Joseph James McCulla

Joseph was born Oakdale PA to George and Anna Mikula on September 5, 1930. He went to school at MMI Prep in Freeland, PA and Pennsylvania State University, graduating in 1948 and 1952 respectively, He married Marilyn George McCulla on September 4, 1954 in Hazelton, PA. Marilyn predeceased him in 2004. He retired from Chase Manhattan Bank as a Vice President in 1987 after 34 years. He was a veteran of the Korean War and served as a Ranger in the Army. He served as a board member of the YMCA in Somerville, NJ and was a founder and Scoutmaster of Boy Scout Troop 146 of Martinsville, NJ and chief of an Indian Guides tribe in Somerset, NJ.

Joseph is preceded in death by his wife, Marilyn, and his sisters Anna, Helen, Margaret, Mary, Elizabeth, and Dorothy and his companion, Joyce Ariyan.

Joseph is survived by his three sons James and his wife Susan of Vero Beach, FL, David and his wife Lisa of New Hope, PA and Gary and his wife Christine of Jupiter, FL. He has seven grandchildren – granddaughters Kristin, Kimberly, Kylie, Ali, Lindsey, Callan, Alexa, and grandson Tyler. He had four great grandchildren – Chloe, Hudson, Jack and Connor.

The family will conduct a celebration of life at a later date.

The family of Joseph wishes to extend our sincere thanks to his aide Vanillin and doctors Parikh and Blum of Broward Health for the care they provided our father in his later years.

In lieu of flowers contributions may be made to MMI Prep 154 center street Freeland Pa 18224.

MY GOOD LIFE

Why am I writing all this stuff? Part of the answer might be manifest in the fact that I am now an advanced octogenarian with eye on the clock-- and just might enjoy this scripted reminiscence. For my family, it might provide a tiny history lesson and afford an opportunity to maybe laugh a little while contrasting conditions that existed in my lifetime with those of their own experiences. Being of advanced maturity offers the unique advantage of having fewer and fewer people to challenge one’s word and it presents a tempting opportunity for embellishment, which I would never never engage in! The tale that will be submitted in the upcoming pages is my story, from a kid looking for “good stuff” at the town dump in Freeland, Pennsylvania, to playing golf with the great Arnold Palmer (six times), and sipping Jordan Cabernet Sauvignon at thirty thousand feet with David Rockefeller aboard his brand new Grumman 2 on a Sunday night flight to Los Angeles. All things considered, one might possibly conclude that I’ve had a pretty good bite of the apple!

I soooo---- wish I could say it like Frank Sinatra -- “I did It my way” but that would violate my no embellishment pledge. There were so many wonderful people in my life who loved me , supported me, helped me, encouraged me ---it is impossible for me to write down all their names----from my Mom and Pop, my wife Marilyn, my very dear late friend Joyce , my high school principal, my sisters, my children and many others. They all contributed so much to the good things and the successes I’ve experienced on my life’s journey–--the bad parts, the many blunders, the mistakes, and the failures –well-- “I did that my way”

What follows might be viewed as a bit too much “I - me stuff” but there is simply no other way to put forth this little saga of my life . I really would like to tell you that I was born in a log cabin that I built by myself---but that might undermine my credibility just a little. On with the show!

THE EARLY DAYS

I arrived on September 5, 1930 ---just a few short days after the last remaining dinosaur from the Mesozoic age limped out of town. Brought forth into this life by my wonderful mother with the assistance of a mid-wife , in a tiny house owned by the Jeddo Highland Coal Company---lighted by kerosene lamps, in the little mining town of Oakdale, Pennsylvania. Bathroom facilities were conveniently located a few short steps from the house and could easily been found in the darkest of nights by simply following one’s nose—if you know what I mean. The mid-wife assisting the birth was a real—honest- to- God, “witch” in the true sense of the word. (Maybe thats’ why I so love Halloween.) More of this witch stuff will follow in another chapter. A humble beginning indeed for yours truly --- maybe, but not like my Dad.

Pop, as I always addressed him, was born 1891 in the tiny village of Bzany in eastern Czechoslovakia, now Slovakia. His home was a simple abode with a dirt floor. Half of the living space was set aside for the farm animals and the other half was for the family. This he told me, and years later when I visited his birth- place, I saw the real thing. I know so little about Pop’s family—he had a - sister Helen, and a brother—I think! His father’s name was Theodore, his mother’s name I do not know. How sad! At the age of sixteen he kissed his mommy good-by and commenced his solo journey to America where the streets were paved with gold. I’ve been told by a number of my father’s peers that this was really what people believed. How he traversed the long axis of Czechoslovakia in those early days will forever remain a mystery. Years later when I visited the place of his birth, I too made the same long and lonely trip. The conditions, of course, were somewhat different—I was riding in a big air--conditioned Audi.

I must add a little something here about Pop. His entire formal education was a full TWO years long! This was his preparation for the solo journey to America-- with all his worldly possessions in a bag --at the age of sixteen. I just cannot imagine what accommodations were like on that boat ride to America at around the turn of the century. Was he a success in life? I think he was , because in (about) 1934 when the U S unemployment rate was hovering around twenty five percent, this coal miner bought a house in Freeland Pa for twelve hundred dollars (cash) which was sold shortly after his death for thirty five thousand dollars. Donald Trump step back and doff your cap! -----and by the way he was raising seven kids at the same time-----piece of cake!! Can you imagine what he might accomplished if he had THREE years of formal education? I am proud of my father!

My father’s name -George Mikula/Mikulka- is now engraved on the Wall Of Honor at Ellis Island, a small tribute to a boy/man of such endurance and courage.

Although she was born in America , Mom’s family also came from Bzany---all her family members are now gone (as 2014) with the exception of myself and a cousin Tommy Lavinka—the son of Helen and Andrew Lavinka. Recently learned that Tommy too, is now gone.

A KID GROWING UP

I lived in Oakdale until the tender age of four before the family moved to Freeland. Oakdale was a tiny “patch town” community of about forty homes owned by the Jeddo Highland Coal Company situated along Route 940, half-way between Hazleton and Freeland. All the houses in Oakdale were rented out to coal miner families who worked at the Jeddo number four mine. The mine entrance was located within walking distance. Other than the coal mine, the only other salient feature of this town was the “Company Store” which inventoried miners clothing and boots, Hercules dynamite, carbide for carbide lamps, kerosene, and some other household items. Every-day food came from the family’s garden, milk from the cow in residence , chicken and eggs from the flock, and meat purchased from the Jeddo Butcher who peddled through the town on a weekly basis vending fresh cuts of beef and pork , scrapple, Jeddo Pudding (a type of gray sausage} made from---whatever!. The arrival of the Jeddo Butcher was preceded by the clanging of a hand- held school bell. I cannot vouch for the accuracy of this information because I was quite young at the time –all of this was passed along to me by family members.

Sometime during 1934 (I think) the family moved to Freeland. Let me now tell you about Freeland. Population --- a melting pot of about eight thousand souls of assorted ethnicity - Irish, Slovak, Polish, Italian, Jew, and Protestant. There were no atheists---at least none who went to our church. All were proud of their lineage—and had one thing in common; they did not look favorably upon interethnic marriages. This however would change (a little) with the passage of time. The town was unique in its diversity –how so? To begin , the town had fourteen churches , forty eight bars , most of which were unlicensed , three grammar schools , four high schools , an abandoned opera house , three movies , a factory we called a silk mill , a brewery , an overall factory , and a wooden fenced- in athletic field .----Tigers Field . Freeland also boasted a real jail and a police force of three—including my uncle Andy Lavinka, who would one day hold the office of mayor. In addition to the above listed facilities the town had a nifty pool room where young lads like me learned all about life including---yes--- dare I mention it---sex. Some of this stuff I could not really believe—it was not possible that my mother and father would ever engage in something-------I’m not going into that! The pool room was on the main drag at the center of town. When patrons were not engaged in the indoor pool room activities of shooting pool, playing the slots, card playing upstairs for nickels and dimes, crap shooting, spitting on the floor, or bowling, they would perch on the front steps and ogle the girls passing by. One might ask how such a renowned town cultural center could be the repository of two slot machines. WHAT---slot machines—thats’ illegal—correct. — The way it worked -- the slots were immediately locked up in their metal cabinet when the state police were about to conduct a raid. How did that work? Protocol required prior notification of the raid to the local cops and my uncle Andy was a local cop ---so go ahead, work on it--- and connect the dots. The same protocol was in place for raids on local saloons which were unlawfully open on Sunday, or were selling beer to minors. Freeland was an epicenter of free enterprise, capitalism , diversity of religion and ethnicity, a very low crime rate, ---with local government in full “control”.

ELEMENTARY EDUCATION

My formal education began at the Foster Township grammar school. The school building was a drafty old edifice staffed with mostly old maid Irish instructors possessing some- kind of teaching certificates. They were all very poor teachers—and what they turned out was poor students—and that included yours truly. (How could they possibly have turned out a future vice president of a world- renowned banking institution?) Stay tuned!

My first day of school was memorable indeed. We assembled in Miss Martin’s first grade class- room— all the kids were crying their eyes out--- I held out –but did come very close to breaking down. I can still see that class- room. It had white chalk- embedded slate blackboards upon which was written the entire alphabet in capital as well as small letters---my God! was I going have to learn all that stuff—I’ll never make it! For the next eight years I toiled away at the monumental challenges before me. This was not all we did in the ensuing eight-year period. Each morning we recited the Lord’s Prayer, saluted the flag and sang songs like The National Anthem and some of Steven Foster’s goodies like Old Black Joe. (gone are the days when my heart was young and gay etc etc ) We then we went about learning the Palmer Method of writing. Everyone had long scratchy pens with metal points and there was an ink well in every desk. The girls were pretty good at writing with ink pens---but the boys---forget it! After writing practice, we would commence learning history. This was taught by having each child read a few sentences then moving on to the next kid in line. Could it possibly get any better than this! Yes. We also studied mathematics--- the times tables--you know 2x2=4 2x3=6 2x4=8 --- there is more to it but I’ve forgotten how the rest of it goes. English in the grammar school years -- I learned absolutely nothing –nada--- zippo! It was all a complete mystery to me -----later when I entered high school we began the study of Latin , and the teacher was talking about nouns , verbs , diagraming sentences , subjects and predicates ----I thought that I was on another planet .I had no idea of what they were talking about --- and in a different language .This was as bad as learning all those letters of the alphabet on the black board in Miss Martins first grade classroom. There is little doubt I had missed something at the Foster Township grammar school. Perhaps I was napping!

Two of my classmates in the following eight years of grammar school were Koko Mike and Bakesy Beam. They were really weirdoes. Koko Mike sucked the top of his left hand constantly and made noises like he was shooting a machine gun. Bakesy was a big kid and really dumb—he could barely speak! May God please forgive me for my cruel and crude characterizations of these unfortunate and severely retarded children – but that’s the way we thought about them -- none of the teachers ever tried to explain why these little kids were so different. The only possible explanation for this sad state -of affairs was that the teachers were just as ignorant as the students in their charge.

