer Association member Jerry Brenner, volunteer at the Indiana Military Museum, met Gunny and Snowman as they crossed the Ohio River into Indiana on Interstate 69. Brenner, who followed the missile for several miles, was amazed at the surprised reactions of motorists who drove past the old missile being transported to her new home. He was at the motel the following morning after the final overnight stop as a family came out of the motel restaurant. They were startled to see the missile they had passed on the way to the hotel parked at the side of the lot. They asked if they could get close to it and Jerry told them, “Sure, take all the photos you want.”

The last leg to Vincennes was uneventful and the Mace was met at the museum by workers and volunteers who gave a round of applause as the newly named “Miss L” slowly pulled in. After being lifted off the trailer, the Mace sat outside covered with tarps to protect the openings while everything else was stored under a shed for most of the year while planning and funding took place. Photographs were taken and sent to the Air Force Museum to show that the missile was secured and covered from the weather. The next year and a half were an exercise in patience and hard work.

The Indiana Military Museum was granted $2,280 for the acquisition of decals and detail work from the Association of Air Force Missileers, an organization for all former United States Air Force Missileers, or anyone with an interest in past or current USAF missile and space systems, and another $1000 donation from the TAC Missileers Association. The hard work was done mainly by the volunteers, headed by Frank Roales who helped start the original project.

The next year saw the damaged air intake plenum chamber and the bent wing tip repaired, as well as the missing parts from the stabilizer being fabricated. The entire missile was prepared for new paint which included the removal of the old decals.

According to Jerry Brenner, ”The decals that were on the missile were removed by using a one inch wood chisel and the main part of the missile was done with palm and hand sanders. Many hours were put in during the summer when the humidity was higher than the temperature and we are talking about 100+ degrees. The tail assembly was sand blasted as it was made of cast aluminum.”

Frank Roales designed the support that holds the missile at its launch angle of 17 degrees and the custom-built structure was fabricated by J and J welding of Mt. Vernon, Indiana. The support posts were donated by local supporters of the museum, including an unnamed oil company. The Air Force Armament Museum in Destin, Florida, supplied the information about decals which were made by a company in Vincennes. Some of the larger decals on the wings were made by hand and painted on. The missile was slowly, painstakingly reassembled. Finally, in May, 2012, the wings and the stabilizer were attached. Frank made covers for the plenum chamber intake and made a plate to cover the tail pipe opening.

A crane from a local company was brought in to raise the assembled missile on to the pedestal. There was excitement as the reassembled missile was slowly lifted up for all to see. Motorists stopped and stood beside the road outside the museum to see the Mace as it was lowered to it’s new, permanent cradle. Once the missile was lowered, brackets were attached to the missile to secure it in place and a large bolt was attached to hold down the tail of the missile.

The Mace was spray painted from nose cone to tailpipe, and in June, 2012, Frank, Max and Jerry got together to apply the final decals.

In October, 2012, a dedication ceremony was held at the Indiana Military Museum to officially make the Mace-B a part of the museum.

The CGM-13B greets visitors to the museum, standing in front of the museum, not in “Hot-Hold” as its colleagues in Germany and Okinawa did for almost ten years, but as a tribute to the Missileers who lovingly moved it and restored it, and to the Air Force Museum, the Indiana Military Museum, the 181st Intelligence Wing of the Indiana Air National Guard and to the Association of Air Force Missileers and the TAC Missileers Association, who all together, made its reassignment possible.

Max Butler, Frank Roales, and Jerry Brenner - TAC Missileers Association

Original member of the 1st PBS, John Gibbs, visits the U.S. Air Force Space and Missile Museum at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, FL, 2014. An original XB-61 Matador is in the background.

Post Script: 

"Here is the origin of “Miss L” It actually came about after the bird reached The Indiana Military Museum. Jerry Brenner and I had been working on cleaning,striping and repairing the bird for a few months when he had to go to the hospital for a heart problem and of course he couldn’t return right away after his release, After a number of weeks of this I sent him an e-mail asking him how he was doing and in jest told him to hurry back for the “Miss L” was missing him…..the name stuck." 

Frank Roales

All photos made possible from the TAC Missileers Association

Indiana Military Museum - https://indymilitary.com/

TAC Missileers Association - https://www.tacmissileers.org/

Association of Air Force Missileers - https://www.afmissileers.org

38th TMW 1958 - 1966 - http://www.mace-b.com/38TMW/

MGM-13A Mace on alert duty, 405th Tactical Missile Squadron, Kirschburg, Germany, 1965

Our World: Smaller and Smaller

 

Three of us in one vehicle meant breaking my own COVID-19 guidelines, but I was in this all the way and I wanted to see the project wrap up. We were going to move a MiG-21 fighter jet - left over from the Polish Air Force – from southwest Florida to the Indiana Military Museum in Vincennes, Indiana. 

Vladimir was far more fastidious than I anticipated. I didn’t want to ride with him and Steve to Lakeland, Florida, some two hours away, but Vlad not only had on his face-mask, but also had anti-bacterial hand cleaner and hand wipes on the console of his immaculate, new Toyota pickup truck. The fresh, crisp protective paper mat on the floor of the backseat had never been trampled by anyone’s shoes.

