This story has come to life after a very long sleep. For whatever reason (how am I supposed to know) something jogs my memory and off we go. I was in the Army with a guy named Jerry Paavola. We weren’t best friends but we worked together and he was a good guy. It was ‘Cold War’ peace time in the late 1950’s, early 60’s and being a G.I. was not the “Thank you for your service” thing it is today. The military was for draftees, out of work or trouble with the law. The (. . . my life if need be) part was crystal clear but at the time nobody was shooting, at 19 the travel and new experience was hard to resist and I needed a job.
Jerry P. and I met at Fort Bragg, North Carolina in the 82nd Airborne Division. In that first year of service you sense whether or not it feels like something you want to invest in. He didn’t make any pretense, he didn’t like the army and his superiors got the message. I knew enough not to insult the lords of RHIP (rank has its privilege). I fit in alright. They never saw me as another malcontent but I was never tempted to reenlist for a second tour.
I remember Jerry now because his name was different, unusual spelling. All of my adult life I have been remembering people who passed in and out through the revolving door of my life. I wonder where fate and fortune have taken them and how they are doing. By now I have lots of time and the internet lets me track down former amigos and I learn something. I have better luck when their names are unusual in some way, less duplication. Jerry’s last name was Scandinavian, not many Paavola’s in the white pages and I remembered he was from Detroit.
Everybody has a story, some better than others but I am a sucker for just about any ‘Story’, it doesn’t take much to hold my attention. Jerry and I were both reassigned to a new unit, the 2nd 503/Airborne Battle Group on the island of Okinawa (Japan). We were both parachute riggers which meant we went to work in a shop, packing and repairing parachute equipment rather than chasing around in the bush, playing war games.
In 1960, young soldiers could be lumped into one of two categories; hard drinking, womanizing, macho men and then there were prudent dudes who could feel good without the booze and testosterone. Jerry was quiet, prudent enough but he did go to the bars, drink some and usually come home sober. I stayed out of the bars, saved my dollar. My memories of being intoxicated were mainly of throwing up and feeling miserable. I didn’t fit the macho profile anyway but this is Jerry’s story, not mine.
The girls who worked the bars sat and drank with you, getting a commission on how many drinks they sold. Any after-hours activity was between the two individuals. Over the next year Jerry fell in love with a bar-girl named Yoshiko and eventually moved in with her. As his ETS (expiration term of service) approached he started making plans to take her home with him to Detroit. He filed paperwork but Military Intelligence considered her a security risk and disapproved everything. It was only 15 years after the end of World War 2 and the hierarchy didn’t want any poor, Okinawan bar-girls contaminating the homeland. The week came, Jerry and Yoshi got married quietly, without permission, in a Buddhist wedding. On the day before Jerry was to fly back to San Francisco, Yoshi flew to Tokyo, changed planes and connected to San Francisco with a Japanese passport. They rejoined in San-Fran before flying together to Detroit. There was a second wedding in Detroit for the record. Jerry P. and Yoshi had simply, quietly outflanked the system and for most of us still on the island, it was a sweet deception. I made the same (ETS) trip to San Francisco a few months later. With no rush to get home I hung out with family in California for a while and then back to Kansas City, to a job I was good at, to college and on into my own story.
I tried once before to locate Jerry and Yoshi but I gave up too easy. They were there all along. By then I lived in West Michigan near Kalamazoo and could have reconnected. How many Jerry Paavolas in Detroit? Then I tried again last week, who knows what made me think of him again but I hit pay dirt on the first stroke. The down side is that Jerry died in 2006 at age 68. His obituary was brief but detailed enough to know it was the Jerry I knew. He was retired from the Detroit Police Dept. His kids spoke affectionately of him. I don’t know what I might have said to them or to Yoshi, she is still alive. But that story has come full circle back to me. I know I run the risk of sounding like a fool but I love all my stories. Famous actors on the big screen can entertain for a few hours but then it’s like yesterday’s news, old stuff. I have thousands of little stories that keep coming back, my finger prints all over them and I don’t need explaining or interpretation. Having that connection is awesome, no make believe, real people who touched my life, their stories overlapping with mine even for just a few hours or days; in Jerry’s case a couple of years.