What else did I do in grammar school? There was a long list of miscellaneous assignments/duties such as crossing guards who got out of school five minutes early and carried a stop-go flag ---blackboard eraser clappers who dusted the chalk dust out of the gray felt erasers -- cleaning the blackboards --wastebasket dumpers –and so on . One of my duties was to empty water cans that were hung from the many hot steam radiators throughout the entire building. This took quite a bit of time each- and every day------ could it be that is when the other kids were learning all about nouns, verbs, and all -of that English stuff!

Writers comment-----As you read my words you must wonder how I ever got to be Vice President of one of the world’s greatest banks---and to sip that very fine California red wine with David Rockefeller at thirty thousand feet. Keep on reading and I will soon take you down that path. Miracles do happen!

ACTIVITIES

What else went on at school-- well there was the noon break. Some students brought a bag lunch and drank chocolate milk—if they had the two pennies to buy it. Sometimes free unsweetened grapefruit juice was available ----good stuff indeed! I lived about two blocks from the school and held the world record for gobbling down lunch and returning to the school yard for the balance of the lunch break to play a game called “dog and deer”. Let me try to capture with words the essence of just how this highly skilled and mentally challenging game was played. A semi -circle bounded by the iron school yard fence was scratched out in the dirt. This was a safe-haven zone where all the contestants “the deer” would assemble--- one kid was designated as the “dog”. A stick would then be tossed for the dog while all the deer took off in the opposite direction. The deer were required to run completely around the school building—if the dog tagged you with his stick you became a member of the dog’s team. As one might expect the little kids were easy prey. The bigger and faster kids made it safely back to the semi- circle etched in the dirt. This went on and on until the sides began to come into balance. Then the real battles commenced. The dogs would launch an assault into the semi -circle and grab the smallest kid in an attempt to drag him from the circle (you may not believe it, but girls didn’t play this game)- -to be tagged. The deer contingent, holding tightly to the iron fence, tried to prevent the capture of this little chap by holding his arms, legs, head, and clothes ---as the dogs attempted to drag him from the circle to be tagged. This battle in the dirt and dust (astro turf had yet to be invented) went on and on until one side dominated —or --- the school bell rang—and suddenly all the deer and the dogs made a bee line for the water fountain--- then back to more learning! I suppose it need not be explained that there were no umpires or rules of conduct for this wonderful game, ----- and no one ever got as much as a participation trophy.

Getting back to the “kid growing up” . To give some flavor of just what I did for fun in my spare time, I will begin with after-school activities. After the 3:30 pm school bell rang I dashed home and met with my pal Georgie. One of our favorite activities was to run about and play in the nearby woods. There was a tiny stream with a large population of little green frogs---we would catch them, snip off their legs and roast the appendages over a crackling little fire--- they were quite tasty-- even without salt. As you may know frogs survive only in clean water. Our tiny stream was indeed clean and clear until it reached a point near the Foster Township grammar school where raw sewage was introduced into the stream turning it into a foul smelling ugly gray----pardon my language--- s- - - creek—as we called it. Adios little green frogs. It was a routine and frequent occurrence to have streams polluted in this manner. On the same subject, another common pollutant introduced into the waterways was mine waste- water. This caused the streams to turn rust red and stain the rocks along the banks the same sickening color. Mine waste- water was generated when excessive rain and ground water entering the coal mines--- which then had to be pumped out ------into any convenient nearby stream.

A FISHING EXPERT

Not all the rivers and streams were polluted, and Lehigh River was one of the few waterways spared. This river was about seven miles from my home and we usually hitch-hiked or walked to get there. It was from this river I snagged the biggest catch in my young life, the fish was about sixteen inches long— it was a Sucker. Landing this fish was like pulling a truck tire from quick- sand. A Sucker is a bottom feeder with large fish lips, ugly as sin, and possessing a commanding aroma. I could not wait to bring home my prize, so off we headed, and to our amazement we hitched a ride from a man driving a 1940 Lincoln Continental with a big spare tire on the back end. What a boat –what a sight---- riding up front with that big Sucker on my lap. That guy must have been insane—but nice—to pick up two ragamuffin kids and a large fish. My sainted mother heaped lavish praise upon her little boy for his accomplishment, but I cannot remember what she did with this odorous creature of the deep. I think she buried it in the back yard behind the chicken coop when I wasn’t looking. I tell this story because, as you labor through this text, you will learn later how my mastery of fishing skills fitted in so nicely with my banking career years later-- on an unusual fishing trip (details later) to Rainey Lake near International Falls Minnesota.

GOOD STUFF

Another fine activity that my pal Georgie introduced, was going to the local dump to find good stuff like old clocks, discarded wheels, broken toys, tools, and other assorted junk. These discoveries were exciting, interesting, and lots of fun. When my father asked me about the goodies I was bringing home and where I found them---- well , I’m just not about to enlighten the world about what happened next—but I must tell you that it was something a little more forceful and effective than gentle and reasonable talk . My short -lived life of harvesting good stuff from the dump ended rather quickly..

MOVING ON IN LIFE

Georgie and I grew apart as time moved on. He was not available for play in the summertime,--- and we later went to separate schools. In the early days of summer, he along with his mother, brother, and two sisters picked huckleberries. Every morning the family group arose early, walked about two or three miles into the woods and began the picking---six days per week. The berries were taken to a local collecting agent and sold. Huckleberries grow on tiny bushes among the rocks and are quite small—about the size of a pea. They were not like the common large cultivated blueberries of today that grow on high bushes. I make a point about the size of these berries because--- at the height of the growing season the folks operating the collecting point paid seven cents per quart for huckleberries. No family ever became wealthy picking huckleberries—but I cannot back this up with any documented evidence.

RELIGION

Religion was an important part of my upbringing. My parents were dedicated (Byzantine) Catholics and did their very best to pass along the faith on to their children. Pop never missed Mass, except on one unexplained occasion. To atone for this omission, he spent the rest of the day in the bedroom praying. Teaching the faith by the nuns was exceedingly difficult because all relevant matters were discussed in the Slavic tongue. This formal instruction came in the form of “Greek School” which was held each Monday after regular school had been dismissed. It was awful! The teaching nuns were very firm and well-intentioned but were fighting a losing battle. Trying to instruct and explain religion to young children—switching back and forth Slavic /English was an effort in futility. They did however prep us for First Holy Communion which was a beautiful event—I wore a white Buster Brown suit! In preparation for first Holy Communion, each child privately knelt before a priest who placed a shroud over the child’s head as a well-rehearsed prayer was offered before the confession of sins commenced. I was always fearful that the priest might see who I was! In the ensuing years, confession was always mandated before the receipt of Holy Communion at the following Sunday Mass. For many years I had a great problem---to the best of my recollections, I had never committed any real sins—like murder, adultery, coveting thy neighbor’s wife, stealing, or any of the other mortal or venial sins set forth in the Ten Commandments. So what was I to do-, I created a small inventory of fabricated sins---hit my sister—took pennies from mom’s purse—ate meat on Fridays--said bad words etc. etc. etc . This worked out very well for quite some time. I did however have to remember which sins I confessed so that I would not get caught repeating the same sins at the next confession. The priest spoke in broken English and always ended by saying the same thing “and I thought you were a good boy----three Hail Mary’s and three Our Fathers”.

After First Holy Communion, “Greek School “ was mandatory every Monday after school. Each time I attended I paid two pennies in dues which were accumulated to fund a year end extravaganza. When I was unable to attend Greek School due to serious illness ( I had a strange sickness which struck late in the afternoon every Monday ) or I just played hooky , my sister Dorothy would turn in my dues so I could qualify for the year end festivities . Alas Alas --the powers to- be uncovered the grand fraud and banned me from the year end party—but being good Christians, they gave back my pennies.

TRAGEDIES

Growing up also had its dark side— two horrific events are forever engrained in my memory, the death of my first cousin Irene Lavinka, and ----shortly thereafter a speeding automobile hitting and dragging my sister Dorothy almost to her death. One cannot imagine a sadder event than what happened to little Irene. Irene was about school age— I was about five years old and the year was circa 1935. It was Christmas Eve, the snow was falling softly on this crisp and cold winter night—and it was just about time for bed. Some-how she discovered that her Christmas present was to be a new sled—she excitedly begged and begged to take it for just one ride, until finally her parents could no longer resist. The house in which they lived was located at the end of a steeply inclined street –Center Street.. Irene quickly dressed, pulled on her mittens, bounded up the hill, and jumped onto her new red sled for the ride downhill on the newly fallen snow--and was run over by a truck !!! ------- Christmas Eve---------- I have never, before or since, witnessed the profound and unending grief her mother suffered for the remaining half century of her life. Aunt Helen customarily visited my mother every Friday evening– she cried and cried and cried for years and years to come. Her grief was beyond description. This was indeed a profound lesson about the depth of a mother’s love for a child.

A short time later my sister Dorothy was struck down by a speeding automobile. Her tender little body was dragged the length of a long city block before stopping. The inflicted injuries would scar her physically and emotionally for the remainder of her life. Pop visited her at the hospital every single night after working his shift in the coal mines. This began a very special and beautiful lifelong relationship with his little girl. Without ever a word spoken, I learned from my father’s example the real meaning of the words love and dedication. Dorothy recovered in time and became my mentor doing her best at keeping me out of trouble--- most of the time. I sometimes think the Almighty saw her thru her horrible ordeal just because she had a little brother who needed her help in life.

I had two other little personal unpleasant experiences while growing up. At about age four or five I came up with a bad back tooth. To the dentist I went --- I was told to bite on a rubber square while being held down by my cousin Michael , Doctor Brown -- the son of a bitch--yanked out the tooth with his trusty dental pliers--- WOW --it all happened rather quickly, but the memory of the experience has remained intact to this day! (Writers note---I think a rubber square was used because they ran out of bullets)

Bad little experience number two was—rheumatic fever at age thirteen. The pain in my ankles was so intense that I could not tolerate the weight of the bed sheets on my feet. This lasted about three or four days----the doctor’s treatment – bed rest for a month---nothing else—not even a god- dammed aspirin. His name was Dr. Verkusky. Even more painful than the rheumatic fever, was meeting up with this dude years later and listening to the boasting about how he saved my life---with bed rest! The Doc was married to a first cousin of my dear wife Marilyn, so I had to bite my tongue when he came around. That too was almost as painful as the rheumatic fever

THE RECOVERY .

The “very wise” medical treatment by the good doctor had a huge impact upon me. Bed rest for a few weeks and no sports activities for the kid. My mom had been scared to death and I was denied the opportunity of participating in organized sports. I was a pretty big kid, strong as a horse, and a fast runner who could jump over tall buildings in a single bound ------ maybe, just maybe, this is a bit over- stated. All the coaches and my buddies kept asking me why I was not going out for the football, basketball, and baseball teams----very tough to explain. On the QT I did spend a good deal of time on gymnastics and in my senior year I drew a line in the sand and went on to play baseball and football.

