Last year I wrote about the day I was drafted in the military. I tried to convey the atmosphere of that day, the feeling of getting into something scary and unknown, leaving one’s home and family, and realizing that there is no way back after one crosses the gate. Yesterday, when the photos of a modern day military draft in Ukraine went around the Internet, I realized that besides the new uniform not much has changed since the day when I showed up at the draft processing location.
The military didn’t allow to keep the civilian clothes, so whatever possessions we had were either thrown away or taken by older soldiers who were allowed to bend the rules a little. I thought I was being clever when I showed up with a short but not bald haircut, like some of the recruits on this photo. Clever wasn’t one of the desired qualities in the military, so I was told to cut my hair again.
Here we see a group of “fresh meat” and a group of soldiers already processed. Typical barracks on the left.
I never looked this good, nor was I ever a fan of walking around naked around people I don’t know. When I was taking my pre-draft medical test, I was lined up together with 5 or 6 more recruits in front of the table with several doctors; we were told to drop our pants down all at once. I guess they were trying to see that all of us had correct equipment down there, they were sitting a few yards away and couldn’t have possibly determined anything else. The arrow-sign on the wall says “doctor”.
In this shot the recruits are united with their new long underwear. In summer it was usually blue boxers and who-knows-what-color tank top. Winter season came with long underpants and long-sleeve undershirt. Every week at the showers the dirty underwear was taken away and the clean underwear was brought in a big stack. If you were slow you’d end up with a wrong size underwear for the whole week or even worse – see the streaks from the previous owner.
Somewhere along the way they were issued a piece of soap.
Now on to the uniform.
Boots are a definite improvement from what I had to wear.
Hats stayed the same but there is mo emblem on the front.
Last look at the old life.
And now all ready to go. I have no idea what’s in these boxes.
What stands out in all these images is a scared look in these kids’ eyes. Some things never change.
All the devastation happening around the country this year has a direct parallel to the weather events of 1957 when an unusually high number of tornadoes and floods caused a significant death toll and property loss. Everyone in this area knows about the F5 Ruskin Heights tornado that destroyed a neighborhood in Kansas City but it was only one of the 57 tornadoes registered during the 3 day period in May of 1957 which killed 59 people.
These pictures taken for the Life Magazine article “New Terror in a Savage Spring, A Record Rampage of Tornadoes and Sudden Floods” are not that different from what we see on the news from Joplin, MO, Reading, KS and Oklahoma. In 54 years the science and technology didn’t significantly improve our safety, and although we have better storm warning and detection systems and instant channels of communicating the information to the affected areas, this article could have been written today – from devastation and tragedy to looters – not much have changed.
Entire text of this post is taken from the Time article “Wedding Day at Independence”
“I feel that marriage vows are sacred,” memoired Margaret Truman recently, “and I hope that mine will be spared the hurly-burly attending a news event.” Last week in Trinity Episcopal Church at Independence, Mo., where her parents were married 36 years ago, Margaret, now 32, saw her hope accomplished; she became Mrs. Elbert Clifton Daniel Jr. with more dignity and less hurly-burly than a former President’s daughter and TV-radio star could expect.
A month after her engagement announcement, Margaret left Manhattan for Independence stubbornly determined on dignity. She disappeared into the family’s 14-room, white Victorian house at 219 North Delaware Street for a week’s seclusion, emerged only to greet New York Timesman Daniel when he flew in,
On the wedding eve she relented slightly, agreed to join Daniel in a 20-minute press conference for 50 encamped reporters. (Sample exchange: News hen: “I would like to ask what may be an embarrassing question . . .” Daniel: “Don’t ask it.”)
The wedding day burst fair and warm; Margaret Truman walked out of the 91-year-old house a last time on the arm of her ever-punctual, this time solemn father.
A crowd had circled the Truman gate to admire her gown of antique Venetian lace, pale beige in color because “white doesn’t become me.” Margaret paused to smile at them, then ducked into a limousine for the five-minute, six-block journey to Trinity Church. “She looks beautiful, Mr. Truman,” called a voice from the crowd. “Thank you, thank you very much,” said the farther of the bride. “I think so too.”
