Currents of Faith: Open and Unfolding Reflections

We drove through the gate into the school yard on that cold New Year’s Day of 1944. All our possessions were loaded into a pickup truck and our 1934 Chevrolet sedan. On our left was a small white building with windows across the side and wooden steps leading to a doorway. On the right was a tiny white frame house with a pile of coal near the door. Farther ahead were two out houses and a fenced corral. Two small trees graced the property. The school yard was surrounded by open fields, this time of year brown with skiffs of white from the most recent snow. Open space greeted our eyes in all directions leading to the majestic Sawtooth mountains in the distance. Our forty mile trip had brought us to Roseworth.

This would be my world for the next year and eight months. My centers of creativity would have radically different circumstances than my last ten and one-half years of life.

The school had two rooms, a large entry space for coats, hats and supplies and a classroom. In the rear of the classroom room was a pot-bellied stove and located on the right side a piano. Wooden desks with hinged covers and ink wells were located near the windows which offered the only lighting. The room had the scent of the cleaning compound which had been scattered on the floor before sweeping. There was a “hectograph” in the entry room, a forerunner of a mimeograph and photocopier.

Our tiny house called the teacherage, less well known than a parsonage, was composed of four small rooms: an entry room, kitchen, living room, and bedroom. In the kitchen were a counter, sink, cabinets and a coal cooking stove, no refrigerator or running water. The water cistern was located in front of the house with a pump handle above it. Water was sent to the cistern through a dirt ditch then allowed to settle before using. Kerosene lamps provided the light and the one pot-bellied stove in the living room heated the house. Bathrooms were twenty and thirty yards behind the house, the closest designed for girls the other for boys. A chamber pot sat in the bedroom closet. A large wash tub was available for our weekly baths. Drinking water was kept in a metal bucket with a ladle hanging on the edge.

The nearest home, the Brown House, was a quarter mile away and empty on our arrival. We had passed the home ranch on our way, seeing the large cook shack, bunk houses, and corrals as we maneuvered the ruts in the dirt road. There were about seven houses on the ranch situated so that the employed families could be close to the alfalfa fields in the summer and the stacks of hay in the winter. Everyone on the cattle ranch worked for the Utah Land and Cattle Company, the ranch hands living in the bunk houses at the home ranch and the families living in these scattered houses. It could easily have been the basis of the country western song: “I owe my soul to the company store….”

This was the physical setting which would influence every moment as I created myself. It was a drastic change from our lovely home in Twin Falls, forty miles away but seemingly a world apart. My father guided the building of this home in 1927 and he settled for nothing but the best. There was an underground sprinkling system and window screens built into the walls. The exterior was brick and the roof a rounded red metal tile. The floors were oak and covered with oriental rugs. A two-car garage with a large driveway was located next to the home, where would be parked our vehicles, a gray Hudson sedan and an International pickup truck. Several large ornamental brick pillars lined the driveway and formed the foundation for wooden vine trellises.

Within, the kitchen was fitted with an electric stove and refrigerator, a bathroom with a modern tub and toilet and a beautiful tile fireplace in the living room. Windows were steel with handles to open and close, while a large living room window was graced above by a rounded sunrise window. There were four bedrooms, the master bedroom and a smaller one on the main floor with two upstairs. Four rooms in the basement were finished and provided space for an electric clothes washer, an electric mangle and two large wash tubs. A coal furnace and a self-feeding stoker were the modern forms of central heating at that time.

My physical world had changed drastically, from a beautiful home to a tiny house that would almost fit into our earlier living room. My social world which would influence each of my moments of creativity was also vastly different. It shrunk! The families on the ranch could be counted on my two hands: Estes, Lanes, Vosikas, Fishes, Copenbargers, Hoons  and several others. Their kids came to one classroom, all ten of us. Besides my two brothers and me, there were Peggy Vosika, Lawrence and Eldon Lane, Stanley and Shirley Fish, and Betty Copenbarger and Blake Hoon. Several walked, most rode in on horseback. I was accustomed to a class of about twenty, with two classes for each grade level. I was now the only sixth grader. I had known equal numbers of boys and girls, now the boys were clearly in the majority. There was a “clomp, clomp, clomp” as the children scuffed their way around the classroom in their cowboy boots. The chore of stoking the stove for warmth was shared among the older kids.