ACTING

Now I must reveal the cultural side of the old Foster Township School system. Two grand events served to highlight my theatrical prowess. The first involved an eighth-grade production. I was chosen for the role of Squanto in the Thanksgiving play. History has recorded that Squanto was one of those Indian guys who gave corn and other stuff to the Pilgrims. At the proper moment in the performance I handed an ear of stale corn to the kid playing Miles Standish. “Here’s da corn” -- and my lines were now completed and ----my acting career had been launched--- Hollywood in my future?

In a follow up performance---brought about, no doubt, by the splendid reviews for the Squanto role---I was cast in an even more demanding role. This production involved elaborate costumes as well as dancing skills. Dressed in a red and green elf suit (it was a Christmas play) complete with tasseled hat and pointed shoes, I pranced about the stage holding hands with a little girl on whom I had a gigantic crush. We skipped across the stage to the tune of “Shine Little Glow Worm Glimmer” --or something like that! The unvarnished truth is, this little girl would not hold my hand, only my little finger, because my fingernails were dirty. In retrospect it was a good thing the romance never blossomed because when I met her later in life she had grown up to be a big flat chested Lummox. I have a great fear that St Peter may someday turn me away at the Pearly Gates and send me to that “hot spot” where they have pictures of me in that red and green elf suit and pointed toe shoes----for all my friends to see.

ON TO HIGH SCHOOL

My parents wanted their only son to amount to something in life-- other than a dancing elf. In the town of Freeland of which I spoke earlier, there is domiciled a very unique learning institution----the Mining and Mechanical Institute--today called MMI Prep. Now bear in mind Freeland was, and still is a two-bit little Pennsylvania coal mining town ---except for the presence of this school. A few years back the school celebrated its centennial: in it’s first one hundred years it graduated one thousand students----yup that’ a fact! The original purpose of this school was to teach immigrant coal miners to read and speak English. Today the school has students from grade seven thru twelve. Its graduates include many doctors, lawyers, a two star general, businessmen, engineers, etc etc , and------ an un-named retired Vice President of a world renowned financial institution. Today these guys fund about fifty percent of the school budget. The curriculum is grounded in math and science—and among other things, they teach Chinese. It is a fine school!

The tuition when I started at MMI was forty bucks per year. Because my father worked so many years as a coal miner I received a “scholarship”—we would pay half the amount and I would earn the other twenty by washing the blackboards every day after school. Sooooo---- for the next four years I washed blackboards. You could say that I be became expert in blackboard washing. How many people on this planet can put forth such a claim on a resume?

Let me tell you a little more about MMI. The original funding of the school came from the Coxe family which sourced its wealth from the coal mining business. As was noted earlier, the purpose of the school was to help immigrant coal miners learn the English language. Over time it underwent a metamorphosis transforming it into the extraordinary high /prep school it is today. One of the teachers was Andrew Stofan. He was one of those guys who really walked five miles a day in the snow to get to class. As a child he had the lower portion of his left arm and leg severed by a coal train owned by the Coxe family. The train was stopped, as the event was recorded, and the young lad crawled under the train to cross the tracks—then it happened. The Coxe family subsequently atoned for the tragedy by arranging his education and giving him a lifetime job teaching mathematics at MMI. In today’s world this incident would command a somewhat more generous and punitive financial arrangement. His sadistic teaching method was somewhat different, as was his personality. He carried a long one inch square stick which was forcibly applied to a student’s butt while putting a math problem on the blackboard. The less adept the student, the harder the smack. As you might guess I was not exactly at the top rung of the class. I might not have excelled in math, but I did learn endurance and mental toughness which served me well in later life. All the other instructors at the school were outstanding, but even under their tutelage I was not interested in going for the scholastic brass ring. My class of 1948 was the largest in the history of MMI, and was broken up into the A group and the B group -- ie the bright students and the other (dumb) ones. The B group included many of the great unwashed, none of whom, in all probability would ever sufficiently succeed in life to win the opportunity of drinking fine red wine with David Rockefeller on his big private jet.

IT AIN’T SALEM BUT THE WITCHES ARE NEARBY

I must digress here a bit to talk about midwives/witches. These were elderly women who, among other things, help deliver babies in the home. The “among other things” included remedies learned in Witchcraft 101, for a long list of ailments. There were two Witches in our neighborhood—and one lived right behind our house. And guess whose momma she was----Andy Stofan’s !!!

My sister Dorothy at one time, was thought to have developed a case of yellow jaundice ---and was taken to old Mrs. Stofan for treatment. Now picture an innocent blond haired little girl standing before an ancient woman dressed in black , her head covered with a black babushka ---and ready to administer the treatment ------the old bastard spit directly into little Dorothy’s eyes .The witches modern medicine choice of the day.

Now let us return to my MMI high school days. I enjoyed my days here , played baseball and participated in gymnastics --all on the QT—because I had that residual little heart murmur from my bout with rheumatic fever in seventh grade ---remember ol’e Doctor Vercusky said I should not participate in sports---what a dumb ass he was ---eventually he qualified and became president of the local bank in Freeland . ( this is not a good time to talk about the type of people who succeed in banking )

One of the most exhilarating experiences of my high school days was playing the last football of the 1947 season---and the also final football game ever played by MMI. As a senior, I had told my Mom that I WAS GOING TO PLAY FOOTBALL and she finally relented. The final game would be played against Allentown High, a football power- house with about five thousand students. MMI had a little over one hundred! Each school had a game cancellation and was looking to fill an open date. On a frosty early November day after practice, our coach gathered the team to asked if we had the guts to take on Allentown High School----“we ain’t afraid of nobody” – Preparation for the game required some of the kids to turn in their equipment so we could suit up a few post graduates. One of the PGs was a guy by the name of Teddy Palinko—about five years out of high school and built like a fire plug. I’ll never forget him! He came to one or two practice sessions directly from the coal mines. He would run across the field with half the kids trying to drag him to the ground. This guy was tough as a cheap chuck bull steak--but he was always smiling! The coach gave him a buck to visit the barber for a close shave before the game.

GAME DAY

Allentown had an extensive and well coached football program—during the pre-game warm- ups they displayed separate offensive and defensive squads executing very snappy and complicate plays—their football team picture displayed fifty kids in their glossy game-day program. In addition to a flock of large breasted and very long-legged cheerleaders, they had a huge marching band complete with a tall baton wielding drum major tooting a whistle as he pranced about the field. What a sight! As the visiting team, we were relegated to the far end of the field, within sight of, but not too close to the dumpsters. Our pre-game warm-up was somewhat less extensive than that of the boys from Allentown. Out pre game drill consisted of running about the field tossing and booting around, three footballs, one of which did not hold air very well and had the bounce of a dead cat ---all twenty of us were, of course, were sporting our red and white school colors. Our leather helmets had all been freshly painted, (expense was not an issue) but no two were alike---one even had a rubber nose guard. We won the coin toss and elected to be the receiving team on the kickoff. On our first possession after kickoff all plays went out the window when Teddy Polinko said “just gimme the ball”. Would you be shocked to learn that we lost the game thirty-nine to zip? Every kid on the team played his heart out—we were not defeated –we just lost! These were the words of our coach. Now flash forward to our fiftieth-class reunion and guess who shows up ----coach Victor Weiss---- he was a wonderful man. We talked at length and he told me two things that I will always remember. He never smoked a cigarette and never tasted alcohol. He also revealed to me that MMI got a thousand dollars for playing the game against Allentown. WOW!!-------I guess this is why we all got ice cream on the fifty mile bus ride home.

As an aside to this l story I must point out that Coach Weiss had a sandy haired little boy who was about five years old at the time. This little guy under his daddy’s guidance became the head coach of a national professional basketball team—I think it was the Phoenix Suns --- I’m no longer sure of the name of the team---.and I’m too lazy to research it. Yea--- we lost the football game against Allentown High School, but when the final chapter was written, ------ Vic Weiss was an outstanding coach! They don’t make them like Coach Weiss anymore.

Another writer’s note. It is within the realm of possibility that, a reader of these pages might conclude that I was laying it on a bit thick about the Allentown football team and its facilities. In response to such a remote possibility I hereby submit the only exhibits to be found in this entire treatise . Flip forward to the next page and examine Exhibit A and B—a picture of the grand stadium of Allentown High School and a photograph of their fifty man football squad —bear in mind that MMI had a little over one hundred kids in the entire school, no home stadium, and we practiced where the local cows grazed---and this was the year 1947—(shortly after the last dinosaur was observed departing the little town of Freeland Pennsylvania.)

LIVING THROUGH WW2

Before continuing with the chronological progression of my life’s little saga, I feel compelled to interrupt that order to disclose to my readers how it felt as a young kid, to experience some of the events of that big war---WW2. In the late twenties-early thirties, a growing unrest and violence began festering among the German population. This was precipitated, in part, by hunger, rampant inflation, vast unemployment, and the humbling defeat in WW1. During this period Adolph Hitler organized a small group of loyalists which became the dreaded SS and rapidly expanded in an environment of the deep despair that prevailed in the country. I was born in 1930 which made me about nine years old when Hitler annexed Czechoslovakia and invaded Poland in 1939, France in 1940 and Russia in1941. What was the impact on me---none to very little---for a while. Europe was under the boot of the German SS troops, Jews as well as anyone resisting the new order were being rounded up by the tens of thousands and transported in railroad cattle cars to newly constructed camps to be exterminated or used as slave labor or for medical experimentation. Historians put the WW2 death total at about eleven million souls. What was I doing during while all this was going on? I was going to school, riding my bicycle, playing baseball and football and other kid stuff.

Things were about to change. On Sunday December 7th, 1941 we went for a ride to check out the newly repaved route 940 between Freeland and White Haven Pennsylvania. It was a beautiful cool clear December day and we were enjoying the nice ride in our new 1940 Chevrolet Special Deluxe—streamlined gray-and complete with an under-seat heater----but no radio. When we arrived home, someone turned on our Philco radio, to hear that the Japanese had conducted a surprise attack on our naval base at Pearl Harbor, sinking a number of battleships and bombing and strafing the Schofield Barracks. As an eleven-year-old kid I wondered ---- Pearl Harbor, what’s that! --- and why did the Japanese do this.

The following day I listened on that crackly old Philco radio as President Roosevelt addressed a joint session of congress speaking about the “dastardly” (what a funny word for a President to use) attack and asked that a “state of war exist” between the United States and Japan. His request was immediately granted—and I began to grow up on the spot! My interest in the war exploded when I subsequently realized that our entire Pacific fleet had been destroyed or was severely damaged, and the Germans had over-run Europe—and it was about to get much worse. I feared we might not win the war and was not alone in my thinking. The coming months would bring a deluge of bad news as the Japs—as we now referred to them—were taking over many islands in the Pacific and the Nazis were committing atrocities all over occupied Europe and were about to move into Russia. London was being bombed constantly and was under the fear of an invasion.