Steve's first encounter with a MiG-21

Steve and I made the same trip a week earlier, but due to several interesting mis-communications, our project stalled and had to be rescheduled. Vladimir was coming along because Steve strapped a discarded ejection seat handle we found on the ground on our first trip to a lawn chair for his Ukrainian neighbor as a joke. The handle instructions were of course written in Russian, and immediately brought tears to Vlad’s eyes. Vlad had been a mechanic on this very type of airplane fifty years ago, when as a young man, he had served in the Soviet Air Force. When he found out we were headed back a second visit, Vlad had to go with us. 

Technically, we were assisting Max Butler, a volunteer for the Indiana Military Museum, lift a sixty year old Soviet-era fighter out of a storage yard and strap it to a trailer. Max arranged for a crane and a flat-bed trailer to do the real work, we were going to assist as much as possible although I’m sure the professional movers needed no supervision. 

A refurbished MiG-21 on display at Draken International Headquarters  

Max had called me weeks earlier and asked if I could meet him at Draken International, an aviation firm that supplies contract military services from rebuilding and re-certifying ex-military aircraft to actually flying training missions for the US military. Draken was donating one of their old MiG-21 fighters located at the Lakeland airport to the Indiana Military Museum. All the museum had to do was come get the airplane. Max had as long a trip to Lakeland as I did, but from the other direction as he drove down from Eustis.

This wasn’t our first move for the Indiana Military Museum. We worked together ten years ago to move a CGM-13B Mace missile that required us to actually disassemble the missile.

 https://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2020/11/reassigned.html 

Our tool bags weren’t required this time as the MiG already had the wings and tail section mounted on shipping frames. That was fine with me, being in my late seventies, I no longer turn wrenches if I don’t have to. Max, even though older than me, was as thorough as always and made wooden back-up frames and brackets for the trailer in case they were needed. I was really there for moral support. Almost like old times, except this time we were in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic.

I was apprehensive about the trip at first, but with the proper precautions, it would be a break from the cabin-fever of the last six months of seclusion. My wife had reservations also, but she was as happy to have a day to herself as well. It is a small world indeed, as a friend we had known in Germany – also in the late sixties – asked if I could take her husband along when she heard about my trip. Her husband, Steve, would have much preferred a fishing trip, but this was an opportunity for him to spend time doing something completely new. He enthusiastically joined me for the pre-dawn trip through central Florida.

The author, face mask in hand, and with the MiG 21 headed to the Indiana Military Museum

The first day’s project turned out to be an eight-hour bust. While I was like a kid in a candy shop taking photographs of old fighter planes, it turned out – after lifting the airplane and tailpipe onto the trailer, - the trailer was too small and everything had to be unloaded. We needed a different trailer. Steve, at first in awe of the collection of twenty one MiG-21 fighters stacked uniformly in the fenced parking lot, was soon picking up fragments of broken panels and levers written in Russian as souvenirs for his Ukrainian neighbor. His eyes lit up when he found the ejection seat handle. He knew exactly where it was going to get taped! 

Max was left with rescheduling the crane and ensuring the trucking company would bring an appropriate trailer as Steve and I headed south in the mid-afternoon heat of Florida in early September. I doubted I would return as there wasn’t anything to do but observe as the professionals did all the real work, but that was before Steve taped the handle to Vlad’s lawn chair.

Max Butler asking "Where are my movers?"

When Max called with the new pick-up schedule, I asked if I could bring along a third party, a former MiG mechanic. Max was thrilled we would have someone who could translate the stencils and panels.

“Yes!” he said. “Bring him along!”

Steve listens as Vlad describes an electronic component

Vlad’s translation duties involved in depth conversations with not only Max, but also with Diego, the young engineer with Draken who knew the aircraft as well as Vlad! The painted stencils on the fuselage were written in Polish, but the manufacturing tags and interior markings were written in Russian. Vlad never removed his mask as he answered questions and climbed around his old airplane in the warm morning sun.

We weren’t the only people picking up MiGs that morning. The US military purchased the majority of the remaining airplanes to be used as target practice and there were two trucks in front of us as we waited for our movers to arrive. While Vlad soon lost himself in the maze of airplanes, we all began chatting among ourselves about the coincidence of having a actual Russian Air Force MiG mechanic with us. One of the other drivers said, “Hey, wait a minute…” and walked briskly away.

He returned shortly with an older, muscular looking man, also about our age. “Where’s the Russian?” he asked.

We called Vladimir over and the two greeted each other cautiously, first in English, then in Ukranian. The other truck driver, who had just pulled in from Jacksonville, three hundred miles away, was also Ukrainian.

They were guarded at first, but both got louder and more excited. They were soon laughing and actually glowing. Vlad and the truck driver were from the same neighborhood in the Ukraine. They had common schools and teachers and both knew storekeepers. They had grown up about three miles apart! Vlad and his new friend talked on the far side of the lot for over an hour, the driver missing his time slot to pick up the wings for his airplane. We used it to load ours. When they finally returned, the driver laughed and said, “Vladimir, I can longer talk to you! You cost me too much money!”

Vladimir talked the entire trip home. The truck driver was the first person from his area he met here since he slipped out of Ukrain just before the Soviet Union collapsed in 1990. The truck driver it turned out, left in 1990 as the confusion of the times allowed him and his family to get out as well. He had not met anyone else from home either.

As I sat in the back seat watching Florida’s flat, green landscape roll past, I couldn’t help but wonder what Max will find to move next.