The tiny, freshly painted church was half full; some 60-odd were there, including ten reporters chosen to represent the corps. The guests were relatives and friends.
Among them were a handful whose names were familiar: ex-Treasury Secretary John Snyder, New York Real Estate Magnate William Zeckendorf, John Frederics (whose lace-crowned bridal veil Margaret wore), Italian Couturière Micol Fontana (who was commissioned to create the wedding gown because it was a Fontana dress Margaret was wearing one evening last November when she first met Daniel).
The Rev. Patric Hutton, 30-year-old rector of the church, read the marriage ceremony, watched as Daniel slipped a plain gold band on his bride’s finger.
After 30 minutes in the receiving line, bride and groom slipped away to catch a train for the first leg of their honeymoon in Nassau. Margaret Truman had not been the only important bride of the week, but when it was all said and done, hers was the wedding that gave the U.S. that next-door feeling even if the nation stood on tiptoe to catch every detail of the other one.
When the weather forecast for the weekend was published few days ago, I knew it was time to get out of town for few hours. Nothing clears out the mind like two hundred miles in rural Kansas on a first sunny and warm Sunday of the year. I started to look for a place to visit on the best Kansas travel resource but nothing grabbed my eye, so I just looked at the map and noticed a place called Admire, KS. I knew I had to go there and admire it.
U.S. Route 56 leaves Olathe, passes through the armpits of Johnson County known as Gardner and Egderton and makes its way towards Oklahoma through the fields as far as the eye can see. Rolled down windows let the fresh air in and the smell of old hay, burning leaves and an occasional skunk filled up my lungs. I was on the way to Admire.
By the way, have you ever been to Scranton, KS?
Now you have.
Much more interesting is the town of Burlingame down the road.
Burlingame looks like a worn out Mayberry…
…where Aunt B’s is the name of a restaurant.
Aunt B’s niece is getting married next week, so you’ll have to eat elsewhere.
Flower arrangements by Missy’s Flower Shop.
Meat for the wedding is already stored in the Meat Locker.
The Wedding announcement will be published in the cleverly named Newspaper (founded in 1863).
On the guest list is the frequent customer and an old-timey lawyer…
…who enjoys spending his lunch hour from 12 to 1 at Aunt B’s.
Miss Jandi and her students will also be in attendance.
Cheer-leading poodles are the only advertisement for her business.
Church is conveniently located around the corner.
Burlingame will have to wait for another visit, when I may be able to solve the mystery of the piano keys above the tire shop windows.
I still had a long way to Admire.
People in these parts still keep cannons in their front yards, just in case.
Finally I was close to my goal. While taking this photo I drove into something that I can still smell on my car and can only describe as putrid.
Admire was right in front of me.
At least it was a god-fearing town.
High school looks little over-sized for the population of 117 (0.56% Native American, 0.56% from other races, and 3.39% from two or more races. 1.13% of the population were Hispanic or Latino of any race.) That’s .65 of a Native American, must be handicapped or something.
Every tall structure begs you to admire it.
Last Chance Cafe is the best and the only pizza deal in town.
Another water tower was built mainly to display the town’s name.
I had a short drive to Emporia…
…where Jesus Christ wanted me to stop and accept him. Sadly there was no parking.
A friendly cock pointed the way home.
I felt tired but refreshed at the same time. With my head cleared up I settled down on the couch thinking about the roads, small towns, open spaces and partial Native Americans.
When the weather forecast for the weekend was published few days ago, I knew it was time to get out of town for few hours. Nothing clears out the mind like two hundred miles in rural Kansas on a first sunny and warm Sunday of the year. I started to look for a place to visit on the best Kansas travel resource but nothing grabbed my eye, so I just looked at the map and noticed a place called Admire, KS. I knew I had to go there and admire it.