The war effort in the United States was soon to be manifest in the conversion of our entire industrial base into a miraculous war machine. I remember an announcement by Chrysler Corporation stating that the entire company would convert to producing tanks and other military vehicles on one condition. That Chrysler would make a net profit of “one dollar” on the total amount of the military equipment they produced. Soon, tin cans, cardboard, newspapers---all were being salvaged. I was a Boy Scout at the time and our Troop 48 collected thousands of pounds of newspapers and magazines. I used my old wooden wheeled wagon in my collecting efforts. Well we finally won the war after the bravery and sacrifice of hundreds of thousands of American lives. Believe me, were it not for this great nation the entire world would be speaking German or bowing before an Emperor. We won all the major battles, supplied munitions and food to all our Allies---and nobody, nobody, nobody else in the world could have done what this nation did! - Every American contributed to the war effort—buying war bonds, collecting scrap, growing food, becoming air wardens, women doing the work of men, conserving everything, and the willingness of American boys and men volunteering by the thousands for military service. Everyone was ready to serve and to WIN! Many young men lied about their age so they could serve ---a little different than today. Indeed, they were the Greatest Generation!

AMONG THOSE WHO SERVED

A number of family members served in the military during World War II, but three are deserving of special mention. Larry Skurkay was the husband of my dear sister Betty. Larry fought with the United States Marines in the Pacific and was decorated with two Purple Heart Medals. My first cousin Jackie Hollis who lied about his age so he could serve --- and flew SIXTY bombing missions over Germany as a waist gunner on a bullet riddled B24 Liberator bomber. Another first cousin Michael Sinai served with the 9th Infantry Division in North Africa, Italy, Normandy France, and right thru the Battle Of The Bulge. Indeed, they were some of the many unsung heroes of the war !

MOVING ALONG BEYOND THE WAR

After high school graduation in 1948, I began my career as a short order cook in New York City at a restaurant chain called The Shanty. How did I propel myself into a position of such prominence so quickly – my daddy got me the job-- and that’s a little story by itself? My pop had begun a sad journey down the road of ill health and death caused by Arthrasilicosis---more commonly known as Black Lung Disease. He quit his job in the coal mines for health reasons and went to work as a dishwasher at The Shanty. He later went back the mines for a short period of time so he could be reinstated into his union which qualified him for a Black Lung pension—total value metered out over a five year period was five thousand dollars.

The Shanty restaurant manager- Frank Pellish--- where Pop worked at his dishwashing job-- was of Slavic descent and he appreciated pop’s work ethic. Pop told him about me, and Frank agreed to train me as a new short order cook----for SIXTY BUCKS a week. Before you knew it I was making BLTs, stacks of pancakes, scrambling eggs, flipping burgers, and preparing many other culinary delights. All the day’s business came in between noon and one thirty----working in mid-town Manhattan during the lunch hour adds a new dimension to the term “madness”

Things were moving along wonderfully until later in the summer when Mom said that I had to come home and get ready for college----but I was doing great! Mom went to the MMI principle, Mr. Lambert Broad, and arranged my sitting for the entrance exams which I had dismissed earlier as unnecessary. The test was to be administered by my creepy old math teacher— Andrew Stofan. One might recall that I was not one of his favorites. He tossed the papers in front of me, looked at his watch, and told me how much time I was allowed to complete the test. After passage of the allotted time he snapped up the test papers and dismissed me. Stofan always despised me and I wasn’t Christian enough to love and snuggle up to him. Wait----I just misspoke ----let me restate my position—I hated the son-of-a bitch. The test results—did I pass---not even close—I flunked the whole thing. What’s next?

Mom again went to see Mr. Broad who offered to write a letter to Penn State that permitted me to enter as a non-matriculated student (a sort of probation status). Mr. Broad thought I should be given a second chance---there was a little difference between the humanity of Mr. Broad and Mr. Stofan! So off I went to the Penn State undergraduate center in Hazleton.

Writers note----is the miracle of becoming a Vice President at Chase beginning to peer through in the fog? Maybe it’s too soon to witness this evolving miracle, but this second chance of getting into Penn State started my career and permitted me to meet Marilyn ----- the love of my life. Thanks Mom and Mr. Broad. %&#zxxx&% to Andrew Stofan. One final note about the legendary Andrew Stofan guy-- at my high school graduation, he approached me and informed me that I would never amount to anything -----and for the first time knew I could speak out to this dude without being pounded with his teaching stick. Speaking from the bottom of my heart, I looked him straight in the eye---and with a smile and said “thanks for your kind words of encouragement----prick”.------ I don’t think he liked this!

PENNSYLVANIA STATE COLLEGE

After WW2, colleges were flooded with veterans entering school on the GI bill. Penn State expanded by creating “centers” to accommodate the mass inflow of students. The center which I attended was in Hazleton. The Hazleton center was set up to handle the first two years of a liberal arts program. The facilities consisted of space in a very old city grammar school in the center of the city. About a mile further down the road there were a few classrooms above an old garage. Botany and biology were taught at that location by a cute little blond, Gracie Thomas, who gave me all A’s and B’s. Education is wonderful! After the first year, things really improved thanks to a donated old mansion (now vastly improved) known as High Acres located about two miles from the downtown area.

While at the Center, I studied a little and sang in the glee club--- I enjoyed singing but I really participated because my Marilyn played the piano for the group. I also played basketball –mostly from the bench—on a very good team. We won some sort of some championship—because, among the returning veterans were several players from two former high school state championship teams. For my role of bench warming on a championship basketball team, Coach Sid Rudman wrote a letter to Rip Engle (Joe Paterno’s predecessor) who invited me to come to the main campus as a walk-on for Penn State football. The decision was an easy one for me---I opted to work that summer at The Shanty in New York—I needed the money and besides Pop thought I should go to college to study—not to play football. I regret that I did not save that letter of invitation. Opportunity only knocks once------ and I passed---but had I accepted, I most likely would have gotten killed in the Penn State football program—but yall never know. A life’s learning lesson about-opportunity !

WHO IS SID RUDMAN

Sid was a world class gymnast and a member of the 1939 United States Olympic team, one of whose members included Jessy Owens, upon whom Hitler refused to pin a gold medal because of Owens race. Fast forward now to Boca Raton Florida 2016. Thru a Penn State fund raiser I learned that Sid lived in Boca Raton and was now in his 90s. I suggested a luncheon at a little club to which I belonged. We met on a warm and lovely Sunday morning and talked and talked about the days at Penn State. Sid brought out his old clippings. His memory was clear and he remembered our championship basketball team (remember, I was a bench warmer) as well as the letter he wrote to Rip Engle on my behalf . We had a wonderful time on this beautiful spring day in Boca Raton. God took him back on the following Wednesday. So sad—but I thought and hoped, that maybe in a very tiny way I had done something nice for my dear old coach,mentor, and friend.

NOW BACK TO SCHOOL

Time moved along. During my last two years of college, the Korean War continued and I enrolled in advanced ROTC under an eight year commitment to serve in the military. This deferred me from the draft until I finished school, ------ and for that I was paid twenty -eight bucks each month. Not a bad deal because I knew FOR CERTAIN- that Uncle Sam would not be calling me to active duty. I graduated in June 1952 as a commissioned Second Lieutenant ---- early in September I found myself looking out the rear window on a long train ride to Fort Benning Georgia. Damm it—wrong again! Here I would spend sixteen weeks learning the art of war—Infantry style. It was quite an interesting experience. We learned the tactics of warfare and how to use weapons such as rifles and bayonets, pistols, mortars, flame throwers, machine guns, and bazookas. (Could it be that I might find these skills beneficial some day in collecting on bad loans at a bank?) All this stuff was interesting, and I met a motley collection of young men from all parts of our country--- I still wonder how many of them were among the forty-five thousand who did not make it home safely from Korea. Infantry Second Lieutenants engaged in battle do not have an especially long life expectancy. I am forever very proud of having served with these fine young men who willingly stood up tall and ready in the service of our nation.

Prior to Fort Benning I had never been far away from home for any extended period of time and was always too “tough” to become homesick—save one experience. Thanksgiving Day 1952. A few of us decided to stay away from the mess hall on this day, and instead, dress up and go to the Fort Benning Officers Club for a special Thanksgiving dinner. I know it’s unnecessary to explain that Fort Benning is in the “South” but one must appreciate that being in the South means southern style cooking. The bounty before us at the officer’s club was absolutely beautiful-----but the turkey was stuffed with grits, the gravy was pasty white, the veggies included okra, collard greens, and black eyed peas-----but the real disaster was onions in the mashed potatoes!!! Dear God—where is the good stuff like my Mom made----- oven browned stuffed turkey, brown giblet gravy, candied sweet yams, and those terrific whipped potatoes without those nasty onions. I wanna go home! Next day, -- it was back to the machine guns, mortars, flame throwers, bazookas and all that war stuff.

An interesting sight frequently dotted the azure blue of the skies over Fort Benning –parachutists! Hummmmm, I wonder what that must be like! Couldn’t be all that bad—but why does the army pay an extra hundred bucks each month to do it? Not for me—but I kept looking up at the sky until one day I said to myself—I’ve gotta do this --- I may never come down this path again. (remember my Penn State football walk-on opportunity) All I have to do is sign the paper, stand in line, and do as I am told. That’s it- done deal! So I signed on the dotted line and off I went to jump school.

At the Fort Benning Jump School I met a entirely different breed of men including two Brigadier Generals. Each and every one of these volunteers was physically and mentally outstanding —the type of guys you always wanted to have on your side. Could I grow up and become like them? I suppose that’s why I’m here—I sincerely hope I’m not in over my head. The next three weeks were physically demanding. In addition to running countless miles and doing zillions of pushups we did a lot of jumping—jumping off three foot platforms, jumping out- cable bound from a thirty four foot tower ,and falling from high towers similar to those at Coney Island. Believe it or not the only wash outs came at the thirty-four-foot tower. As we progressed toward our first real jump, we did countless jumps thru a mock airplane door. Each time you followed a specific set of commands which positioned you properly in the doorway. Following the command of “stand in the door “came the magic word “GO” –simultaneously a smack was applied to the butt and out you went. It was a conditioned reflex—and this is how the US Army gets sane people to perform the unnatural act of jumping out of an airplane! So much for bravery and all that stuff.