*******

PostScript- Assembled and cleaned, but not yet ready for display, the Indiana Military Museum prepares the Mig-21 for Public Display.  Stay Tuned

Noble Hammock - A Letter to My Daughter

Everglades National Park

To Monica

While cleaning out boxes of old photos and I came across these. I didn't know if my daughter had copies of the photos, or remembered the trip, so I put it in writing.

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The Noble Hammock canoe trail-marker was difficult to see as we drove toward Flamingo on the two-lane road from the main entrance. We did a three-point u-turn after we passed it, came back and parked on the shoulder of Flamingo Highway. Dean and I carried the canoe the short distance to the short, flimsy, wooden dock that stuck into the mass of indistinguishable, seemingly impenetrable mangroves. We really didn’t know what to expect as we launched our old fourteen foot, fiberglass canoe just a few feet from the side of the road.

My brother, Dean, sat in the front, you sat on a cushion in the middle, and I sat in the stern, each of us with a paddle. You were nine or ten years old and had the short, emergency paddle. It was too short to push us through the sloughs when we were in the shallow parts, but you helped paddle when we had deeper water. We were in shallow water a lot as it hadn’t rained in quite a while. The trail was so shallow in parts we almost turned around, but we pushed the canoe through the mud with our paddles and made it further and further into the mangrove jungle.

The mangrove hammocks lay scattered in a saw-grass prairie, and the canoe trail connecting the hammocks was marked with PVC pipes and a few wooden markers. As soon as we were out of earshot of the highway, there was no other reference to where we were. It turned out to be a monotonous, boring paddle and we were getting tired of shoving the paddles into the mud to push us along most of the trail. While the water was deeper in and around the hammocks, we could hear the mud and saw grass crunch along the bottom of the canoe as we pushed along the shallow parts. We certainly weren’t paddling between the hammocks.

You and Dean shoving off from Noble Hammock

Somewhere along the trail, after we were all tired and looking forward to completing the seemingly endless trail when I hit something hard on the bottom with my paddle. You turned to look back just as I leaned into the paddle with all my might, trying to get as much pressure as possible on what I thought was a rock or a log, when the object I was pushing on objected wildly and erupted four of five feet into the air right alongside the canoe.

You saw the alligator spin vertically in mid-air and fall back into the water. All I saw was its white underbelly as I lurched unexpectedly forward, looking backward over my shoulder trying to hold on to my paddle as the alligator twisted and fell away from us. Dean jerked around to look just as it crashed heavily back into the murky water. The canoe rocked from the swell then slowly returned to the almost boring silence and tranquility of before. We all sat stunned by the surrealistic event that had just happened. I don’t remember all the comments we made but I know you got to hear words you weren’t familiar with.

And you wonder why I think Disney World is boring.

Key Man

One late, miserable night while Jim Eby and I struggled with the newly installed 2740 terminal at the Dade County jail booking desk, two plain-clothes Miami Beach detectives brought in a hooker they picked up who, it turned out, happened to be a man.

Working the booking desk was among the worst working conditions I have ever worked. While it was mounted in a large circular pedestal in the middle of a huge room, the space inside the circle was cramped and serviced several booking stations at once. It was kind of like going to a bank where the service counter is curved around one teller. It was as bad as the tower at Homestead AFB, which, besides the drive-through at Wendy’s, was the service call I most dreaded. No space to work, impossible for any diagnostics and noisy beyond belief. With constant interruptions, telephone calls and people always reaching over the counter or throwing books or paperwork, it was worse than any product planner sitting in a sterile cubicle could possibly imagine. Two CE’s could not work together without pushing a deputy out of the way. Using an oscilloscope was impossible. A real zoo.

For those of you who think television shows accurately display police stations, you are wrong. Miami’s booking desk at the Dade County jail in the evening was more like Best Buy on Black Friday. On weekends it was even worse. There were at least seven holding cells along one long wall, always filled with noisy, usually malicious, often drunk members of society who you wouldn’t invite into your house. One cell was used for female prisoners who were transported to the women’s facility. The prisoners would get rowdy at times and they would incur the wrath of the real commander of the booking desk: The Key Man!

The Key Man carried a ring of cell keys that must have weighed ten pounds. He would walk along the cells, chatting with repeat offenders many of the jail staff knew by name and generally maintaining a semblance of order.

As Jim and I waited for the two detectives to move out of the way, the jail commander, Lieutenant Armstrong walked up and picked up their booking sheet.

“Key Man! Where’s the guy the Beach just brought in?”

“What guy?” said the Key Man, a big, strong African American who looked like he should play football for the Miami Dolphins. He walked over and said, “They didn’t bring in any guy.”

The two cops looked at each other in disbelief. We could see the panic in their eyes.

Lt. Armstrong straightened up and said, “Show me where you put the prisoner they brought in.”

The three of them followed the Key Man to the cell being used for the women prisoners. There were at least ten women in the cell.

The Key Man looked around the cell, even standing on his tip-toes as he tried to get a good view of the people in the cell. The women weren’t helping, doing their best to block his view.

“There,” he said, finally pointing to the wall bench in the back. “The one in the red dress.”

Working at the jail was never boring.

