Doors and Hinges: Part One

 I have just finished reading the last of Thomas Cahill's six volume work entitled, "The Hinges of History."  He describes his purpose as "...a recounting of those essential moments when everything was at stake, when the mighty stream that became Western history was in ultimate danger and might have divided into a hundred useless tributaries or frozen in death or evaporated altogether. But the great gift-givers, arriving at the moment of crisis, provided for transition, for transformation, and even for transfiguration, leaving us a world more varied and complex, more awesome and delightful, more beautiful and strong than the one they had found."

That set me to thinking about the great gift-givers in my life, and serendipitous little moments, that changed its course, that time and again set my feet on a path I would never have imagined, one that ultimately led to a destination beyond imagining given the point from which my journey began.  So, if you are of a mind, set out with me.  Along the way I will recount events that in retrospect seemed either fated or even miraculous; and introduce the remarkable people who bet on me, took pity on me, rescued me and pushed me up ladders whose first rungs I could hardly reach.

The first act in this drama--well, blog, but hey, it's my life so humor me–is set in a little red brick building that housed the post office of Oakland, Mississippi, population 1,500 (the number on the incorporation sign marking the city limits announced the number of its citizens as 500, but in 1954 the 1,000 black folks weren't considered citizens).  This deeply segregated community was home to me, my mother, my year-older sister and six-year younger brother whenever my Army father was away on a non-accompanied assignment.  We lived in a, how shall I say, very modest wood house about a mile from town, which brings me to the point of this stage-setting: somebody had to walk that mile and back to the post office every day to check on the mail and that somebody was me. 

A summer morning in 1954 found me waiting for the mail to be put up, spending time checking for any new posters on the walls, especially the eagerly awaited FBI 10 Most Wanted List. Then my eye caught a new posting, depicting a stalwart young lad clad in a blue uniform saluting the American flag as an airplane flew overhead.  Blazoned across the bottom were the words, "Come to the Air Force Academy".  Some unknown Air Force public information officer had done his work; if I had looked at that poster a bit harder for a bit longer I might have seen it for what it was: the door to the rest of my life.  Peering closer,  I might have seen that it lacked hinges.  But for the moment, this brief encounter receded into the deep recesses of my memory.

Come the fall of 1956, I was starting my senior year in high school in Arlington, Virginia, home to the Pentagon where my father had been assigned after his return from Korea a year earlier.  Hearing my classmates chatter excitedly about their college applications, I asked my dad about my prospects.  He said, "Son, let me explain the economic facts of life in this family. Your sister's college tuition is eating up every dime of our extra income. Sorry, but you will have to find a scholarship or join the Army like I had to when the depression hit."

Memory of that poster came flooding back like a tsunami.  Without thinking, I blurted out, "I want to go to the Air Force Academy."  My father thought I meant West Point but I stammered about the poster.  After confirming that such an Academy did exist and had admitted its first class in the fall of 1955, he reached out to our Senator who agreed to nominate me for the third class. Shortly thereafter, I received a letter scheduling me for an entrance examination in early 1957.  For the first time, I began to imagine myself as that young lad in the poster, saluting the flag and picturing himself flying the airplane overhead.

Taking the entrance examination turned out to be a mouthful (hang on to that last word).  For the first several class years, qualification testing took an entire week, covering a vast array of Air Force concerns: intelligence (my gene pool served me well here); several academic disciplines (my two years of Agriculture in Mississippi were no help); vocabulary (I had never heard the word, "tutu"); a battery of psychological tests (I found them pretty puzzling); and finally, physical prowess (here is where today's story begins).

I reported to Bolling Air Force Base, just south of Washington, D.C., at eight o'clock on a Monday morning in mid-January, 1957.  I was, how should I say, very slight at 5 feet 6 inches and just north of 110 pounds in a rain storm.  I had worked hard to improve my physique, including a lot of running and three workouts a week with a set of Charles Atlas weights.  However, as I surveyed the other three hundred or so candidates gathered in the waiting area, they all kind of looked like Charles Atlas.  My spirits sagged as we lined up for an initial battery of tests to ensure we met the rigorous physical standards we had to meet in order to become Air Force pilots.

We were lined up alphabetically, so my name was called early on.  When I stepped on the scale, the young airman taking the height and weight measurements said, "Height within standards, weight five pounds under standard". The doctor recording his comments closed my application folder and unceremoniously dropped it in the trash can. I had not even made it out of the starting blocks.