The day of the first real jump finally arrived, I didn’t sleep exactly like a baby the night preceeding my first jump. At the break of day we were awakened, fed, and quickly shuttled off to the staging area. Parachutes were tightly strapped on and a very long wait commenced. It was a very hot day. By the time our lumbering Douglas C46 rolled up, we were so miserable from the long hot wait in the snug parachutes that we couldn’t wait to board the big iron bird and get it over with. We lined up and slowly made our way to the awaiting aircraft through the bellowing black smoke from the engines,--- and climbed aboard. The plane’s mighty old engines coughed and sputtered as the big propellers churned and slowly began to move the huge aluminum beast into a take-off position. Down the runway went the lumbering old C46, slowly gaining speed and finally lifted off terra firma. Up up and away we went, thru the soft white clouds until reaching the altitude of about twelve hundred feet. The ground and objects below took on the appearance of a miniature village. The doors were opened wide as the wind rushed in bringing with it the roar of the mighty engines. We are now approaching the drop zone. Next came the commands------STAND UP---HOOK UP ---CHECK YOUR EQUIPMENT---SHUFFEL DOWN and ---STAND IN THE DOOR---( Oh God I’m sorry for all the bad things that I did in my lifetime)---a little red wing- light appeared --- shortly thereafter as the plane approached the drop zone, the little wing- light turned green and then came magic word --- GO—accompanied by the customary smack on the ass . (God I hope this parachute opens). Out I went into the breath-taking prop blast generated by the plane’s mighty propellers. After about three seconds of freefall, a tremendous shock occurred as the chute popped open--- it almost jarred the fillings from my teeth. What a sensation----what a relief—it felt so good just floating down to mother earth—then a thud and a little dragging along the ground by the wind--- and it was all over. Only four more of these bad boys and I’ll get my parachutist wings, I can handle this!

Only four more jumps to go—oops wrong again. All officers are required to complete a jumpmaster course. This required a few more jumps including one at night and one jump with a machine gun in a GP (general purpose) bag. This involved a bag strapped to your body with a twenty foot line be released just before hitting the ground. In truth you did not really have a machine gun in the GP bag. This could be too damaging for the machine gun—so they substituted a short railroad tie in the GP bag for the machine gun.

Another writer’s note; Over the next two years I made twenty four jumps and each and each one had the same common denominator—I was scared every time! Scared because as the rifle platoon leader I was “in command” of a plane load of brave young paratroopers and had to be the first one out the door. God help me if I froze! Everyone knows there are no atheists in foxholes, and I never was in a foxhole, but before every jump I said the following little prayer, My Lord God, even now I accept at thy hand—with all it’s anxiety, pain or suffering, whatever kind of death you shall choose to be mine. Jesus Mary and Joseph, I breathe forth my soul in peace to you.

Upon successful completion of the jump training at Fort Benning we awaited assignment to the 11th Airborne Division, the 82nd Airborne Division, or to the 10th Special Forces. Sounded pretty exciting! I was assigned to the 11th Airborne Division, and eventually to the 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, Second Battalion, Fox Company. The 503rd was the unit in WW2 that jumped onto Corregidor and returned the island from Japanese capture to our General MacArthur- I pretty sure you’ve heard of him! This event produced two Medal Of Honor winners from the 503rd.

At last I was in the real world at Fort Campbell as a rifle platoon leader. Shortly before I arrived the 503 rd had been reactivated and the ranks were being filled with draftees—none of whom were jumpers. Our job was to get these soldiers thru basic training and convince them to volunteer for jump school. Most of these young men were from the east coast including a large contingent from New York City-----jump school –you gotta be crazy! Well believe it or not we did it, about ninety five percent, with great pride, proudly volunteered and made the grade. (Do they still make these kinds of young men?)

Each rifle platoon leader has an assigned messenger who carries maps and the “walkie talkie” ie a radio. My messenger was one of the young men from NYC who volunteered and became a jumper. One night he told me the story of his introduction to the 11th Airborne Division. When told he was going to the 11th Airborne he almost passed out! Along with a few hundred others, they were loaded onto “Duce –and- a- half’s (standard two and one half ton trucks) for the ride to the fort. As he told the story----as we were arriving the Sergeants were yelling “get off those god dam trucks you lazy little bastards” --- the trucks had not yet come to a stop. I thought I was going to die—and was afraid I wouldn’t. . His name was McCarthy he became a fine paratrooper. Funny thing---about three years later I bumped into him on the NY subway. He recognized me first. I was standing and he had been seated. When he saw me he stood up, offered his seat, and addressed me as “Sir”.

My additional duties while at Fort Campbell included company executive officer, mess officer, machine gun instructor, and regimental trial counsel. (a prosecutor in summary court marshals) This routine went on for a few months as I awaited my orders to the Far East Command ----Korea----which never came. I really wanted to participate in all this war stuff---as foolish as now sounds. I made a number of inquiries about my status, including a stop at the Pentagon while on Christmas leave. Somehow I was slipping thru the cracks

Life in the army was now evolving into a routine—practicing war games, extensive physical training machine gun instructing, twenty five mile marches, monthly jumps, and monthly division parades involving thousands of troopers marching to the chants and cadence of----Your heads are up—your belts are tight—your balls are swinging from left to right—sound off ---one two—cadence count—one two three four—one two--three four,--- I know a girl who lives on a hill –she won’t do it but her sister will---sound off—one two--- etc etc

Shine your boots and shine your brass----shove this airborne up your ass---sound off—one two ---etc etc There were many other marching cadences ---but proper decorum permits only the recitation of the above sanitized versions---children may be listening.

After the day’s work we usually retreated to the bachelor officer quarters, ordered fried chicken livers and drank beer from quart bottles----sometimes before “dinner” we took out or picked up our laundry. All of our fatigues had to be clean and heavily starched. On weekends we would drive about sixty miles to Printers Alley in Nashville to absorb a bit of the local culture----if you know what I mean---unfortunately self-incrimination precludes going into detail about Nashville. Needless to say we never got to The Grand Ole Opre.

What a grind this was becoming. One night while dining on those deep fried chicken livers and quarts of beer, my pal-Frank Logan said--- “I just heard about the Fort Benning Ranger School and there looking for volunteers –what do you think? We both (thought we) knew the history and prestige of US Army Rangers and the challenge that the vigorous training presented. I polished off my second quart and Frank and I shook hands. (it was those chicken livers that made me do it)

A few days later we signed the papers and received the permission of our Regimental Commander, Colonel Davis (who happened to be a recipient of a The Congressional Medal Of Honor ) We thought it would be rather nice if we didn’t embarrass Colonel Davis by washing out at Ranger school. A short time later Frank and I were at The Ranger School in Fort Benning. The group consisted of sixty highly motivated young army officers— only eighteen of whom would successfully complete the training. Frank would be one of those to make the grade with me! The next few weeks would be something else!

THE U S ARMY RANGER COURSE

Nothing in my life can compare with the challenge of completing the Ranger Course of The United States Army-----with the possible exception of having to learn and write the entire alphabet from Miss Martin’s first grade blackboard -------in both small and capital letters.

The course involved intense physical training, acquisition of the very nasty skills of personal combat, and the use military explosives. We also were taught survival skills, how to handle snakes and if necessary how to dine on them, the use of night vision equipment, and basics of map reading and the use of the compass . The employment of these skills followed, and that is where the fun began.

To qualify for the distinction of wearing the “Ranger” patch two extremely difficult patrol missions had to be successfully completed. Before going into this in detail, another little something must added. On an unscheduled basis, three “confidence” tests had to be endured/completed. The first involved a river crossing via a rope bridge while explosive were detonated in the river below while machine guns chattered from above. Not too bad!

The second test involved descending a sheer rock cliff of about two hundred feet or so using ropes and other mountain climbing devices in the descent. Kind of scary because you did it alone---and hopefully right! I will never forget the sensation of dangling on a rope over the edge of that sheer rock cliff.

Test number three was a real winner and it too involved crossing a river. On one side of the river was a very high and steep embankment on which stood a very tall tree with a long cable that spanned the river below. The idea was to climb the tree, attach a block to the cable, grab the hook on the block with both hands and zip down the cable crossing the river. On the far side of the river was an instructor with a red flag . When the flag was dropped at about mid-river you let go the hook on the block and plunged into the river---and swam to the other side.

The patrol missions that followed were the real test. Each one involved a specific target objective and lasted from several hours to four days—distances covered ran from about five to fifty miles. The most difficult involved coming ashore via rubber rafts launched from a submarine under the cover of darkness. (a regular ship was substituted for the sub) After coming ashore, the rafts had to be carried across a sound, launched again and paddled to the mainland. This was followed by a trek of about fifty miles through swamps and very dense forests. The purpose of the exercise was to plant (fake) explosives into the breast of the Blue Ridge Dam in Georgia and ----blow it up! There were other patrol missions, but this one was the most involved. We did it! All of these patrols had a common denominator. Each one had to be planned and presented by every candidate, one of whom would be selected at random to become the leader. A silent observer accompanied every patrol and during the mission he made frequent and sudden changes in the leadership-- usually when problems were occurring—such as being attacked by enemy troops planted at key locations. Of course the school knew the exact route being taken--- a stacked deck ---but that really enhanced the challenge. Long story short---everyone had to be prepared at all times to take over the leader’s role. Two successful leadership assignments had to completed—that was it! As mentioned earlier about sixteen out of sixty candidates made the grade. Today the Ranger school is different, it graduates classes of over one hundred in size—it ain’t like it used to be---or maybe today’s candidates are grittier and better than we were. My pal Frank and I were among the sixteen graduates.

BACK TO BASICS

Frank and I proudly sewed the new Ranger patches onto our uniforms and went back to o’le Fort Campbell---more marching, shooting, parachute jumping , and of course more fried chicken livers and beer. Time went by and the summer became hotter and hotter, but relief was on the way! A secondary assignment of the 11th Airborne Division involved the defense of the nation’s northern border---our regiment was now preparing to undertake cold weather exercises in the Rocky Mountains somewhere near a place called Leadville. This might be translated as two and one half months of vacationing in the snow in prime time –mid January to March—absent of course were the beautiful snow bunnies, cozy fireplaces, hot cocoa, warm milk, ski lifts and soft cushy beds in big bedrooms looking out over the snow covered mountains. So off we went to the mountains of Colorado. Being an airborne unit one might conclude that we would fly out and parachute in--- but economics prevailed and we made the journey by truck! Upon arrival we proceeded to get equipped with winter gear---snow shoes. skis, rubber thermal boots, double sleeping bags, inflatable air mattresses, white camouflage coverings, and lots of other stuff! Outdoor living for the next few months at around ten thousand feet in the snow-covered sub -zero Colorado mountains would be a real challenge---not to mention the training that we would have to endure in the rarified air of the Rockies. In addition to our standard equipment, we were hooked up with a 57 millimeter (maybe it was 75 millimeter) Pack Howitzer company from the 10th Mountain Division (Bob Dole’s old unit)---the principal method of transport for this unit was a cadre of huge US Army mules. The troops in this unit were rugged mid-western farm boys equipped with long mule whips –and I say this with the utmost respect— “the toughest sons of bitches I have ever met”. I would never want to fight them!

One of the exercises we completed with these “mule skinners” was setting up a mountain top position for the howitzers. For this we engaged about five hundred men for several days to build a snow road about three miles long to the top of the mountain. When completed, the mules hauled the howitzers to the top and the job was done! We then proceeded onward to move up to the mountain top position. As we were trudging upward we heard a rumbling—the mules had been released and were coming down the hill—stumbling, sliding and snorting as they raced to the bottom. It was indeed a frightening sight –but they made it to the bottom--- in the process they completely destroyed the snow road some five hundred men had toiled several days to build!