We were suddenly different: the city kids. I had lost my earlier Twin Falls identity, “Oh, yes, you’re one of Harry’s boys.” We were the new kids on the block and there wasn’t even a block. We had much to learn to be accepted in the ranch society: Riding a horse, milking a cow, herding cattle, pitching hay off a moving wagon while yelling “Gee and Haw” to the team of horses, harnessing a team of work horses, rolling a Bull Durham cigarette, riding a horse-drawn hay rake, learning to swear in Spanish, and, of course, wearing boots, levis, and a cowboy hat. We did learn rather quickly, especially after we were loaned an old cow pony, Peanuts, allowing us to ride with the cowboys on Saturdays.

Kids will do a lot to fit in and be accepted. My new world faced me with many challenges. I did not want to be a city slicker, a sissy or one of the school marm’s brats. I can only wonder how I would have created myself had I stayed in Twin Falls. The directions were clearly set: playing with Don and Swede as good friends, going with them occasionally to LDS primary classes, swinging in the backyard,  caring for our pet rabbits, making toy lead soldiers, creating flags of the world from old white dishcloths and crayons, spending my dime on the B westerns at the Saturday matinee movies, swimming all afternoon at the pool at Harmon Park after the lunch dishes were done, riding my bike to the nearby Conoco service station for a nickel bottle of Pepsi Cola and a nickel Butterfinger candy bar, shooting marbles on the school  playground at recess, donning my gear and carrying my flag for the school traffic patrol, playing by the nearby irrigation ditch , which we named “Zanzibar Dam.” from the most recent movie, building a fort in a nearby vacant lot, and vacationing with the family at what we called the “billy-goat ranch” near Ketchum..

No, that world was no longer mine. I was now in a different set of circumstances. My circumstances had suddenly changed. I enjoy the word “circumstances” which my high school Latin tells me is translated, Circum = around, Stance= standing. So, the meaning is that which is “standing around.” That speaks of the world for me. I find Henry James’ statement cogent for understanding my situation, “an envelope of circumstances encloses every life.” Yes! The world about me would not allow me to create as I might have in Twin Falls. I was now the Roseworth Boy. In many ways I felt lonely, lost, and uprooted.

There were no paved streets for riding bikes, no need for a school patrol to protect children from the traffic of their horses, no movie to go to on Saturday, no swimming pool to hang around, no primary classes, no swings, no service station or Washington market to buy my goodies. In their place the world presented other opportunities. I worked to take advantage of the opportunities of the new circumstances.

I did learn to ride a horse, herd cattle with the cowboys, milk a cow, ride calves, harness a team of horses by standing on a wash tub, rake hay, pitch hay from a wagon, help with the branding of cattle and the castration of yearling bulls, walk to the home ranch fetching a bucket of “blue” skimmed milk, build a wood fire in a stove, read many Alfred Terhune dog books by a kerosene lamp, play at the willow lined stream nearby, and wear nothing but genuine Levis and Acme boots.

Instead of my earlier pleasures, I learned to enjoy riding to the Lanes for an overnight, eating chocolate pie and peanut butter sandwiches washed down by coffee. On Thanksgiving the families would gather for dinner while we kids played football in the pasture, dodging not only the opposing team members but also the cow pies on the ground. At Christmas we ordered all gifts from the Sears catalog, which I brought home from the home ranch riding Peanuts, two large boxes tied to the saddle horn. We baked cookies and strung popcorn to decorate the tree which we had cut at Cedar Draw and dragged behind the horse.

