My life story in 779 words

I’ve been on Medium for a few months now. I left for a short time but decided to come back and give Medium another shot.

I turned 64 recently and look forward to at least 30 more years on this marble. That’s assuming we don’t kill this planet before then by continuing to pump more fossil fuels from the ground. God, disease, climate change, and death will have the final say.

I first put on a military uniform in 1976 at 17, when I shipped out to Parris Island for boot camp. Twelve weeks later, I graduated and found myself climbing too damn many hills at Camp Pendleton. At Pendleton, I encountered two new experiences: Racism and rhythm and blues.

I and a handful of marines reported aboard to attend grunt school. We got off the bus at a group of barracks — it was assumed we’d finally arrived at our duty station. Instead, we found a couple of MPs telling us to get back on the bus. The barracks in question were apparently “reserved” for black marines. I was stunned. Hell, everyone I arrived with was shocked.

I grew up in a predominantly white-bread community in central Massachusetts. Our local radio station played top 40 music — think Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 — or country music. Sure, we could hear the Jackson 5, Smokey Robinson and The Miracles, and a few other black groups, but that was it. I’ve loved listening R&B from that point on. I listen to different genres, including country, but 95 percent of the time, it’s all about R&B for me.

The most important thing I learned during my career is that we are all the same. I didn’t care who was to the left or right of me — they had my back, and I had theirs. Not all of the marines I knew felt that way. Of course, there was racism in the Corps. In North Carolina in the late 70s, to some, it felt like the 50s and 60s. I won’t dwell on the ignorance I saw in the military because I know it got better. But it wasn’t perfect.

I served several tours in the Pacific and was poisoned by contaminated water while at Camp Lejeune. The bill has come due for the dirty water, but thus far, Uncle Sam has refused to pay the tab.

I left the Corps in 1984. By 1987, I found myself in Kansas. My now ex-wife was born in Wichita. I loved that place so much I ran to the Army recruiter’s office and enlisted. I spent five years on active duty before my injuries wore my ass out. I finished my career in the National Guard, which retired me after my injuries made it difficult to do my job.

I kicked around for a few years. My mental health issues didn’t help much in finding and keeping a job. In the fall of 2000, I was offered a reporter position at a small weekly newspaper for two reasons: First, the paper, owned by the New York Times, received a tax credit for hiring a disabled veteran. Second, it turned out I was related to the original owner of Coulter Press.

Sadly, I knew I wouldn’t last long. A month into my budding career, the managing editor told me most new reporters were smart enough to keep quiet. I said if that’s the case, she hired the wrong person. I already had one strike against me. I immediately went right to strike three.

Eventually, I freelanced for a daily newspaper in central Mass. I worked as a gopher for the same paper for about a year before latching onto Stonebridge Press in Southbridge, Mass. A little more than a year later, newspapers began their downward spiral. The beancounters came in one day, and I was laid off the next. Who knew $28K was an excessive amount of money? My last newspaper, once known as GateHouse Media, aka OutHouse Media, began large-scale layoffs to make a merger with Gannett News work. Guess who was on the list? Yep.

I finally said to hell with it and retired. I’m fortunate that I don’t have to work, but I enjoy working. However, sitting around the house shopping on Amazon will kill you quickly — financially, anyway.

So I put my camera skills to work and included my photos in my stories on Medium. Did I cut to the chase here? Yeah. I’m not getting any younger and probably boring y’all to death.

That’s my life in a tiny nutshell. See you around Medium’s water cooler. Cheers!

I accept tips, which go directly to Dining for Hunger, a recognized 501(c)(3) organization that looks to end food insecurity. If you can spare a dollar or two, I’d be grateful.