Stick Shift

 The day started like most others, except this morning I didn’t have to drive to my first call. I met Larry in the office parking garage in Coral Gables, just outside Miami. I didn’t even go inside the office. Larry asked if I could help diagnose a cantankerous communications controller in Key West, and he would drive the one hundred and sixty-five miles down to the end of US Highway One. All I had to do was sit and watch as our world transitioned from urban, glass ensconced canyons of corporate America to the dream world of white beaches and blue water that beckoned sun-starved visitors from all over the world. I didn’t even take my own tool case. I already had visions of a great pasta dinner at Mangia Mangia. Larry and his pristine, gloss-red Datsun 240Z, were famous across south Florida, from autocrosses and gymkhanas to concours d'elegance auto shows. If there was a display of Datsun sport cars, Larry’s car was sure to be there. I wouldn’t have turned down his request to ride to the Florida keys for love nor money. Well, maybe love.

Larry's other Z Car:  an IMSA GTU 240Z 

“You know, we’re not going to be alone down there today,” as he pulled into his favorite breakfast stop in Layton in the middle of Long Key two hours or so later. “Jimmy T. is doing a customer call down here with one of his guys, so maybe we can all meet for lunch or dinner.”

I called dispatch in Atlanta to find out if anybody else was headed for the Florida Keys. There were two other dispatches to the keys for different products. It would be impossible for one person to service the entire spectrum of IBM products and systems, so two specifically trained techs – not usually assigned to the keys – were enroute to both Islamorada and Marathon. An unusual day as the Florida Keys simply did not have that much IBM inventory. The whole Keys territory had one man assigned for typewriters and copiers, and another for everything else. We all decided to meet at Whale Harbor, in Islamorada, about half way back to the mainland, after we all wrapped up our calls. Mangia Mangia in Key West would have to wait for another day. So would lunch, as it turned out. A typical day with no lunch. It could have been snowing outside and we wouldn’t have noticed. When we finally wrapped up, it was late in the afternoon.

As we walked to Larry’s car at Boca Chica Naval Air Station, Stickshift tossed me the keys. I gave Larry that nickname back when we first met. It has stuck with him ever since. Larry knew I was also a sports car addict and had a German National Competition License while I was stationed in Germany. I raced amateur events and had done hill climbs with my Triumph GT-6. The chance to drive the famous, super-tuned Z-car the seventy-five miles from Boca Chica to Islamorada was a chance I wasn’t going to pass up. I adjusted the seat and the mirrors and the seat belts, and played cautiously with the gear shift. The engine fired up on the first touch of the key, and I glanced at Larry.

“Let me know if I do anything wrong,” I said.

“You’ll be the first to know if I bust your ass!” He laughed.

It didn’t take long to get the feel of the car. The steering was razor sharp and the handling was as balanced as it could be. Not only was it fast and stuck to the road as if it were on rails, but it had fantastic brakes to boot. I’ve driven powerful cars I wasn’t comfortable with, but Larry’s Z was perfect for me. This was a driver’s car. The first time I heeled and toed the car down through the gears, Larry laughed. “Can’t help yourself, can you?” He asked.

It came as naturally as breathing. It was that kind of car. I took it across the Bahia Honda Bridge without going under 110. It was absolutely at peace with the road. I came up on the back of a bright red TR-6 who thought he was speeding just we approached the Seven-Mile bridge. I came up on him quickly, he was probably doing 80 or so, but he had a tendency to use too much of the road for my taste, so I waited for him to make eye contact in his rear-view mirror before I passed him. His look of amazement as we went by was worth the trip. He was the only other car we saw for several miles, but I cooled it a little going across the iconic Seven Mile bridge. No speeding through Marathon, although maybe a little testy with a few of the locals. Back on the throttle headed toward Long Key.

I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant next to Jimmy T’s unmistakable, mustard-yellow 240 Z and reluctantly shut off the ignition. “I thank you sir,” I said as I handed Larry the keys.

“No problem, man, it was a fun ride,” he answered. “You know what you said to the guy in the Triumph?”

“Uh, no, was I rude?” I answered.

“You told him to crap or get off the pot!” he laughed. “The dude was in lala land, he had no idea we where there!”

We had drinks and the neckties were soon stuffed into pant’s pockets. Al, one of the other Miami CE's on call in the keys, pulled in about twenty minutes later and we ordered dinner. We were the last customers in the restaurant when we finally paid our tabs and slowly headed toward the parking lot. There had been a lot of teasing and taunting between Larry and Jimmy T while we drank and told car stories, especially about the ride up from Key West. Jimmy T’s 240 Z was pretty much stock, but he loved to rib Larry about how much Larry treasured his immaculate automobile. As we walked through the parking lot, I felt a curious air between the two Z-car owners. I knew this was serious. This was going to be a race.

Jimmy T pulled out first, and it was obvious he was just as serious as Larry was. The first ten miles back through Tavernier were cat and mouse, but Jimmy T was on his toes. He wouldn’t let Larry in front of him. Nothing Larry tried worked. Jimmy T kept his Z-car just far enough in front to maintain his advantage all the way to Key Largo where the highway opened up to a four lane, divided highway. Larry decided to back off and let Jimmy get comfortable. Larry drove as fast as he dared in the 55 mile per hour speed zone. For those who have never driven this stretch, it is one of the most highly monitored sections of the Keys. He was barely over the speed limit, trying not to draw attention as we kept inching toward Jimmy T’s odd colored sports car, cruising in the right lane of US Highway One just barely in front of us. It was a sweet, beautiful Florida night, and one of the few times the four-lane divided highway through Key Largo was empty of traffic. No one out after Midnight during the week. We had the Overseas Highway to ourselves.