One experience which became a one-trial learning was helping to butcher a heifer at the home ranch. The frightened animal looked at the ranch hand through the wooden fence, he fired the 22 caliber rifle point blank into her forehead and she fell to the ground with a thud as though her legs had been pulled out from under her. I was sickened by the killing and the spattering blood. I would never, never do that again! I would always recall that scene when beef was served, which was often since the primary menu of the ranch was “fried meat and fried potatoes.” No surprise when nothing could compare to the cost of beef in those war years, front quarter ten cents per pound, hind quarter, fifteen cents. I could not avoid this food. I adapted creatively by smothering the beef in catsup.

We were not European shoppers who visit the market daily, but rather once a month would travel twenty miles over the dirt roads of the ranch, pass through Lilly Grade and Castleford before arriving at Buhl, the one stop light town. I remember the large jars of peanut butter and jam which we carried home with stacks of other groceries in the back seat of our car and the delightful experience of eating in a restaurant. We ate well in the days following shopping; the rest of the month, not so well.

The most difficult adjustment was to become a student who takes two grades in one year, a situation I faced our second year on the ranch. Being the only boy in seventh grade with my brother and two others in the eighth, it was of great convenience for my mother to have me do both. In this year, “The Kid” was created who would thereafter be two years younger than his classmates and always feel behind. I would also have tremendous gaps in my education. “Just where is Burma?”

The world impinged upon me offering certain opportunities and not others. I could not have worked toward merit badges in the Boy Scouts, sung in a youth choir, attended church, played Little League Baseball, or taken clarinet lessons. Those institutions were simply not present. I had, however, to create with the ingredients which presented themselves in this radically different world. The Roseworth boy rose to the occasion!

Fifteen years later I entered a gate notably different than the Roseworth school yard, the colorful entrance to the U. S. Marine Corps Recruit Training Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina. This time I did not enter with my family but aboard a Greyhound bus with a number of other recruits. The gate was a passage into a new world! Several drill instructors boarded the bus and began shouting at us. “Sit up straight! Why are you looking at me? Are you queer? Stand up! You scuzzy civilians! Move out! Go, go go!” This was only the first of many occasions when shouting was the mode of operating.

We were ordered to form a motley formation and marched to our squad bay, the lower level of a wooden building filled with about forty bunks. The yelling continued as we were ordered to “Get Out!” and we rushed helter skelter through the double doors into a formation on the parade grounds. “Get In!” We rushed in to stand at attention by our bunks. This exercise was repeated a number of times, during one of which a recruit slashed his arm as he smashed though a window pane of the door. He was our first injury and was taken to sick bay.

Making our bunks followed a similar pattern. We were shown how to make hospital corners and stretch the blankets tight enough to bounce a quarter. As we stood at attention by our bunks the drill instructors systematically tore up each bunk. “Now, do it right this time!” followed by, “Do it again!” A drill instructor clenched his fist and hit a recruit who was standing near me in the stomach. He then asked, “Did that hurt?” The recruit mistakenly answered, “No sir. Did it hurt your hand?” Bad mistake. Wrong answer. The DI  pointed to the deck and shouted, “Give me fifty.” For me it was a one trial learning through another’s error. The only purpose I could see in all this was to show categorically and dramatically who was in charge and how quickly we would learn to obey orders immediately and without question.

As large numbers of recruits arrived near the July 4th holiday, it was several days before we were issued uniforms. As we stood in formation in our sweaty, wrinkled and soiled civilian clothes the drill instructor sneered and barked, “You Stink!” Of course, we did after rushing around the squad bay and marching on the drill field in the hot South Carolina sun. We were taught immediately how to address a drill instructor: “Sir, Private Brizee requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor, Sir!” To which he would either ignore my presence or say, “Speak, Private!” When we were addressed by the drill instructors it was a radically different story. We were called the acronym of Trainees Under Rigid Discipline. “Killers” was also an oft used name. Over time we were each given individual names, “Georgia Peach,” “Alligator.” Mine was no surprise, “Breezy.” Some were quite humorous, but all were degrading. At the rifle range when those who could not swim were taken to the pool for daily instruction, they would be beckoned, “Give me my frog men!” When field day, a euphemism for clean-up day, arrived we were told in no uncertain terms, “All I want to see are elbows and ass-holes!”

