Memories Jun 2006

The GSV Journal: June 2006, Volume 3, Issue 6
My Pollywog Spanking
By John Shannon, WC-221
My devoted parents firmly believed that sparing
the rod spoiled the child. So, when I pushed the bad behavior
envelope too far, I also prompted a swift parental
reaction--a good spanking, also known in our family as a
“good tanning.” Of all my tannings, the pollywog spanking
stands out most vividly. It was due to a major miscalculation.
Instead of attending a special religious instruction
class after school, I decided to play hooky and to
go”pollywogging” (catch tadpoles). I took this audacious
action although I was fairly sure my sister would rush
home with the breathless news that Brother John had
skipped the religious instruction class. Why? Because
having just reached the exalted age of 12, I reasoned that I
was now too old to be turned over Dad’s knee and that
coming home with a Mason jar filled with tiny pollywogs
was well worth the piffling punishment--a bawling out.
Sister Spills the Beans
While I was dead right about my sister spilling the
beans, I was dead wrong about my punishment. Alerted,
Mother caught me trying to sneak my Mason jar of pollywogs
up to my room. She promptly handed down the
dreaded sentence: “Young man, you know full well that
we’ve warned you never to play hooky from religious instruction.
You think you’re now too old for a good spanking,
but you’re sadly mistaken. I’ve just talked to your
Dad on the phone; you will get a good spanking just as
soon as he gets home!”
Mother Turns a Blind Eye
While Mother turned a blind eye, I found and then
hid all the wood rulers under my mattress. With a metaledged
ruler, I took no chances—it was deep-sixed outside
in the garbage can. I had discovered that a ruler applied
smartly to the seat of my trousers stung more than Dad’s
bare hand whacking my bare butt. Just before Dad arrived
home from the office, Mother would run around the house
closing all the windows. The last thing she wanted was to
have the neighbors hear my loud howls. Before the spanking
ordeal began, Mother would caution Dad, diplomatically:
“Now, Frank, be careful, you tend to get
carried away.”
Misery Loves Company
Believing that misery likes company,
Dad prefaced every spanking with the same
comforting prediction, “I want you to understand,
that this spanking is going to hurt me
more than you.” Then, with vigor, Dad would
begin the “tanning” process. To make sure that
Dad did not “get carried away,” Mother stood
ready to blow the whistle on Dad’s ”tanning”
process. The louder my howls the quicker her
whistle. So after about a minute or so of my
howling (it seemed like an hour) Mother would
intervene--“Stop, Frank, before you hurt the
boy!” After a few more hard spanks for good
measure, Dad would then give the order, “To
bed without supper.”
It Hurt Me More Than It Hurt You
Then, the “pollywog” episode broke
sharply from our standard routine. Instead of
dutifully sobbing my way up the stairs to my
room, I turned at the foot of the stairs and between
deep sobs, I blurted out: “That spanking
hurt me a damned sight more than it hurt you!”
The second I uttered those words; I knew I had
committed a double mortal sin. Not only had I
“talked back” to Dad, but had used a “swear”
word. I couldn’t believe I had said such a
thing. The thought flashed across my mind:
“The Devil must have made me say that.” My
parents were flabbergasted. The room was
charged with shocked silence. Finally, Mother
exclaimed: “Shame on you, John, for talking
back to your Father and for using that swear
word.” Dad found his voice, “Come right back
here, young man.” I got another spanking.

Page 2
Memories
Carrie
By Larry Nichols, OH-306
Carrie was a small, black, intelligent Toy
Poodle with sparkling black eyes. She lived in a retirement
community and was accustomed to a leash
when outside. Normally considered a “ladies’ dog,”
her master, Bruce, was the one who doted on her,
took her outside, brushed her, and even brushed her
teeth. Bruce was a retired Air Force colonel who was
the sort of man you would think would own a Labrador
retriever or a German shepherd. Still, he and
tiny, fragile little Carrie were inseparable.
Carrie liked me. When Bruce left her at my
house, Carrie was always delighted to see me. After
a few minutes, however, she realized that Bruce was
going to leave her and would plaintively put her
front paw on his leg as if to say, “No, please don’t
leave me!”
Carrie had the run of my fenced-in back
yard. Yet when she and I went outside without her
leash, she stayed within just a few feet of me. It was
like her leash was still on. When she finished her
business, she would go to the back door and begin
spinning around and around, always to the left, until
I let her in the house.
She had a small foam-rubber bed. During the
day the bed was in the living room. In the evening I
moved it to the bedroom and Carrie went to bed
when my wife and I went to bed.
Each morning Carrie, just up from her
night’s sleep, would happily pirouette around and
around, always to the left. One morning as she spun
round and round, she let out a yelp of pain and could
no longer stand on her left rear leg.