Jerry P. and I met at Fort Bragg, North Carolina in the 82nd Airborne Division. In that first year of service you sense whether or not it feels like something you want to invest in. He didn’t make any pretense, he didn’t like the army and his superiors got the message. I knew enough not to insult the lords of RHIP (rank has its privilege). I fit in alright. They never saw me as another malcontent but I was never tempted to reenlist for a second tour.
I remember Jerry now because his name was different, unusual spelling. All of my adult life I have been remembering people who passed in and out through the revolving door of my life. I wonder where fate and fortune have taken them and how they are doing. By now I have lots of time and the internet lets me track down former amigos and I learn something. I have better luck when their names are unusual in some way, less duplication. Jerry’s last name was Scandinavian, not many Paavola’s in the white pages and I remembered he was from Detroit.
Everybody has a story, some better than others but I am a sucker for just about any ‘Story’, it doesn’t take much to hold my attention. Jerry and I were both reassigned to a new unit, the 2nd 503/Airborne Battle Group on the island of Okinawa (Japan). We were both parachute riggers which meant we went to work in a shop, packing and repairing parachute equipment rather than chasing around in the bush, playing war games.
In 1960, young soldiers could be lumped into one of two categories; hard drinking, womanizing, macho men and then there were prudent dudes who could feel good without the booze and testosterone. Jerry was quiet, prudent enough but he did go to the bars, drink some and usually come home sober. I stayed out of the bars, saved my dollar. My memories of being intoxicated were mainly of throwing up and feeling miserable. I didn’t fit the macho profile anyway but this is Jerry’s story, not mine.
The girls who worked the bars sat and drank with you, getting a commission on how many drinks they sold. Any after-hours activity was between the two individuals. Over the next year Jerry fell in love with a bar-girl named Yoshiko and eventually moved in with her. As his ETS (expiration term of service) approached he started making plans to take her home with him to Detroit. He filed paperwork but Military Intelligence considered her a security risk and disapproved everything. It was only 15 years after the end of World War 2 and the hierarchy didn’t want any poor, Okinawan bar-girls contaminating the homeland. The week came, Jerry and Yoshi got married quietly, without permission, in a Buddhist wedding. On the day before Jerry was to fly back to San Francisco, Yoshi flew to Tokyo, changed planes and connected to San Francisco with a Japanese passport. They rejoined in San-Fran before flying together to Detroit. There was a second wedding in Detroit for the record. Jerry P. and Yoshi had simply, quietly outflanked the system and for most of us still on the island, it was a sweet deception. I made the same (ETS) trip to San Francisco a few months later. With no rush to get home I hung out with family in California for a while and then back to Kansas City, to a job I was good at, to college and on into my own story.
I tried once before to locate Jerry and Yoshi but I gave up too easy. They were there all along. By then I lived in West Michigan near Kalamazoo and could have reconnected. How many Jerry Paavolas in Detroit? Then I tried again last week, who knows what made me think of him again but I hit pay dirt on the first stroke. The down side is that Jerry died in 2006 at age 68. His obituary was brief but detailed enough to know it was the Jerry I knew. He was retired from the Detroit Police Dept. His kids spoke affectionately of him. I don’t know what I might have said to them or to Yoshi, she is still alive. But that story has come full circle back to me. I know I run the risk of sounding like a fool but I love all my stories. Famous actors on the big screen can entertain for a few hours but then it’s like yesterday’s news, old stuff. I have thousands of little stories that keep coming back, my finger prints all over them and I don’t need explaining or interpretation. Having that connection is awesome, no make believe, real people who touched my life, their stories overlapping with mine even for just a few hours or days; in Jerry’s case a couple of years.
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