We were soon issued ill-fitting utilities and combat boots for our daily routine and shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes for physical training. Helmet liners, M-1 rifles, canteens, and cartridge belts were likewise issued for close- order drill. Each morning a drill instructor would yell from their small office next to the squad bay describing the uniform of the day: “Utilities, boots, cartridge belts, helmet liners, M-1 rifles!” Our days began at 5:00 am by jogging in formation around the drill field and standing in place doing stationary double time, while close-order drill, physical training “P.T,” and classes would fill the rest of the day.
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P.T. was the most dreaded part of the day for me: running, squat jumps, sit ups, push ups and leg lifts all done in unison. There I learned the enjoyment in push-ups of the tiny moment of lying on the ground before pushing up once again. “Ready, Up.” Then there was the chinning bar. It was necessary to jump up to reach the bar, then with palms facing away from yourself grip the bar and chin yourself as many times as you could before dropping in exhaustion. To graduate from boot camp it was necessary to get your chin over that bar twenty-three times, one of the most serious challenges I faced. We longed to see the red flag flying for it signaled that the combination of temperature and humidity would prohibit strenuous outdoor activity, which translated, no P.T.
“Yippee!”

Chow was served three times a day. We stayed in formation, each squad entering the mess hall as ordered: “First squad, forward march!” After going through the cafeteria line, as eight recruits stood holding their trays around the table, the words were sounded, “Ready, seats.” We gulped down our food in silence for within ten minutes we would hear. “Platoon 168, Out! Out! Out!” Often those in the fifth squad had barely enough time to sit, eating on the run out of the mess hall. I was so scared and hot that I had no appetite for weeks, but I always looked forward to the cold milk served in a metal cup. I felt for those in the Fat Man’s Platoon, a unit for those who were too overweight to enter normal training. They ran and exercised all day with very limited food intake. Only when they had lost adequate weight could they begin their twelve week training. Those who were somewhat overweight in our platoon were required to show the limited food on their trays to a drill instructor before being seated.

We went to the bathroom by squads. “Head call, squad two!” Obviously we learned the U.S. Navy nomenclature. Bathroom became head, wall became bulkhead and floor became deck. I recall vividly one day in formation after chow I was surprised to see a small stream of urine running from the boot of the next recruit onto the asphalt. I knew with him that it was not easy to have our bladders and bowels under rigid discipline. I learned quickly to awaken early so that I could have the peace and quiet of my own personal head call before all hell broke loose for that day.

If one recruit fouled up, made a mistake or did not follow a command, all in the platoon were disciplined. The pressure on us from the drill instructors was thereby increased by pressure of fellow recruits. It became a most important challenge to not screw up. To do so would bring all down on you. Although I did not experience it in our platoon, I heard of screw-up recruits being given a rub down with a bristle brush. Group punishment meant squat jumps, push ups or holding your M-1 rifle by the stacking swivel at arms length until it felt as if your arms would drop off. To drop a rifle was a cardinal sin and would lead to a repeat of the entire platoon holding rifles at arms length. An equally major sin was calling your rifle, a gun. We heard many times that you carry your rifle, your gun is in your trousers. This description was similar to the label we were given after any mistake, “Numb Nuts!” Punishment and labels were a part of the task of “squaring us away.” This meant out with the scuzzy civilian, in with the Marine. Never before had I realized how scuzzy we civilians were!

I was totally surprised one hot sunny day on the drill field. We were learning the basic steps of close-order drill, each squad moving to different commands, all marching in unison making right, left, and to-the-rear moves, and learning to take two steps after hearing, “Halt!” A drill instructor shouted in my face, “You, stand out here!” I quickly moved two paces to the left of the first row of the second squad. I was amazed: I had been selected to be a squad leader. I would now give commands: “Forward, March, Column of twos to the Right, and Halt.” In the squad bay each of us leaders had freedom to move from our normal positions of parade rest by our bunks. We were told to tell others to line up their shirt buttons with their belt buckle, keep their shorts and t-shirts tightly folded in their foot lockers, and avoid making black marks on the deck with their boots.