I thought perhaps she had pulled a muscle.
But as the morning wore on, Carrie did not improve.
When she had to go outside, I picked her up gently
and carried her outside, waited for her to do her
business and then carried her back to her little bed.
That afternoon, I tried to telephone Bruce,
who was vacationing in Phoenix, but was unable to
reach him. I decided that if Carrie had not improved
by the next morning, I would take her to the vet
whose name Bruce had given me. I finally was able
to contact Bruce’s telephone number in Phoenix, but
he wasn’t there. All the rest of the day I carried Carrie
outside when she needed to go.
Carrie had not improved by the next morning,
so I took her to the vet, who found she had torn
a ligament and required surgery, which could wait
until Bruce returned.
That afternoon Bruce called. He assured meI
had done everything he would have done. He returned
from Phoenix early and Carrie received the
surgery.
I visited Carrie after her surgery. When I arrived,
she was lying in her bed. Upon seeing me, she
got a look of love and happiness in her eyes. I knelt
by her bed to pet her and speak consoling words.
Later, I held her in my lap. Carrie looked up at me
with absolute love in her eyes.
A few weeks later Carie was as good as new,
and once again happily doing her left-sided pirouettes!
Carrie, with Bruce’s help, sent me a card saying,
“If I didn’t already have such a wonderful person,
I’d choose you! Thanks for taking such good
care of me!”
Carrie died in September, 2001. I made a
personalized card, expressing my sympathy. I received
a note that said, “Thank you so much for the
card when Carrie left us. It was all the more special
because it was created by someone who loved her,
too. We never worried about her when she was with
you.”
Knowing Carrie was one of the greatest
pleasures in my life.
Try Outs
By Virginia Scott, CS-426
In 1936-37 three of my sisters, my brother
and I were singing on NBC radio in Hollywood. We
had moved out to California from New York with a
contract for a singing part in an RKO movie. While
waiting to be called by the studio, we did our radio
job and tried to get other jobs too. A friend told us
one of the movie studios was looking for southern
girls to play the parts of Scarlet O’Hara’s sisters in
“Gone with the Wind.” My three sisters and I tried
out but were not chosen. The directors said they
liked our southern accents but they were looking for
girls with some movie experience and we had not
had any. However, we enjoyed the chance to try out

April 2006 Page 3
anyway.
One day we were waiting in the downstairs
lobby of NBC and an attractive young girl came in
with a bandage on her face. She saw us and wanted
to know if we were quadruplets. We laughed and
said, “No, not even twins or triplets in the group.”
I guess we had a family resemblance and
were all about the same size (except my brother, of
course). We explained who we were and then, referring
to her bandaged face, we asked if she had been
in an accident.
She laughed and said, “Oh, no, I just had a
nose job and wouldn’t you know I was called to
come down today for an audition.” She was trying
out for a singing job on the radio. Later, we were
pleased to hear she got the job. Then, even later than
that, she got the job of the starring singer on the
Chevrolet TV show, singing and throwing kisses at
the audience. You would know her as the talented
and very attractive Dinah Shore.
The Grove at the Top of the Hill
By Carolyn B. Pledger, HP-501
There was a grove of towering oak trees rising
out of a mossy carpet at the top of our hill lined
with neat little houses. While I had a wonderful
group of school friends, I often longed for quiet to
think my thoughts and make up stories. My “best
friend” was always dreaming up games and things to
do. I never wanted to disappoint her or be left out,
but I loved it when I could be left alone without guilt
(I hadn’t yet learned how to set my boundaries) and
create my fantasy world uninterrupted.
One of my favorite places to “hide” and
“play “ was the grove at the top of the hill. Actually,
I had a lot of work to do. I firmly believed that there
was treasure buried among the roots, beneath the
blanket of moss. Undoubtedly, travelers on that
winding road on the back side of the grove facing
the mountains left their valuables in this special protected
place until they came back headed for town.
Besides digging, I often lay on the moss,
looking up through the leafy tree branches, which
embraced me with a protective canopy. The sky
winked at me, shafts of sunlight warmed me, and
clouds flirted with me. Birds twittered overhead
while squirrels and chipmunks scurried around me.
It always surprised and delighted me that no one
seemed to venture into this special world. I felt undisturbed,
perfectly safe, inspired, and free. It became
my special place.
One afternoon after school when I decided to
go, I looked down at my little brother who for once
was not in the mud playing cars with his friend
across the street. I ought to find something to do
with him even if he is five years younger. After all,
he is my brother. I gazed into his brown eyes. “How
would you like to walk in the woods with me?”
“OK.” I took his hand, and we trudged to the
grove at the top of the hill.
It was late afternoon in the fall, my favorite
time of day. Suddenly I really wanted to share this
special place with my little brother, with whom, to
that point, I had so little in common.
