So yeah, my nickname for many years was Jerry. My Dad picked up the sobriquet in the service in WWII. The boys in the service had a problem with a man’s name ending in a vowel. When we were stationed in Ann Arbor in 1945 at the Navy Language School where Dad was learning Japanese, Mom came home from shopping to find some of the kids on base trying to hang me with a coat hanger as a suspected Nazi spy. Weird name… too much for them.
Anyway, I used Jerry until I got out of college in 1965 and joined the Airplane. So… I am an honorary ‘Jerry.’ On the left, my dear friend Jerry S. Attached to David Hackworth’s unit, this Jerry is one heck of a guy! Read, Steel The Hearts Of My Men. This is the shit!
In the middle is Jerry B., my motorcycle pal and brother in recovery. We’ll be heading out to Akron for the 79th Founders Day the first weekend in June… and the last Jerry, yours truly… right on schedule and right where I need to be in Southeast Ohio.
Now, I just need to say… I do understand why people get excited about tangible memories like 2400 Fulton Street. It was fun while it lasted and I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything… the good and the bad. Believe me, there were both… just like real life.
Now, when I’m done traveling around, I come home to this tiny county and it embraces me in a profound way that no other place I have ever lived has done. Of course, I have lived here for 23 years… longer than I’ve lived anywhere continuously.
Well, the dog got out… rolled in deer poop and wouldn’t come back until he was exhausted and filthy. Back in the house, Nessa washed him, he’s resting… Izze’s reading the first book of Divergent, I don’t know what Nessa is doing right now, but I’m going to watch NCIS.
Life is good friends… life is good!