Alas, I was never good with timing. I was always anxious. In college a social dance instructor asked if I were a boxer because I always led with my right. I knew in theory that the male dancer always leads with the left, but was not good at practicing the theory. In singing I have always had difficulty with rhythm and counting. So, under stressful conditions I was overly anxious and frequently did not give the order to “Halt” at the right moment and right foot. Due to my error, the second squad would not be lined up with the first squad, a necessity of close-order drill. I heard new words one day, “Get out of here! Go!” I was stunned and did not know what to do until I realized that my place in the first row of the second squad was empty. In Marine language, I was “shit canned,” a phrase we would hear often. I was fired in the same manner that I was hired. While I have most often severely criticized my inadequacy and loss; only lately have I been able to see beyond the failure to the remarkable compliment I was given by being chosen in the first place.
   
Gradually we were molded into that which the drill instructors required. We learned to disassemble and assemble an M-1 rifle in minutes, wash our own utilities and underwear, spit shine our shoes, accomplish the necessary 23 chin ups in PT, address any superior as “Sir,” recite our general and special orders, name the chain of command from the Commandant of the Marine Corps to the Commander of the Recruit Training Depot, and know that the Corps was born at Tun’s Tavern, Philadelphia in 1776. We were increasingly called, “You People,” rather than the earlier expletives.

During the thirteen weeks there were no radios, television, or newspapers. Whatever we learned about the outside world was filtered and provided by our superiors. We had no human contact except with our drill instructors, recruits in our platoon, mess hall personnel and other instructors on the base. The most familiar civilian contact was the outdoor theater on the base which I could hear after falling exhausted into my upper bunk in the quiet of the night. The world was tightly controlled by strict command and the power to discipline.

In all of this training, I learned that the skills I had acquired as a long term graduate student were not relevant, probably even counter-productive. I had to forget initiative, creativity, and self-starting behavior and develop survival skills. My values were turned upside down. The new values which I developed were to be as invisible as possible by staying in the middle of the herd. It meant also to act outwardly as though you agreed with every order whether or not you did internally. It meant to keep whatever you thought or felt to yourself. I painfully recalled the old adage: “Mine is not to reason why, mine is just to do and die.” Obey was the watchword!

In these days Steel—the Marine was born. He was easier to create because two earlier parts of me were already leaning in that direction, The Solidier who stood at attention saluting and the Roseworth boy who learned to adapt to new circumstances and to get by and make do with whatever was around.

Another part of me emerged in the latter period of boot camp. He was created following our final three weeks at the rifle range. In every classrooms was a banner which stated, “The mightiest weapon in the world, a Marine with his rifle.” While that may have had a bit of hyperbole in it, the banner stated with clarity the singular value of becoming a marksman. We learned how to set our rifle slings so that we formed a firm, tight position, whether standing, sitting or prone. The sling cut into my arms as we took those positions for lengthy periods of time. I recall with some agony the day I cried because the pain was so intense. Several of my fellow recruits taunted me. “Real men don’t….”

We spent a week pulling targets in the pits while other platoons fired on the range, marking and patching where a round entered the target and waving different colored signs to show that location. Then, it was our turn to shoot on the range. There were days of practice, watching the signs from the pit crews telling us about our hits. We learned to sight in our rifles so that they were coordinated with the target. Then came qualification days. This was make or break time! From several different positions we carefully squeezed off each round. Then came rapid fire. Beginning in the standing position, on command we fell to the prone position, firing the one round in our cartridge chamber, then quickly loaded a clip and rapidly fired the remaining rounds. The first day I fired Expert, the highest range of scores. The second day, for some unknown reason, I did not qualify, not Expert, Sharpshooter, or Marksman.

Returning to our squad bay that evening, the drill instructor called for all who did not qualify that day. I was near the front of the line of those gathered. When I stood before him, he slipped on his leather glove, pulled back the dog tags hanging around my neck, formed a fist, and viciously hit me repeatedly in the stomach. I could take some, but weakened and fell to the ground. He made some derogatory remark to me and went on to the next victim   I was saved by my earlier learning that it was best for me to fall after not too many blows had fallen on me. Perhaps my years of schooling did help; I had learned how to act!