The last several miles of monotonous, almost hypnotic driving along the dark, empty divided highway of north Key Largo seduced Jimmy T. He occasionally glanced at his passenger. I joked to Larry they weren’t talking about cars. We were approaching the gentle, left hand turn where the two lanes of northbound US 1 in Key Largo merge into a single lane, headed toward the drawbridge over Jewfish creek. Larry didn’t want to alert Jimmy T he was positioning for our one and only chance to pass him. If we were too early, he could have easily beat us to the apex of the curve. The gentle left curve, besides being a merge lane, also starts the beginning of a double yellow line that runs uninterrupted for the next several miles. A beautiful, empty road, late at night with perfect weather and visibility, and a once in a lifetime challenge. Nobody but us. How long will it take to get from Jewfish Creek to Florida City?

Jimmy T looked to his right toward the old Card Sound Round as we passed under the last traffic signal for the next twenty miles and I yelled “Go!" Larry downshifted to third gear and jammed the accelerator to the floor. The red Datsun 240 Z howled, and snapped my head back in the passenger’s seat. We screamed past Jimmy T, apexing the curve perfectly. Timing is everything and it was a perfect pass. There was no way short of Florida Highway Patrol intervention would Larry lift his right foot. Larry slammed into 4th, then 5th gear and I watched the speedometer hit 120 as we screamed across Lake Surprise headed toward the drawbridge over Jewfish creek. He did slow down a little as we rocketed across the metal grating on the bridge. Jimmy T was right on our rear bumper.

The first curve after the Jewfish Creek bridge was a super fast, left hand sweeper and Jimmy T’s headlights faded further and further behind. Larry lifted a little for the right-hander as we skirted Black Water Sound headed toward the bend just before the County Line Marina. Jimmy T’s headlights were immediately glaring in our fastback’s rear window. Once we were past the Marina entrance it was time to roll, and we did. Except for the Thiokol drawbridge. Larry considered the effect the metal grating would have, so he slowed down to 80 or 85 as we sped over it.

The last chance Jimmy T had to pass us was just after the bridge where the highway opened up to what was known as a suicide street, one of those wicked, three lane abominations that were designed to kill people, but the only thing in sight was the distant glare of Florida City on the horizon. Larry never lifted his foot again. The six cylinder engine was mechanical perfection. The sound of almost seven thousand RPM proved all was in harmony. Every time I looked at the Speedometer it was between 120 and 125. There were no other cars on the road. Not even one. Jimmy T faded further and further back. He wasn’t going to catch us.

We pulled into the Last Chance Saloon parking lot in Florida City just under ten minutes after we crossed the Jewfish Creek bridge. A touch over 19 miles for an average speed of a little over 115mph. We got the famous middle finger salute and a big grin from Jimmy T. His terrified passenger looked liked he had been embalmed.

Satire - We Don’t Sell That Here

I walked out of the store, frustrated yet once again. No matter where I went, the salespeople had no idea what I wanted. “Why would you want to put polish on your shoes?” was a common response. When I answered to make them shiny, most just stared at me, although one young woman actually laughed.

“Dude, you’re wearing running shoes. Why would you want them to be shiny?” She asked. I started to answer, but she had already tapped her phone so I simply turned and walked away.

Maybe that’s the reason most men in southwest Florida wear dress shoes that look like they were worn while cutting down invasive pepper trees or wrestling alligators. Men here simply don’t need shiny shoes. I noticed it from my first meeting with the business owners in Port Charlotte over twenty years ago. The men simply didn’t shine their shoes. I interfaced with the county government for a while as well, and noticed the same phenomena. From department heads to county commissioners, shoes were obviously not a conscious choice when dressing for work or meetings. Insurance agents, realtors, even the media people I met wore shoes that appeared to have never been shined. Weather forecasters and news anchors on television, anyone shown standing, wore shoes that looked like they had been worn for a long, long time.

I began to get self-conscious. I quit shining my dress shoes and began leaving them on the back porch in an attempt to “age” them so perhaps no one would notice I wasn’t from around here. It was a new, uncomfortable time for me, having been a fanatic for shined shoes ever since I had been a cadet in the Civil Air Patrol back when I was fifteen. I was a member of our squadron’s drill team, competing in National Drill Competition in New York City’s Rockefeller Plaza. Believe me, our shoes shined. They were “spit shined,” a lengthy, tedious process reminiscent of the “waxa on, waxa off” shtick from an adolescent karate movie. I would use all of my mother’s five-day deodorant pads to lock in the fantastic shine once I thought the mirror-glaze would pass inspection, a habit I kept through eight years of serving in the Air Force. I joined the business world after returning home, joining a company famous for its black, wing tip oxfords. My shoes fit right in until I finally retired and moved to Florida’s southwest coast.

The answer of course, was to wear walking shoes, made mostly of colored fabric with rubber soles. I decided once I quit wearing a tie, I would dress down permanently. “Casual Friday” would be my standard for years. But then, maybe my decision was subliminal actualization. Maybe, somehow, I instinctively knew they don’t sell shoe polish here.

My old, brown loafers will just have to wait until I find some of that strange stuff on Amazon. I hope it gets here before we go out of town.