As my short life flashed before my eyes, I did the only thing I could think of:  I got down on one knee and pleaded with the doctor for another opportunity at the end of the week.  He smiled and said, "Young man, I'll bet that you have never gained five pounds in a week in your life."  I said, "Sir, if you give me a chance, I'll bet that I can make this the first time." 

He must have gotten a wink from the angel sitting on my shoulder because he dipped into the trash can for my file and set it on the corner of his desk.  He told me to come back after my last test on Friday morning and he would weigh me again.  A first small hinge on the very large door to my future was put in place--at least temporarily.

I asked the young airman where I could find a phone and he told me to use the one on his desk in the outer office. I called my father and told him my predicament.  He had an immediate answer: "Go to the mess hall, tell the Mess Sergeant that you are Sergeant Butler's son and you need to put on five pounds by Friday noon." I don't know why he called himself a sergeant.  Although he wore that rank for many years, that was long since and my dad had retired as a colonel.  I guess he had his reasons, but no matter now, although I did have to ask, "How will I know who is the Mess Sergeant if there are a lot of people?" "Don't worry," he said, "you'll know when you see him."

The minute I saw the well fed NCO in a well worn apron I understood what my father had told me.  After listening to my plight, he went to his kitchen and returned bearing a plate piled high with mashed potatoes he was making for the lunch hour (now you see why I flagged the word "mouthful"). He told me to eat my fill and come back every minute I could spare from my testing so he could fatten me up.  Another gift-giver had appeared with another crucial hinge.

But the portal to my future was not to be so easily swung: this would be the best of weeks and the worst of weeks.  As the days crawled by, my weight crept higher.  I took one test after another, ate voluminously, slept fitfully and weighed myself at every opportunity, as if just stepping on the scale would help me gain weight.  

The numbers did inch higher.  After a huge breakfast on Friday morning, the needle hovered exactly over what I would require...in two hours.  In the meantime, I had one last hurdle to clear: the physical tests I had worked so hard to prepare for.

For an hour, in a sweltering gym with several hundred other sweating bodies, I did calisthenics, push-ups, situps, medicine ball throws and a 600-yard shuttle run.  After a quick shower, I was back in the doctor's office promptly at ten o'clock and stepped on the scale.  The same young airman who had weighed me on Monday intoned, "He is still two pounds light."  The doctor complimented me for having gained three pounds but reaffirmed that he could not sign my application.  Back into the trash it went.

The assistant and I went back into the outer office where he took a seat at his desk and I pretty much collapsed onto a nearby couch, tears coming down my cheek.  Seeing my distress, he asked why failing the physical was such a big deal to me. After all, many other candidates had not passed.  I choked out something about no money for college and having to join the Army which I desperately did not want to do.

Without explanation, he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a quarter, gave it to me and told me to go down the hall to the clinic food outlet and buy a quart of chocolate milk.  I was completely unaware of what he was getting at but in my dazed condition I just did what he asked. When I got back I gave him the milk, but he gave it back to me.  Realizing I was absolutely clueless, he said, "It's not for me. It's for you. Drink it. It weighs two pounds."

He was right. When the puzzled doctor agreed to his assistant's firm request that he weigh again, not 15 minutes later, I was spot on. Out of the trash came the well traveled application folder, the doctor signed his name and four months later I received a letter informing me the Air Force liked what they saw.  A third hinge was now securely in place, the door with my name on it swung wide open and I began a very long journey, one that would bring me to, well, the end of this blog.

This is the point where Brett and Patti would ask what I make of all this.  I answered that question for myself many years ago when I became mature enough to ask it.  Why would these three people, a learned doctor, a rumpled sergeant, and an airman about my age respond to my plea for help?  It was certainly not my charm or charisma, which I would peg at absolute zero.  Mine was a plea from a stranger, someone they would likely never see again. None of them needed to help.  All of them could have been forgiven had they not. They were busy people who had no need to take heed of me. And yet they did.

What a simple but powerful. prescription: they listened, they  cared, and they responded.  Is there any better guide to how we might live our lives?  Sounds like something that might be stamped in gold.

Until next time.  Perhaps we shall  talk about more Doors...and Hinges in the weeks to come.