In all my education in learning theory, I had never read that physical punishment helped the learner to accomplish the task. Quite the opposite, anxiety and fear usually interfere with and distract from learning in the next trial. Yet a sadistic drill instructor with the authority of the Corps surrounding him could get away with such an act. The next day on the firing range, in spite of the evening before, I did qualify as a Sharpshooter!

Our final two weeks we were issued our greens, the formal winter uniform. Alas, the beautiful blue uniform with white cap shown in all the colored advertisements had to be purchased by the individual Marine. We spent this time perfecting our close-order drill in the late September days. The experience at the rifle range and the weeks of monotonous routine gave rise to a growing indifference and lethargy within me. I had passed the PT tests and qualified with the rifle, and it seemed that I had had enough. The terrible worry about whether I would make it had vanished. I was depressed and worn down. In these days I created a part of me which was not totally new, but perfected here. I would literally leave the scene mentally while my body was present. This was the Dissociator. My new part became vividly real to me one day on the drill field when I was marching while drifting mentally miles away. A drill instructor must have seen the Dissociator also, as he came beside me quietly and slammed the M-1 rifle I was carrying on my right shoulder into my helmet liner. With ears ringing I instantly came back to reality!

October 8, 1958 was graduation. We had made it, and were now officially U.S. Marines. Those who were regulars earned a stripe, private-first class. As most of us were reservists, we were privates and wore no stripe. There were no warm congratulations offered by our three drill instructors. They were formal to the end. I was not sure if they were good actors who always kept in character or were actually that cold, stern and aloof as persons. We were loaded on buses and on our way to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina for combat training. And our first weekend liberty and first chocolate milkshake.

When I engage in introspection, I am taken with the conflicting feelings I still have about my military experience. I am deeply affronted by names and labels given me, the authoritarian force controlling me and even more distressed by the physical abuse inflicted. They violate every value which I hold and cherish. They are the opposite of the persuasive nature of life which I value. I did vow, and have carried out this vow, that I would spend as much time promoting peace as I had learning how to be a killer.

Yet, I feel proud, proud that I could make it, that I could do what my career Army officer brothers did, that I could survive this rigid physical training after nearly ten years living in university libraries. I recently purchased a red and yellow USMC T-shirt and wear it when I exercise at the college fitness center. I say that it helps me to remember that I can do difficult physical tasks. In my imagination I am doing PT on Parris Island once again. Yet, I know that I am proud, and I do admit that I am “showing off.” The Show Off emerges easily on this issue.

The slogan: “We’re Looking for a Few Good Men,” surely gave the Show-Off more ammunition! I like to remember each July 4th how many years it has been since I entered the Marines, now standing at forty-nine. I enjoy sharing it with others because they are always surprised. “You’re kidding! You, a Marine?” Yes, even though they see a quiet, gentle person in front of them, that part lives on in me. Within, I am aware that this is the Show Off of earlier days who said “Look at me, Look at me! I’m Special. I am two years younger than you!” Back then they were surprised at my age. So, I live with the ambiguity of my mixed feelings of deep affront, great pride and showing-off.

Roseworth and Parris Island serve to show how our intersecting and surrounding world can change drastically, bringing forth different limitations and possibilities than we knew before they were entered. These two rather short periods in my life illustrate the more dramatic shifts in my world. Roseworth with its basic necessities and limited amenities promoted the part of me which can get by with little. The Marine Corps with its stringent requirements, rigid discipline and closed boundaries led me to develop more radical parts: Steel and Dissociator. Steel is a survivor. Dissociator represents a serious psychological response, the last resort when trapped in a situation where no other action seems possible.

In every occasion of experience, within every center of creativity, relationships with the world are a persuasive presence influencing who I may become.

Living in Process: My 43 Years in Process Theology is an interactive eBook by Robert Brizee, Th.M., Ph.D.