Flavors

I drifted away from our monthly writer's group discussion about people hearing things differently than a writer intended. I didn't physically leave, of course, but I may as well have been on Mars. My memory rudely inserted the anxiety I felt once when I impulsively spent eight hundred dollars on stereo equipment that I certainly didn't need. I was as detached from the writer's meeting as if I had fallen asleep. For some odd reason, my muse wasn't interested in the writing being reviewed, and some oral comment or critique I heard during the meeting shut down my normal brain function and I was suddenly in my own world, my mind vividly filled with apprehension from the unexpected - and quite rudely inserted - memory from years ago. My muse had abandoned me.

Memory has a way of being kind, or at least kinder than reality, and the excitement of having two close friends stop by after work to listen to my new, expensive, pride and joy speakers gradually slipped in to displace the anxiety I felt when I spent over a month's take-home pay on a whim. Back then, our stereos were the pinnacle of home entertainment back when direct-drive turntables, cobra-style tonearms and Shure V-15 type 3 cartridges were the mark of excellence in personal taste and audiophile distinction.

The purchase of the stereo components I had dreamed of for years - a pair of JBL Century 100 speakers - didn't come from our meager budget, but from an unexpected financial windfall that was the benefit from a brutal stretch of overtime work that upset our family routine and even affected our relationship. I was rarely home during that miserable period, working sixteen hour days and even once spent twenty-four hours, without interruption – not even for food – on one service call. When I received my first large overtime check, I splurged on the JBL speakers that I still have.  My wife supported my desire to buy the speakers as a just reward for both of us enduring the tumultuous time.

I carefully “balanced” the new speakers per the instructions I saved from Stereo Magazine, measuring the distance between the speakers, taking into consideration the drapes and carpet, and listening to professionally mastered records that carefully reproduced the exotic sounds required to adjust my Marantz 200 watt stereo receiver to the new, space dominating speakers.

Paul stopped by first, parking his custom-turbocharged Datsun 280Z in the driveway. Money was no object to Paul in his quest for perfection, and his taste in stereo sound was impeccable.

“Hmm,” he said, standing dead center between the speakers. “Try Allan Parson’s Pyramid. That’s a great one to test with.”

I carefully played the first cut on the “A” side, then waited for Paul’s profound analysis.

“They sound really, really good, George, but you need to crank up the bass a little. The sound just isn’t full enough.”

After Paul left, my wife – who thought the settings were perfect – asked if I was going to change the bass settings.

“No,” I replied. “I think it sounds great the way it is.”

Not twenty minutes after Paul left, Bob pulled up. Bob was another single friend who was also a renowned audiophile. His LP collection was stunning in its own right. I respected Bob’s opinion as highly as I regarded Paul’s.

Standing in the very same spot Paul had stood an hour earlier, listening to the same Alan Parson’s album, at exactly the same volume and adjustment, Bob quietly pondered the music.

“Well, George, they really, really sound great, but there’s way too much bass. They sound ‘boomy’.”

The room slowly came back into focus and I once again heard voices discussing the merits of something or other. Someone’s writing was still being discussed. I carefully glanced around the room. The moderator was telling a new group member to take critiques with a grain of salt as everyone hears things differently. No two people interpret the same thing the same way.

I couldn’t help think how true. And not with just writing.

George

I posted a blog for the Sarasota Writers Group back in 2014 that I recently updated and "tuned."  I hadn't posted it on my own blog before, so I decided to post the updated version here.

George

Dirty Secrets of a Writers Group

As George Collias reminds us from Earnest Hemingway: "Write drunk, edit sober,"

Or was it Dylan Thomas? I don't remember.

Thinking of writing that book that has been buzzing in your head, but don't know where to start? Google "Writing your first book" and you'll find around 690,000,000 hits, some of which may even be useful. Helping new writers is big, big business.

You may come across the suggestion to join a writers group. Helping writers of all ages and genres is a basic premise of most writer's groups, many of which are listed in the Arts and Entertainment section of your Sunday newspaper. Internet searches show local writers groups and most public libraries can usually point you to a writers group in your area as well. Writers groups usually welcome new writers with enthusiasm and understanding, they are glad to see you taking that first step.

While you will welcomed by the members of a writers group, do not expect them – almost all of whom have other day jobs – to dedicate their priceless time at a writers group meeting just for you, at least not more than once. Almost everyone in a writers group will help a new writer as best they can, from writing and editing, to proofreading and suggestions about publication. A new member may even find a mentor who will take them under their wing. However, if you are looking for free editing for your book or novel, you're wasting their time and yours as well.

Writers groups vary in their format, with some groups welcoming all writing while others are designed for a specific genre such as poetry or novels or non-fiction narrative. Don't expect in-depth discussion of your historical fiction novel at a poetry writers group. A good writers group will help define the writing process and help develop the mechanical and technical skills that allows new writers express themselves while understanding most writers do not have a bachelor's degree in English or a Masters in Fine Arts.

Writers Groups Are Not A Substitute For English Class

I was once told a writer who doesn't have a grasp of grammar is like a color-blind person trying to paint a portrait. If you are offended when someone points out spelling errors in your manuscript, or your grammar is horrendous, you might want to try something besides writing, Unless, of course, you have a really great friend who likes to edit. A good dictionary will do wonders for your acceptance in a writers group. If you don't bother with spell checking, you're off to a bad start unless you are a really gifted story-teller. You don't have to be a great typist to be a writer. A few writers I know still write in longhand and have someone else transcribe their work. Often that typist is also an editor of some sort.