We had many other experiences all involving military tactics etc . Most of the time we slept right on top of the snow. We moved our guns and supplies on sleds pulled by two men in harness on the front end, and one on the back as a brakeman. These sleds were like big pea pods and were called “auckios”—I question my spelling here! We conducted most of our movements in deep unbroken snow ---sometimes at night using the stars and compass to guide us. This was an extremely frustrating and physically exhausting experience, and to this day I question anyone’s ability to successfully operate under such conditions in real world warfare.

Next, I was promoted to First Lieutenant, and then back to Fort Campbell for the remainder of my service time. I went on leave in September 1954 and married my Marilyn. We had our honeymoon at Mount Airy Lodge in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania which cost sixty-nine bucks a day, including three excellent meals. At that time this was a beautiful and quiet resort with a spring fed swimming pool ---never before had we experienced such frigid water---I think it had been piped in directly from the North Pole--- my cold weather training some months earlier didn’t help one bit. Today that place is widely known as a tacky place with heart shaped bath tubs and other honeymoon junk—what a shame! After our honeymoon I took my bride back to Fort Campbell for our remaining five months of military service. Marilyn adapted to army life quickly and enjoyed the military parades and parties. She would often look out our back door to watch the parachutists coming down while counting to see if the proper number (40) had exited from each plane. In January 1955 we left the military to begin a new lifestyle. Because of my Airborne and Ranger training, I had been encouraged to remain with the military and I did give it considerable thought---out Regiment was preparing for a tour in Germany. I often thought of how different our future would have been had we opted for an army career!

ON TO A NEW CAREER

What do I do now? I had a minor in accounting from Penn State so we decided to go to New York City and take a stab at the business world. Just how does one do that? My Marilyn had a cousin—Claire Riley who worked at the Chase National Bank—yea I‘ve heard of that! And guess what—her boss is the Vice President of personnel. A bird’s nest on the ground---I’ve got it made—I’ll shoot right up to the top! I had my interview with the big man who for some strange reason (Claire Riley) recommended me for a “position” in the Credit Department at thirty-four hundred per year—I was making fifth five hundred in the army. It looked like an ok place to work, so I accepted.

Monday morning, I checked into the Credit Department where about two hundred souls were hard at work-----talking on the telephone, writing letters, lining up ducks in a row, speaking into mechanical dictating machines, putting numbers into boxes on long sheets of paper, counting paper clips, drinking coffee, and tons of other very important stuff. Here is where I began my career-- as the number three man on a three-person credit investigating team. The only lower position was in the file room. On the positive side---I had nowhere to go but “up”. Seven years later I got a break!

Life in the Credit Department was like residing in purgatory—a place to be while awaiting expiatory purification. I bounced around in every possible position in the department receiving frequent raises in salary ranging as high as two fifty to three dollars per week------thank God Marilyn was working to help with the finances—she toiled away during her entire pregnancy with the soon to be little Jimmy. I learned a great deal about how to succeed in business during my seven-year stint in purgatory. The answer was quite simple—wear a three-button suit with a skinny striped tie and be a graduate from one of those ”Ivory” league schools-----Penn State was not an “Ivory” league school and I did not own one of those three button suits.

The clearly defined career path for these chosen young lads in three-piece suits was a little differed than the rutted road for the souls toiling away in the Credit Department --while going to night school at NYU. These properly attired chaps from the “right” schools were recruited and entered into a Special Development Program, and after completion they were placed in the Credit Department for about nine months---then assigned to a lending area-----and poof---a few months later became officers of the bank-----swell! Guys like me didn’t stand a chance because the gates were drawn, and the moats were filled with crocodiles. Then something happened, a second miracle in two thousand years occurred! The bank decided to open the floodgates to the great unwashed folks like me—this floodgate description might be a tad overstated because only one or two in-bank candidates would be selected each year from the entire Chase Manhattan Bank for this Special Development Program.

Here is how the process worked; a broad overview for possible candidates was conducted in a review process taking into consideration educational advancement efforts, job performance, personality, attendance records and God knows what else—I’m not sure if they did blood tests and urinalyses. (Possibly a tiny quantity of embellishment here) Simply stated, the selection process was tough and extensive. This effort would turn up about one or two possible candidates each of whom were then subjected to a number of interviews. This net result- between zero to two people made the grade each year. I struggled with this process for several years-- and guess what—I finally made it! Could it have been a mistake---me? Seven years it took—piece of cake! Don’t know how I won this prize but I’ve heard that some very wise people attributed it to my good looks! Third miracle in two thousand years! The year in which I was selected another in-bank guy also made the cut. Funny thing –he graduated number one in the Special Development Program and guess who took the number two spot----- keep running down the list---yup it was ME! Take that all you “Ivory” league guys! Penn State is now on the map. Shortly thereafter there was a –poof-- the guy from Penn State was appointed Assistant Treasurer of the mighty Chase Manhattan Bank. This promotion was handed down from the Board of Directors of one of the greatest banks in this universe. Boy was I ever impressed because these director guys were very important men, none of whom ever picked huckleberries or found good stuff at the town dump in Freeland Pennsylvania—at least I don’t think so. Times changed as the years rolled on, and when I left the bank in 1987 all promotions thru the Vice President level were being handed out like those little red numbers at the cold meat slicing line at the Shop Rite.

My old pals who remained tethered in the Credit Department were most kind in their congratulations when I received my first promotion. They always kidded me because I was not a “born trainee” graduate of the Special Development Program---- like the “Ivory” league lads.

The lending area to which I was first assigned covered the states of New York and New Jersey. I was subsequently reassigned to the Petroleum Division which later on became the Energy Division covering oil companies and public utilities. I was personally responsible for handling the banks relationships with the likes of Standard Oil of New Jersey, Standard Oil of California, Mobile Oil, Atlantic Refining, Richfield Oil, Ashland Oil, Getty Oil, Standard Oil of Indiana, Gulf Oil , Occidental Petroleum, Continental Oil, Phillips Petroleum, Hess Oil, Signal Oil and Gas, Union Oil of California, and some related companies such as Fluor, Williams Companies, Bechtel, Hughes Tool, Baker International, Santa Fe International, Koch Industries, Kansas Refined Helium, plus some I have forgotten .The Petroleum Division was the biggest and most profitable unit in the bank. How could I handle all this stuff--- I was now a Vice President. Later on, I became involved with some of the nation’s largest Public Utilities,

In the course of my career at Mother Chase I had some very extraordinary experiences. I flew out of Norway into The North Sea to land on and see one of the great platforms where drilling for oil was taking place. This trip involved a helicopter ride of about a hundred miles out over open water. Specially insulated nylon outerwear had to be worn, this was designed to keep you alive for thirty minutes if the chopper went down in the frigid water. Nice thought! We arrived safely on the platform which towered about one hundred feet over the angry ocean below. It was a bit of a thrill to walk about on the grated surface of the platform and clearly see the mighty ocean churning beneath your feet. The high winds, the roaring diesel engines, and the noises of the drilling operation added to the excitement----or should I say EXFRIGHTMENT---a new word for the English language. The guys who did this for a living are something special. All in all, it was a great experience, but would have been much better had they served us cookies and warm milk.

On another trip I flew to the North Slope of Alaska to kick the tires. Here wells were being punched into the newly discovered billion-barrel reserves. This oil would soon be shipped via a forty-eight-inch pipeline to the ice free port of Valdese. The amazing thing about this operation was that all roads and buildings had to be set upon four feet of gravel. This was done to prevent the underlying permafrost from melting. All of these buildings and equipment had been brought in by barges before early September when the bay would begin to freeze up, Next, I flew the entire length of the pipeline to Valdese which was about eight hundred miles (I believe) in a special type of aircraft—stopping at a few of the construction camps along the way. Flying between and around the many peaks—and through the clouds was an experience! I did think about that little prayer I always recited before doing my parachuting stuff in years past.

One funny trip I made was to Peshawar Pakistan. (Of course I purchased a rug when I was there! ) One of the officers in my group was from Peshawar and had gone on before me. The deal was for him to meet me at the airport. This last short leg of my trip had been delayed by the evening call to prayers—so I was late! When I got off the plane at this little airport it was dark, and everyone was wearing white sheets. I didn’t know whether I was in the Middle East of at a KKK meeting in Georgia. What the hell was I going to do now! I was the only soul wearing a golf shirt and totting a fine leather brief case. Then I heard a voice from the collection of white bed sheets cry out----JOE JOE--- it was my friend Irshad Mian Ahmed –--Deo gravtias ----all decked out in his dress whites. Off to dinner we went, where we were entertained by three local musicians; one was banging on a home-made bongo type drum, the second was playing a hollowed out gourd , and the third was rattling something that resembled a cheap wind chime. The food served was every bit as good as the music.

Irshad (Mian) decided to stay at his parents’ home that evening and I headed for the hotel. In Pakistan alcohol is not allowed—and if caught drinking the stuff they did something bad to you----I’m not sure but I think they would cut off your d--- I don’t want to go there. (a little embellishment here???) Back to the serious side—non Muslims are allowed to drink at the hotel, and I qualified as a non -Muslim in dire need-----so I proceeded to the bar on the second floor---and it was closed--- I went to the desk and they sent down someone with a big key to open the bar---out came the big book ---fill in name, address, passport, room, key, etc ---- what would you like sir---scotch---GULP ---another one sir---yup---fill out the book again----GULP. I departed for my room and they locked up the bar . And would you believe it –the next night the same exact thing happened all over again!!

ON WITH THE STORY

To what do I attribute my success —yes, I knew how to read and write, but what helped me most was perseverance and an interest in things that were different. Honesty and trust are essential ingredients in successfully dealing with these large and important clients. Some of the different things I accomplished along the way were; lending in upstate N Y against cash flow generated from cow’s milk, water in New Mexico used to water flood an old oil field, revenues from billboards to repay a loan, financing a huge plant in Kansas that produced liquid helium from natural gas by the truck load instead of tiny quantities sold in steel cylinders, the sale and lease back of nuclear power plants, also made very very large year-end tax oriented loans to the major oil companies by taking a first mortgage on oil in the ground. You heard it right; a first mortgage on oil in the ground. These were extremely complex transactions (we called these loans” carved out production payments”) and Chase was the only bank on the planet that knew how to do it. Just prior to year-end, money was shoveled out in eight figure amounts to these giant companies, every cent of which was timely repaid—usually over a period of only a few months. To put it mildly, we really had a bird’s nest on the ground. Ok, enough of all my self-aggrandizement: let’s move on.

In the course of my Chase career I had the opportunity to cross paths/do business with a number of real big dogs including David and Nelson Rockefeller, Tom Dewey (Truman beat him), Bob Dole, Hubert Humphry, John J McCloy (High Commissioner to Germany after WW2) , Armand Hammer (he met with Lenin and was the first to bring a private jet into the USSR), Leon Jaworski (he prosecuted Nixon), Roy Cohen (Joe McCarthy’s lawyer) Jack Lemon, Arnold Palmer, Charles Koch ( my son D.J worked on his Montana cattle ranch one summer) plus the CEOS of virtually every major oil company in the U S of A. Why do I “drop” the names of all these dudes----the answer is that they had one thing in common—they all had the grand opportunity of meeting the kid who used to find “good stuff”’ at the town dump in Freeland.