“Look up at those trees with the golden sun
coming down to us through the branches. It’s like a
church or cathedral, isn’t it?”
My brother gazed up in silence for a while
and then said “Yeah.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel like you want to
pray, Tommy?”
“I can’t pray because I don’t have my pajamas
on!”
Ah yes, it was cute all right, especially as he
meant it, but he didn’t get it. I should have known he
wouldn’t. I rushed home to tell my parents, I guess
hoping for some remedial action and empathy. However,
they thought it was hilarious. For years the
story circulated through the family and to everyone
we knew. I eventually came to see its humor too, as
it truly reflected the differences in our temperaments
that were a great source of bewilderment to our parents.
Surprisingly, in middle age, we discovered how
much alike we really were.
Why the WWII Surgeon Sterilized His
Pocket Combs
By Bill Reynolds, WC-520
I waited over 60 years but surprisingly
discovered the answer right here at Greenspring.

Page 4
Dr. Rex Ross was a surgeon at Base 20
Naval Hospital on Peleliu, near the Philippine's,
in 1944 and 45. With no Navy Nurses at Base 20,
I was in the role of senior corpsman or head nurse
of a surgery ward.
We served the military personnel in that area
of the Pacific. Base 20 did a big business in appendectomies,
and Dr. Ross performed most of them.
The traditional appendix operation left a scar of
about six inches. Dr. Ross left a scar of two inches!
His civilian practice in Hollywood included many
movie stars.
I was usually present when he examined the
patient to diagnose. He would first press on the
lower right quadrant of the abdomen to locate the
pain over the area of the appendix. Next he would
press his outstretched fingers deep into the opposite
side, and then quickly snap his hand up. If the appendix
was infected, the patient would feel this over
on the appendix side. This was the part that intrigued
me. He even let me examine the patient while he
watched. The white blood count confirmed the diagnosis.
When later on independent duty aboard a
minesweeper, Dr. Ross's training enabled me to save
the life of a crew member by rushing him to Base 20
just before it ruptured.
One evening Dr. Ross began about eight
o'clock but could not locate the appendix and the
spinal wore off; then he went to sodium pentothal. It
turned out the appendix was retro-cecal, or located
behind the cecum just where the large intestine begins.
He had to go to a third anesthetic in order to
complete the removal of the appendix, and the ordeal
lasted until after midnight. I am sure a lesser
surgeon would have lost the patient.
Soon after my assignment as his senior
corpsman, Dr. Ross brought a handful of pocket
combs and asked me to sterilize them. This became a
weekly event. He was about 35 years of age and was
a very handsome man whose hair was beginning to
thin. Sterilizing the combs would help prevent dandruff
he told me. It seemed sort of vain to me, and
all these years the question of why he would go to
all this trouble has puzzled me and I wondered whatever
became of him after the war.
Resident Jean Halliburton had the answer.
Her husband was chief of surgery at a Hollywood
hospital and they socialized with many of the stars.
Their good friend, Dr. Rex Ross, was dating Merle
Oberlin and was hoping to marry her. Unfortunately,
as Jean puts it "Merle was high maintenance" and
married a millionaire instead. Poor Dr. Rex Ross--
but at least he still had his hair, thanks to his considerate,
compassionate and capable 19 year-old sterilizer
of combs--me.
Wings
By Ed Thurman, MG-323
Memories
One day my daughter, Sybil, asked what had happened
to the wings I wore in the Army Air Corps, after
retiring from the service in 1945. After combing through
my past in the storage room -- I throw away nothing -- I
produced the silver wings. She asked if she might have
them, saying she would like to wear them on occasion, as
a piece of jewelry that represented a significant part of my
life. This was extremely flattering but I voiced my concern
as to the propriety of this–protocol is all-important to the
military. I promised to investigate.
Working in Washington at the time, I took the
Metro Blue Line to the FBI Field Office, passing the Pentagon,
so persons in uniform were prevalent on my trips,
particularly on the 5 a.m. train. My opportunity came one
day when an Air Force General chose the seat next to
mine. I put my Post down, explained that I had served in
the Army Air Corps for three years as a crew chief during
WWII and asked if there was a problem with my daughter
wearing my government-issued crew member wings. He
was most courteous–asked if my daughter was currently in
the military or had ever been in the Air Force. When I said
"no" to both, he replied, "Then, tell your daughter to wear
the wings as she sees fit and always proudly and with
honor." And she does!
Editor’s Note: Contributions are always welcome,
some interesting experience, a remembrance or recollection.
Contact Fran Richardson or Larry Nichols
if you have questions.
Editor:
Production:
Staff:
Fran Richardson, MG-410
Larry Nichols, OH-306
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