I’ve found several writers groups that minutely dissect pre-submitted writings. Each group member gives his or her critique, allowing the writer the final few minutes to defend or explain their writing. I’ve found the defense is usually embarrassing or frustrating for the writer, who almost always thanks the group for their honest opinions, then never show up again. I find these meetings offer little in the way of inspiration or encouragement. William K. Zinsser, in the introduction to the 7th edition of his revised and updated "On Writing Well" writes: "My concerns as a teacher have also shifted. I'm more interested in the intangibles that produce good writing – confidence, enjoyment, intention, integrity – and I've written new chapters on those values."

Writers Groups Are Not A Substitute For Professional Counseling

There isn't much sympathy in most writer's groups for personal or political vendettas, e.g., it was all his/her fault and the world needs to know what a bad person he/she really is and you all are going to sit here while I read chapter after chapter of this agonizing diatribe. Many writers get that personal story off their chests and find they don't have a second book in them, which leads to the question; Why do you want to write? Are you telling a story? A personal memoir or an autobiography? Are you planning on making a fortune writing? Well, good luck, I know hundreds of writers but only a few who call it a profession. So, whom are you writing for? Who is your target audience?

If you are writing an autobiography, which is the usual genre for new writers, there are only two scenarios for your looming masterpiece: A; You are already famous and people may actually buy the autobiography, or, B; You are just like the rest of us and nobody cares. If you fall into the first category, you probably don't need a writers group, your book will probably grabbed by a publishing house. If you fall into the second category, however, the writers group probably doesn't want to read it. They’ll help you write it, and they’ll do their best to encourage you, but don’t expect to impress a seasoned group of writers enough to make them want to hear all your details. You may find even your relatives won't read your manuscript. They will tell you they will read it when they get a chance, but they won't, although they may skim through it to see what you wrote about them.

The best advice for new writers is to finish your autobiography and put it on a thumb-drive. Put it away until you're famous and can update it. Now sit down and write for fun, write because you enjoy writing. Write because you have a story to tell, you know, the one you have been thinking about for years. Then bring it to a writers group and read it out loud in front of people you don't know. New writers are often cloaked by intimidation or insecurities as they venture into an unfamiliar world that glaringly exposes their shortcomings and lack of experience. That bravado usually crumbles quickly in front of a writers group. You may want at least a warm, comfortable feeling with the group before exposing your soul, but when you do read in front of a writer’s group read only enough to make them want to hear more.

Many writers will at one time or another inadvertently revert to writing about personal experiences. The memories are often painful and unexpectedly personal. Writing is often cathartic, especially for new writers. While an insensitive writer's group might dampen a new writer's candid honesty, most members understand the self-discovery process. Shared experiences can become part of the camaraderie of a writers group, but don't overdo it. Constant repetition of personal problems is a sure way to shut off a receptive group of listeners anywhere, much less a writers group.

Make Them Beg For More, Not Mercy

I had the pleasure of watching members develop and grow into marvelously entertaining writers during the several years I was the Sarasota Writers Group Leader for the Florida Writers Association. However, I've also watched people attend several meetings, then drop off, either discouraged or disappointed in what they found, or in some cases, what they didn't find.

I have been asked what the difference is between a writer and an author. I've been told that authors have published books. I argue many books by celebrity authors are actually written by ghost writers. To me, an author is the visionary or creator of an idea to be conveyed, while the writer is the conveyor of that vision or concept to print. It follows that most authors are writers. A writer may do journals, blogs, newspaper columns, or magazine articles or any other form of written communication. A writer to me is someone who puts words into print to convey thought.

­You are displaying your descriptive powers, or your wit, to a group of like minded individuals asking for their response. There isn't enough time at any meeting to listen to more than five hundred words or several pages of material from any one writer unless it is a special writing. It only takes several hundred words to appreciate a writing style or the dialog between characters. Listening to someone read page after page of their own work can be like listening to a children’s violin recital.

I have watched people join our writer's group and grow beyond their expectations, and conversely, I've seen talented writers drop by the wayside, discouraged or disappointed with their work. Many new writers take critique of their writing as criticism, and unfortunately, depending on the critiquer, sometimes it is. A new writer must be thick-skinned when submitting work for critiquing, but at the same time be open to change if the criticism is valid. Being poorly critiqued has probably discouraged more aspiring authors than any other single factor. Most critiques I've read are given in good faith, meant to improve the caliber of the work under review. Unfortunately, critiques are a direct reflection of the talents and skills of the critiquer. I've seen great writing attacked because the critiquer was simply repulsed by the subject. It is often hard for those who aren't professional editors to separate the stimulus to an emotional response from the writing that triggered it.

Often religious or political viewpoints become the focus of the critique instead of the writing itself. Novels in the sexual realms tend to be fire-starters. I can only imagine what kind of responses E L James would have gotten with her Fifty Shades of Grey from most writers groups I’m familiar with. The book, in my opinion, could have used the help of a good writers group. Sir Salman Rushdie said about the book: "I've never read anything so badly written that got published." I doubt James would have abandoned her book because of a bad writers group critique, but good critique could have definitely have helped the quality of her writing. The fine line is critiquing the quality of the writing itself as opposed reacting to the emotionally charged nature of the subject.