STORY TELLING TIME--- (God save us!)

I had some very interesting meetings with a few of these captains of industry which I just have to tell you about. On a visit to Los Angeles with David Rockefeller I had arranged a luncheon with George Getty Executive Vice President of Getty Oil Company. George was top man in the company in the USA and was representing his Pappy, the famous J Paul Getty. J Paul was a permanent temporary resident of London –a safe haven from the US taxing authorities—as well as from a few exgirl friends. It was well known that old J Paul was a bit of a swordsman. After our nice little chow-down and some friendly chit chat, the meeting ended with George profusely thanking David for helping the great J Paul with his philanthropic endeavors. On the way back in the limousine I commented to David that I was not aware of his helping J Paul with his philanthropy----to which he responded -- “philanthropy---he was the cheapest old bastard the world has ever known”.

Another little tale. The bank had an arrangement with Arnold Palmer whereby he would play golf with some of our select clients. I participated in about a half dozen of these events at various courses around the country, including one at Pebble Beach. On the fifteenth hole we teed off and I hit two very long shots--- both into the woods. Rather than taking a third shot off the tee I chose to move forward with the group and I then placed a ball about where my first two shots had gone into the woods. We all hit again, and everyone landed on the green. A group of about a hundred people who had been following the great Arnold Palmer around the course now were at the green. My ball was furthest from the cup, so I was first to putt—I swear that my ball was a mile from the hole. I carefully lined up the putt and struck the little white the ball-----and the dam thing went right into the hole. I walked to the hole and retrieved my ball as the crowd applauded. I doffed my cap to the crowd and stepped off the putting surface. Palmer carefully studied his shot, putted and------ missed by a few inches. He walked up and tapped in his ball and the gallery applauded respectfully. The crowd had not seen my first two tee shots going into the forest and it appeared that everyone in the foursome was on the green in two. It looked like Joe McCulla birdied the hole and Palmer made par. My moment of fleeting fame! I still have one of Palmers books in which signed a note for my sons ---“boys, please help your father’s golf game”. That book along with a few photos is still somewhere in my garage.

Another story and I’ll quit. This involved a dinner which I had arranged at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Beverly Hills California. Seated around the table were David Rockefeller, Dr. Armand Hammer, my boss Bill Higgins, and the kid who use to find good stuff at the town dump in Freeland Pennsylvania. Dr. Hammer had the distinction of being the first American to fly a private plane into the USSR. Years earlier he had built a pencil factory in Russia for which he was compensated in Russian art and antiques. The payment was made in this manner because the Russians were short of hard currencies. Most of this collection resided at the Hammer Galleries in New York City----as an aside I must tell you he sent several Christmas gifts to Marilyn and me in the form of fine pieces of antique Georgian silverware from his collection. Dr. Hammer had known and met with Vladimir Lenin years earlier and now began telling us about his recent meeting with USSR President Leonid Brezhnev ----- a great admirer of Lenin. Dr. Hammer presented to Brezhnev some sort of artifact from the Lenin meeting and this brought a tear to Brezhnev’s eye ----according to Dr. Hammer. As this story goes, Brezhnev then apologized for not being prepared with a return memento for Dr. Hammer, then----- Brezhnev reached into his vest pocket and pulled out and gave to Dr. Hammer his personal gold watch. At that precise moment at our dinner, Dr. Hammer pulls that same gold watch from his pocket for all the boys from Chase Manhattan to see! His timing was superb. I knew Dr. Hammer, and he was a captivating story teller as well as a world class business leader, and with all due respect, ---a world class bull-shitter . Who knows---maybe Brezhnev had a wheelbarrow full of those gold watches back in Moscow. Yall never know!

Bear with me because I’ve just gotta tell another very last story—about a great chow-down I had in Santa Rosa California—for the great unwashed readers among you--- that’s in the Napa Valley. This is the precise location of the world-renowned Jordan Winery. Tom Jordan whose name I did not “drop” earlier was a client of the bank who had made a large natural gas discovery in Indonesia which he eventually sold back to the government. What did he do with the money—good guess—he started a vineyard from scratch and produced some of the Napa Valley’s best Cabernet Sauvignon grapes. This was the setting for of our elegant dining event----- the winery. The storage and aging facility of the winery was a two-storied barn-sized building with a loft on one end overlooking twin rows of large oaken casks. The lighting was sourced from a center aisle of in-line crystal chandeliers –soft classical music was playing in the background----(no rap) The loft view to the outside opened upon a lovely rolling green lawn where a few whitetail deer were grazing. In the fading California sunset, it was indeed a sight to behold! As I sipped my white wine ---there are two kinds of wine you know: red and white—(I’m learning quickly about wines) a classy lady approached. What a vision of loveliness she projected in her stunning closely fitted white sparkling evening dress, with her long soft neck encircled in a necklace of walnut sized diamonds. (Exaggeration –of course not—well maybe) Small-talk expert, as I fancied myself in those days, I commented on the beautiful deer and told this lovely lady that I found it difficult to understand how some among us could hunt down and eat these loveliest of God’s creatures. She removed the wine glass from the touch of her lips, smiled at me in a lovingly way, and said ----guess what we’re having for dinner this evening. She of course was putting me on, but this encounter awakened me to the fact that I was not really a “world class” bull-shitter like the great Dr Hammer.

Dinner was really wonderful—Tom had flown in a chef from France just for the occasion --no BS here! I tried very hard to mind my manners at dinner and utilize the array of forks, knives, and spoons in their proper order. I cannot recall the entrée, but someone told me that it was very good! After dinner Tom invited all his guests to his personal library. As he proceeded to a wall bookcase he said, “I always wanted one of these” ---he pulled a lever disguised as a candle stick and the bookcase slowly spun open—the entrance to his wine cellar. My God! We walked down the carved stone steps and commenced our exploration of the cellar. I asked why all of the wines were behind heavy wire screens---to prevent the bottles (you dumb ass) from falling from the racks in the event the San Andreas fault acted up. Except for me, everyone knew that fine California Cabernets had to be protected from earthquakes. It was now abundantly clear I had a lot to learn about wines.

One more true story. (Why do people say this—all my stories are true) Entertaining a valued client at the 21 Club in New York, I was given access to my bosses’ private wine cache which allegedly contained a fine 1929 vintage red. After the usual decanting, swirling, cork sniffing and tasting I commanded that the wine be served! Everyone marveled as they sipped this extremely fine 29 red. Either they were lying, or I was drinking from a different bottle because mine tasted like wild buffalo urine gone bad. I was subsequently quizzed in private about how I acquired my tasting acumen for the buffalo stuff. No comment!

The folks at 21 had gotten to know me ---bon vivant that I was---- and on another occasion I ordered a very fine red wine. After the tasting etc, I nodded my head in approval—excellent, I said to the server---should be, he whispered into my ear---it’s gonna cost you forty bucks a bottle, (In today’s dollars that would be four hundred dollars) but who cares Chase is a big bank! On the way out, I slipped the wine expert a few extra dollars and asked him what he drank at home—E& J Gallo’s Hearty Burgundy he remarked—best red wine on the planet----- at $2.59 per bottle. I now know a great deal about wines!

One story I just remembered –and it just cannot remain untold. ---- I had been assigned responsibility for the account of the Standard Oil Company of California—now called Chevron. I was sent out to call on this petroleum industry behemoth after an introductory phone call had been made by a senior official of the bank. I arrived at the office of the Treasurer Rod Willoughby exactly one hour late due to my error involving daylight saving time. The secretary told me to go down Fisherman’s Warf where a luncheon had been set up. What a way to start out! Surprisingly, I was warmly greeted and after a fumbling attempt to explain the daylight savings error, I proceeded to introduce myself---I’m Joseph Dumb Ass McCulla and the mighty Chase Manhattan Bank had given me responsibility for handling one of the bank’s most important accounts. This brought a big laugh—but I assured my host that I would do my best to serve the company in the future. I added the comment that “ I was an honest person--- most of the time, and I only lied when it was necessary”. This too got a big laugh and very warm handshake as the lunch ended. Now please fast forward a few years. My secretary says -- Rod Willoughby is on the phone. “Joe this is Rod” –we are going to bid on federal leases on the North Slope of Alaska and we want to know if you can make available to us, the bank’s legal lending limit. At the time the limit was around a hundred million bucks. GULP!! During this time period all banks were operating under credit restraint guidelines suggested by the Federal Reserve Bank.

I immediately began walking my loan request thru the chain of command right up to the Executive Vice President (a real big dog) who was responsible for all of the bank’s domestic business. The next step would involve approval of the bank’s special credit restraint committee---their guidance from the Federal Reserve Bank was--- “no new money” -- period. I was told to go before the committee by the EVP after he told me that no one short of the bank President was going to disapprove this loan commitment! I spruced up my presentation, ( washed, douched myself with aftershave, put on a clean shirt and tie), and proceeded to the committee to advance my case. After properly responding to a litany of questions and absorbing their obligatory punching and beating, they said----------- YES. My my, what a surprise! (must have been my good looks)

I called my friend Rod to give him the news which he was most pleased to receive. I told him a confirmation letter would be in the mail. He said this was unnecessary because he knew –I was an “honest person most of the time and only lied when it was necessary” He remembered our first meeting. My job at Chase was personally very rewarding so many times. I could tell many more stories, but I fear that the hook might come out, and the curricular file could end up as the proper place for my writings. So now we’ll move on to other things.

THE FISHING EXPERTISE PAYS OFF

Long before my involvement in the Petroleum Department, the Chase National Bank committed an egregious error. A corporate raider name D K Ludwig took a very large position in the common stock of The Union Oil Company Of California and then threatened to put the stock “into play” which could cause Union Oil to be taken over in a hostile manner. He offered the stock back to the company at an escalated price and Union Oil was forced to buy out the position to avoid a possible hostile takeover. This is what is known as “green mail.” Guess which bank provided the funds to D K Ludwig to buy the stock—yup it was Mother Chase and for years Chase was on the s--- list of Union Oil.

