*     *     *     *     *

     By November, of 1947, America had emerged top superpower from the war; the 

jobs were plentiful and the economy was humming.  It was truly a great era in the 

States for a kid to grow up in.

      Or was it, dear reader?

     Pop had finally landed a good job in the oil Business, as a tool pusher for the 

Santa Maria Drilling Company and, because we were moving a lot, Pinkie was 

staying with Grandma so it wouldn’t interrupt her schooling.  For several months 

Dad, Mom and I had been living at the Ranch House Motel - on the outskirts of Santa 

Maria, California – when eventually Pop came across a small house in town for rent.

        

     I had recently turned five, and was master of a one-year-old, black and white 

mongrel pup – loaded with personality and intelligence - named “Scraps.” 

     Please note, dear reader, that this was before garbage disposals.  Therefore my 

dog disposed of most kitchen scraps – thus the name.

     When we first moved into the modest house, Scraps and I came upon a compact 

backyard with a separate one-car garage.  Immediately we began to explore on our 

own, as Pop was at work, and Mother was unpacking and setting up the house.  In 

the garage we uncovered all kinds of war surplus treasure: helmets, uniforms, 

ponchos and even the sliding canopy off an AT-6 trainer aircraft. 

      I managed to pull the Plexiglas paneled, aluminum-framed, canopy into the 

backyard and covered it with an old blanket. Thereby erecting an instant tent, where 

Scraps and I took our noonday meals.

     It was real camping out, buckaroos, comparable to home on the range cowboys.

     One day, while rummaging further in the garage, I located the greatest treasure of 

all – something right out of “Buck Rogers” – a rocket. 

     

     It was painted in olive-drab with yellow markings, had a bulbous but

tapered nose, and a narrow cylinder for a body with metal fins attached to its tail.  

The whole thing was about a foot and a half long, and weighed roughly 3.5 pounds. 

Which, for a five-year-old, was heavy and my excited, sweaty, little hands 

continuously lost their grip on it.

     “CLUNK!”

     It also seemed to be nose-heavy; every time I lost my grip, it hit the concrete 

driveway nose first on its warhead.

     “CLUNK!”

     For the rest of the afternoon, I rode that rocket as if it were a broomstick, and 

Scraps and I zoomed around the backyard and driveway similar to “Buck Rogers.” 

     Wow!

     Only when I got to the concrete sidewalk or driveway, did I usually lose my grip.

     “CLUNK!”

     Ultimately at four P.M. my mother yelled out the backdoor; Scraps and I were 

scheduled for milk and cookies; followed by a nap.  That was my afternoon drill.

     Which I religiously follow to this very day, dear reader.  It used to drive the airlines 

- that I eventually flew for - nuts!

     Scraps and I zoomed into the kitchen. Mom was at the sink and, when she saw us, 

uncorked a shriek.

     That was my first clue I had screwed up, dear reader.

     Stupidly, I had ridden “my rocket” into the Kitchen; I should have hidden it in my 

tent.  Grownups were funny that way; always confiscating stuff from me and Scraps 

and ruining our fun.

     My mother snatched the rocket away from me, ran to the back porch and dropped 

it in the zinc tub next to the old-fashioned, ringer-washing machine.

     

     She then placed a telephone call to a US Army Base, known as “Camp Cooke” in 

those days (subsequently becoming Vandenberg AFB). Later that evening a sergeant 

showed up at our front door, and took the rocket away.  I remember his last words: 

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Chisholm, it’s probably a practice dud.”

     Okay, dear reader, so what was this “Buck Rogers’ rocket?”  Oddly enough that’s 

exactly what it was: a 1942 M6 Rocket, fired by an M1 Rocket Launcher, nicknamed 

the “Bazooka.” The rocket had a shaped charge warhead that could penetrate 4-inch 

armor plate – it was a projectile designed to knock out tanks.

     

     

          The preferred weapon of the notorious “Tank Girl.”