Critiques are often ego based, or subconsciously prejudiced, and those are deadly to a new writer. I can read anonymous critiques from members of our group and tell who wrote it by the style of the critique. Alan Sherman wrote a parody of Peter and the Wolf, performed by the Boston Pops Symphony Orchestra, and one line from the work has stuck with me since I heard it almost fifty years ago: "A camel is a horse designed by a committee." That's exactly what happens when several critiques vary in their assessment of a given work. The writer being critiqued doesn't know which way to go or which path to follow to improve their writing. I was once critiqued for using too many adjectives in a manuscript while another critiquer in the same group said the writing was bland and needed better descriptions. One friend attends several writers groups, and much to his dismay, can't satisfy any two of them with any one piece of writing. One group felt a narrative he wrote was flippant, distasteful, childish, while the other group thoroughly enjoyed the same piece of work.

Writers Groups Are Basically Mutual Admiration Societies

If you read in front of the group, be polite enough to listen to others who read their material. After all, they were polite enough to listen to you. If you head for the door as soon as you're finished reading, don't expect the welcome mat to be out when you return.

Don't let your speaking style detract from your writing. If you sound like you're reading the telephone book when you are reading Steinbeck out loud, have someone else to read your material to the group. We have a regular member who is in demand to read other people's work. Her interpretation and inflection when reading makes even the aforementioned telephone book a pleasure to listen to. I recently read a member's final proof and was astounded to find I was intrigued by the book as I had a hard time following it during the readings. Every reader embeds their own images and emotions on the material they read, which may be quite different from someone else’s interpretation, even the author’s intent. Don't expect an audience to cheer your first attempt at explaining how you developed nuclear fission if you, like me, read out loud like Elmer Fudd. Get a good speaker, or hand out enough printed copies so your audience can read for themselves.

I've attended writers groups that follow a specific reading and critiquing format almost religiously, often intent on developing writers in a competitive environment such as winning awards for the group members. Other groups tend to mix up the readings with presentations from outside guests, from published authors to publishers and editors while critiquing is done separately from the meetings. Comments are almost always called for after a reading so a writer has immediate feedback on their work. Every group is different in its makeup and purpose and rarely are there any fees associated with writers groups. If the group you visit doesn't offer the education or experiences you are looking for, try another group.

You Can't Please All Readers

I have one piece of advice for new writers: It is your story and you are the one telling it! Write it your way and let your writing reflect your heart and your soul. You are the artist and this is your medium. I like my own writing, I can read it for hours and I'm sure you can read your own writing for hours as well. Bring it to the next writer's group meeting, well, five hundred words of it at least, and see if others hear it as you meant it. Don't be discouraged if the group you meet doesn't like your writing. Take the criticism and find another group and see if they accept your style and content. Arthur Godfrey once famously said, "Some people just don't like ice cream." As long as you please those you are writing for, you are by my standards a successful writer.

My favorite group likes vanilla, pistachio, chocolate, and just about every other flavor of ice cream, but every once in a while, someone brings in a delicious upside-down cake instead.

George

Wingtips

“Hon, do you have good black dress shoes?” my wife asked as we packed for our trip north for our granddaughter’s chain of social events. 

May has become more than just the climax of the academic season, wrapping up not only the scholastic year, but dance classes, chorus, music lessons, and just about every other after school activity a student can be enrolled in. This year was even more special with our granddaughter’s communion, so it was time to dry-clean suits and dig out the old shoes I haven’t worn in years.

“Sure,” I replied, “I still have my old wingtips from when I left IBM. Let me dig them out, they're in a closet somewhere.” I tossed out my last pair of black loafers, my semi-official footwear for formal events here in Florida, a couple of months ago.

As I pulled out my comfortable old friends from the back of my closet where they had resided under assorted bags and boxes, I suddenly faced my own mortality. No longer the spit-shined, combat boots of corporate America, they were now sadly distressed, forlorn, shockingly aged almost beyond recognition. They were far removed from being the forefront of the uniform of confidence and determination I remembered when I placed them there over twenty years ago. I naively thought they could be pulled out at any time and once again be worn with the distinction and authority they once held in the arena of interpersonal combat in the world of corporate America.

I stared at the faded, cracked shoe leather. Pieces of the polished leather had peeled off, exposing the vulnerable, soft under-skin of the shoes I had worn so many times. I turned the shoes over, the soles were as good as new. I had replaced the soles twice in the wingtip’s lifetime and the soles were still ready. Ready to stride confidently into a customer’s meeting or a region seminar. The uppers however, were like me; no longer ready to stand in front of a crowd from behind a podium or stand toe to toe with a competitor.

I had placed them in the back of my closet, complete with wooden shoe trees in them to keep their shape back when I retired. They were highly polished the last time I saw them, ready to be put into service at a moment’s notice. They had spent the last quarter century in retirement, but they were no longer serviceable. My old standbys, my stalwart support in the face of perils that could not intimidate them, unfortunately could not answer the call to duty. 

I couldn’t help but be nostalgic as I stood there looking at my past, the memories of a quarter of a century ago. I carefully carried them out into the garage and as one last gesture, photographed them. Then they went into the trash.

I walked back into the house. “Hey, Hon, we’ve got to go shopping. I need new black shoes.”

But the new ones won’t be wingtips. They may not even have laces. A pair of nice slip-ons will do nicely.