A number of years later comes the challenge for the new guy in charge of what is left of the Union Oil relationship. A meeting was arranged with Roy Houghton, Treasurer of the company. He, no doubt, was anxious for the opportunity to vent his anger on the first Chase representative in years to venture into the corporate offices of Union Oil. We met, and Mr. Houghton delivered a long series body blows—I told him that I was painfully aware of the history of the relationship and proceeded with an apology for past inexcusable actions and that I wanted to make things better. I swallowed hard. and told him that despite our one bad mistake Chase was stlll, by far, the best oil bank on the entire planet–and that one day we might be helpful – provided that he would not boot me from his office. He sort of said OK and the meeting ended. Over the next two years or so some of the ice melted. Then it happened—the company was involved in financing a new refinery and the deal was about to blow up. We stepped in and almost overnight, replaced all the ill-fated financing. I’ll spare you further details, and now change the subject to fishing. How did the Union Oil relationship improve? As a gesture of appreciation, at a later date, Union Oil flew its jet from Los Angeles to Newark—Newark to International Falls Minnesota— International Falls Minnesota back to Newark—then zipped the jet back to Los Angeles. Can you guess the name of the passenger? All this was done so I could enjoy catching a few Walleyes in Rainy Lake. Thank God I had mastered my fishing skill years ago, by catching that big Sucker from the Lehigh River—or I never could have qualified to make this trip. By the way Chase was now number one with Union Oil.

AU REVOIR CHASE MANHATTAN BANK

As my career was winding down I began thinking about retiring ---and guess what happened-- Chase came out with a special package to encourage retirement for old coots who were making too much money. I played it cool for a while and did not disclose my interest! After a few cute little nudges, I was called by the human resources Vice President who requested a meeting—Ok, so I went to visit him. Sitting at his marble top desk in a fine leather chair he began the discussion with an obvious agenda --my salary removed from the budget would fit in nicely with their goals-----and he began nit-picking. He was aware of Marilyn’s health problem and alluded to the prospect of my spending “more time at home” with my “ailing” wife. He also brought up the fact that recently I had taken a number of days off as personal time. Never before had I felt such an adrenalin rush as I reached across his desk grabbing his tie and shirt ---I think I pulled his little ass right out of the fine leather chair---”yes I have –I spent this time with my wife at the breast cancer wing at Memorial Slone Kettering-----YOU SON OF A BITCH”. I then chose to end the meeting---- and never heard from, nor saw this little fellow again. As I departed his office there was absolute silence from his staff. I may be wrong but I’m quite sure I didn’t throw the bastard right thru the window---as lawyers would say “I can’t recall”. Anyhow, I later accepted a special retirement package of the end of 1987 and never looked back----EXCEPT –to this day I wonder about two things. Did this turkey ever write his memoirs as have I ---- and what is his recollection of our friendly little meeting?

RETIREMENT

I left mother Chase in 1987 and never looked back. Marilyn and I enjoyed about fifteen years of retirement and she rarely let her health problems interfere with our lifestyle—what a beautiful and courageous child of God she was! We visited both our families’ ancestral homelands of Ireland and Czechoslovakia, climbed up the interior of the Pyramids of Egypt, kissed the Blarney Stone, attended an audience with the Pope, stood in awe before the Mona Lisa, admired the statue of David, walked up the soft sandy beach of Normandy in the footsteps of so many courageous American soldiers, pondered over the deck of the sunken battleship Arizona at Pearl Harbor, enjoyed the beauty of the Canadian Rockies and our Pacific Northwest as well as Alaska, vacationed in the South of France, and visited many other countries and a bunch of islands. Not a bad run! The most wonderful part of all these travels was being with my beloved Marilyn.

THINGS THAT WERE SAID

Before I move on I would like to add some of the things that have been said to me over the years which are indelibly etched on the notepad in my head.

Tyler -- at a very young age asked----when Grandma Mary is finished up there (in Heaven) is she coming back?

Gary – visiting me after one of my surgeries----Dad, you’re a champ!

Callan – after being taken to a family friend’s funeral service----It was really awful, but the food afterwards was terrific!

Kristen---at about age four while reading her The Three Little Pigs--- she was following the words and said, “the house was made of bricks--- not stone”—you read it wrong Grandpa. She had memorized every word---and that’s why she graduated magna cum laude and within one year snapped up an MBA and coasted through the CPA exam. Gifted just like her Grandmother!!!

Mr. Stofan--- my weird high school math teacher—I will never forget his fine words of encouragement at my high school graduation-----you will never amount to anything you lazy bum! If I could, I’d ask if he had heard about me sipping red wine a few years later with David Rockefeller on his big jet airplane en route to Los Angeles.

DJ— age about five---all scrubbed up and on the way to Easter mass---Dad, what’s so bad about the word f--- ?

Kimmy—Grandpa—you lie to your wife and grandchildren and you have scratchy toilet paper in your bath room!

Joyce--- I was concerned that as her cancer progressed, her boys might draw her away from me---she responded “Joe, I want to spend the rest of my life with you”

Ali---while attending Penn State from where I graduated over sixty years ago----she said all the people out there are still asking about you.

Kylie---While struggling with my first computer---she said “hit enter” Grandpa, and by dam it worked! I knew right then that she was a bright kid and one day she would graduate with some sort of nuclear physics degree.

Jim---- on Marilyn’s death---I never thought that we were going to lose her.

Alexa---upon first meeting Joyce – are you going to be my Grandma now?

Lindsey—at about age six—Grandma Mary, your house always smells so good and your hair is always combed.

My Mother----as she held me on her lap looking out the back window on a warm summer day she sang to me –you have Mommies eyes sonny boy---and I objected because I wanted brown eyes like my Daddy

Marilyn---I love you Joe

My Father –he spoke very little English but he told me to do a little bit of work each day and problems will get smaller.

THE BROAD OVERVIEW OF THE FAMILY

When one looks at the accomplishments of the George and Anna Mikulka/Mikula/Mcculla family the list of achievements is quite impressive. That list includes nurses, teachers, CPAS, artists, a lawyer, a high school principal, a nuclear physics, a marine biologist, a couple bank vice presidents , an investment banker, president of a telephone company listed on the NASDAC, a researcher of autistic children, a class valedictorian, a couple of magna cum laudes. a paratrooper, an army ranger, a pair of eagle scouts, a butterfly expert, and a coal miner ---------- who toiled away for over a third of a century at the bottom of a coal mine to provide for his family and make a dream come true. All of the preceding accomplishments were enabled by an event that occurred over a hundred years ago. A sixteen year old boy in baggy clothes and ill-fitting shoes, stuffed his meager belongings into a gunny-sack, kissed his tearful mommy good-by, and started his journey from Bzany Czechoslovakia to Pittsburgh. My father had a heart of gold, the strength and courage of a lion-----and a dream. Had he not undertaken this bold adventure he would not have met my mother---- and this little paragraph could not have been written! I think he helped make our world a better place.

Actions have consequences, the things we do today will impact on the lives of the souls who will follow us. Indulge me for a bit while I wax philosophically about life and this Cosmos thing that surrounds us. Gaze into a beautiful summer night sky and look up at the zillions and zillions of stars and ask yourself why ---why do we have all these stars and planets and the universe, and why do we have Hershey bars, cell phones and X-boxes, air and water, bugs and buildings, cars and green trees, oceans and mountains, lipstick and depreciation, love and hate, time and light, and tons of other stuff-----Why- Why- Why -do we have all this stuff --instead of just ---NOTHING. Could it all be from the hand of God? And while your mind is pondering these thoughts, ask yourself why “you” are you---and why were you selected to be here in the first place. So often I have wondered about these things and why there is no answer! We were all gifted with life, and how short it is ---about seventy or eighty rides around the sun. Enjoy every moment of this precious gift, try to make things better, and don’t waste time hating or being angry.

OUR THREE SONS

I cannot afford the cost of ink and paper it would require to catalog all the bad things about these three boys, so I will limit my comments to the good things.

Jimmy. From the start he was Mother’s pride and joy, intelligent ambitious and a knack for the guitar with an outstanding singing voice making him the tenor soloist at Villanova. She was so proud of him. He got these musical attributes from his Mom who at one time played the organ at Sunday Mass, as well at the piano for the Penn State Glee Club. Marilyn prayed endlessly for Jimmy in every church we ever visited during the time our relationship was stressed ---- and was so grateful when things got better---- her love for her son was beyond any words that I could ever put down on paper! To me, Jimmy has not only been a wonderful son, but a sort of buddy ( just what he needs, an eighty four old pal ) for which I owe him a special debt of gratitude--- my words of praise would have been much greater had he given me a few more strokes in golf.

D J His mother gave him this name because he was too active and agile for “David”—(a little devil—of course not.) We only had to extract him from a storm sewer once! Mom always told me that DJ was the athlete that I wished I had been. Not so --–I never said that I wanted to be a linebacker on a state championship team—I just wished my team had won a few more games than it did. A bit like my own father, DJ is blessed as a hard-working rock solid family man---with two pretty smart kids..

Gary When we went to Disneyland, Gary foolishly spent too much money for a stupid rubber chicken. When I took him to task over the matter, he said. “but Dad I got change back after I bought it”. This was his personal philosophy on money and investing-----he later became President of his own telephone company, went public and walked away at age thirty nine with a wheelbarrow full of money! I spent my career in finance and became VP of a great big bank---maybe I had it all wrong from the start..

ON WITH LIFE

Shortly after spending the winter in Florida, in June of 2004 Marilyn began feeling ill and uncomfortable so we arranged a doctor’s appointment on a Friday afternoon ------she was hospitalized and one week later —on the following Saturday we lost her. As I lay aside her with my arm beneath her head she closed her beautiful blue eyes----------and she left me---those dwindling last few seconds with her in my arms were the most precious moments of my life. Her loss was devastating. I will never forget how she loved and supported me for a half century.

Life for the next two years was very difficult and memories lurked behind every shadow. I had great difficulty sleeping and lost a bit if weight. Then while in Florida some close old friends introduced me to Joyce Ariyan—they thought that there was a fit here. Joyce like Marilyn was a nurse, had three sons like Marilyn and me, and had recently lost her husband to cancer. Our relationship grew and we shared our lives for almost nine years. In February 2014 Joyce succumbed to cancer. Losing two wonderful women whom I deeply loved, hurt very badly—but life goes on!

I often wondered how it would be to care for someone in the last years of their lives. Would it be a difficult and horrifying experience –doctor visits- medications-pain and suffering, hospitalizations? Having gone thru this twice in my lifetime with two women I loved so deeply, I found that none of those things really mattered to me--- had their lives been extended for many additional years under the same conditions I would have willingly accepted dealing with whatever came down the path of life for whatever period time the good Lord had planned.

REGRETS

When looking over the long procession of passing years there are many things I wish I could have done. My single greatest and most sorrowful regret involved what would have taken place on the occasion of our fiftieth wedding anniversary ----a party we never got to celebrate. When Marilyn and I began dating in1948, “our song” was Daddy’s Little Girl. My secret little plan for the celebration required considerable research to obtain a CD with this song from over fifty years past—and I finally got it. The plan was to have it playing as we danced and I placed a diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist---something richly deserved but never asked for. Unfortunately, this was not In God’s plan and it did not happen, but I did see that the copy of “our song” went with her when she left us.

FINALLY-----THE END !!!!

Now approaching my eighty-eight anniversary, the creaky old wheels turn more slowly, the effects of long years of wear and tear mandate a higher level of maintenance, and the clock is ticking more rapidly, there is little left to do save only to write down my memoirs----and I’d better hurry! --- This has been---- My Good Life .