     The next morning the same sergeant telephoned Mom.  I remember hearing her 

say he sounded worried over the phone.  He told her that they had just test fired “my 

Bazooka rocket” and, as advertised, it had blown the target to “smithereens.”  

 

       My “Buck Rogers’ rocket" was not a dud.

     The sergeant then asked Mother to search her garage for more of these

rockets, or other ordnance, and call him ASAP if she uncovered any.  Under no 

circumstances was she to move any of it or even touch it!

     “CLUNK!”

            *     *     *     *  

     About a week after this, Scraps and I were playing “fetch” with a tennis ball in the 

backyard when five neighborhood kids – ranging in age from six to eight – drifted by 

on the sidewalk. I was the “new kid” on the block and they spied my tent right off; 

causing them to wander into the yard to inspect it.  The redheaded eight-year-old 

seemed to be the leader; for he did all the talking and bullied his crew.  He also 

carried a brown paper bag. 

     Not to be outdone by my tent, he opened up his paper bag to show me a 

“treasure” one of the kids had found in a garage.  It was approximately the size of a 

baseball – made of cast iron with crisscrossing groves - and painted yellow.  It 

reminded me of a miniature pineapple.  Attached at its top was a bare metal ring and 

a “spoon handle” came down one side; it weighed a little over a pound.  I hadn’t a 

clue as to what it was.

   

     Except, since my experience with the rocket and my mom’s big lecture, I was still 

leery of things from the garage.

     So I told the eight-year-old right off that he better tell his mother regarding this 

strange object.  He scoffed at me and said, “Aww...don’t be such a baby! Come 

on...we’re gonna play ‘hot potato’ with it.”

     Remember, I was only five years old, dear reader, but despite my tender age, I felt 

two contrasting emotions: Firstly: I was insulted by the “baby” slur.  Secondly: I felt 

the strangest tingling sensation in the bottom of my left testicle, which I have 

consequently always associated with personal danger.  In short, I didn’t trust the 

“leadership” of this older boy; somehow he was taking everyone down a path 

fraught with high risk. As my life progresses, you’ll learn how my “tingling testicle” 

has consistently kept me out of harm’s way.

     I told the older boy, “No thanks.”  He got mad and started calling me a “baby” 

again; the other boys picked up the chant.  He then shoved me to the ground,

however Scraps came to my rescue - barking loudly - and chased them off.

     Scraps and me having a bad day.

     For the rest of the afternoon I stayed in my tent and sulked; refusing to tell my 

mother what had happened, because I didn’t want to be a “baby.” 

     As I recall...I was laying on my back in the grass with my hands behind my head – 

while Scraps dozed with his head on my stomach – when we heard the distant 

explosion.

     Upon scrambling out of the tent, Scraps and I met Mother bursting through the 

backdoor.  I froze and simply stared at her – sensing my mother’s female radar 

scanning me – she knew I had something to do with that explosion. Unable to put her 

finger on it...she let it go.

     Two days after that, while at supper, I listened to Dad and Mom discuss a 

newspaper article concerning five local kids setting off a Mk 2 fragmentation grenade 

– sometimes called a “pineapple grenade.”  Three were killed and two were 

hospitalized with serious shrapnel wounds.  

     

      This became a common tale in postwar America, dear reader; kids finding 

ordnance, setting it off and killing or damaging themselves.  I never told my parents 

about the five visitors, which ended up causing my five-year-old brain to overload 

with stress.  I felt guilty for not alerting my mom as to what those five kids 

possessed – but then if she had caught up with them to take the grenade away – 

maybe it would have killed her too. This proved a little too much for me to handle, 

and that was when I began to stutter.  My good buddy, Scraps, kept my secret about 

these kids, and took it to his grave in 1958, after contracting pneumonia.  I was 

fifteen at his passing and it broke my heart. I haven’t wanted another dog since.  To 

this day, however, I’ve retained my stutter.

          *     *     *     *     *