by Dorien Grey
But the most fabulous and unbelievable was the Deering Estate. John Deering was left either $24,000,000 or $124,000,000 by his father (when figures are that high, who quibbles about a mere hundred million dollars). He was also left a ½ interest in International Harvester. Young John, bless his heart, never worked a day in his entire life. He busied himself with traveling about, collecting antiques, and it was his dream to build a home that could fit them all.
So he did. It took six years to build. The tiles on the roof are from an entire village in South America (he moved the inhabitants out, removed the roofs of every building, replaced them with new tile, and moved the people back in). He admired a fountain he saw in a little Italian town, and had water piped into the entire town so that he could have the fountain that had formerly been their only source of water.
Since the water in front of his home was only four feet deep, he had his own private channel dredged to the deeper areas of the ocean. In a small cove in front of the house, he had a replica of Cleopatra’s barge carved out of stone (it took four years). On this, musicians would play while lighted streams of water shot into the air. He built the most complete and beautiful gardens in America; on the other side of the house, he dug a network of canals and sent some of his servants to Venice to learn how to be gondoliers. Each morning, the housekeeper-in-charge would open the doors and admit 30 gardeners with armfuls of flowers to place around the house. He once saw a play in New York and liked it so well he bought it and had it moved, lock, stock, and barrel, to his home, where he put it on in his outdoor theatre for friends! He died in 1925, returning from Paris on an ocean liner he had chartered. The house cost so much to maintain that his heirs turned it over to the state, to be used as a museum
See what I mean?
Oh, incidentally, I saw all of this while on a boat tour. It was really worth the money. One of the “nicer” homes belongs to a Doctor Stoyer or something, an eye-ear-nose-and-throat man from somewhere called Rockford, Illinois. Ever hear of him?
Played for the Shah of Iran, though we only caught a glimpse of him as he swept into the hotel. The hotel, incidentally, repainted his entire 14 room suite to match his Rolls-Royce.
Weather there ranged from hot (especially in our winter Blues) to frigid (for which we naturally wore our summer trops).
Tell me something—why do all the very tanned women in Miami wear mink coats? To me, suntans and furs just don’t mix. But, then, I don’t have $30,000,000.
Till next time, I send
Love
Roge
Letter undated, early 1955, written apparently to college friend Effie Fowler, though why it is addressed to Miss Wilde I cannot say.
Dear Miss Wilde
Sorry I don’t have more impressive stationary; I had some with gold Navy wings on the top, but I’ve used it all. I was just getting into bed, curling up with a good book (“SNJ Engineering—Primary Phase”) and suddenly for some reason I thought of you and decided to drop you a little line.
My handwriting has, if anything, deteriorated since high school, as has my spelling. I’m really ashamed of myself, but I’ll try to remedy it when I get back to college.
Local natives were thrown into a mild panic today when an odd white substance began to fall from the skies. Of course, it disappeared almost immediately upon hitting the ground, but it gladdened many a Northern heart. Naturally, it made me violently homesick for a minute or two. Fortunately, I am very seldom troubled with homesickness; never have time, I suppose.
Florida is supposed to be a sort of an earthly preview of heaven, but if it is, it gets mighty cold there. Jan. 17 I was lucky enough to go to Miami with the NavCad band. We got out of the plane in our tropical uniforms and almost froze to death. We were “honored” to play for the Shah of Iran when he arrived in town. The Iranian population of Miami and vicinity was out in force, and the moment he and his wife pulled up in their Cadillac we were nearly crushed in the stampede. I only got a fleeting glimpse as he swept into the hotel. Incidentally, they repainted his 14-room suite to match his Rolls Royce, which arrived ahead of him. It must be nice to have money….
Well, I have been at Corry Field now for five weeks. I’m not sure, but somewhere along the line I got the weird impression that I was a Naval Aviation Cadet, but since I have only been up once in those four weeks (or five weeks), I’m beginning to have my doubts. Oh, I get near them all right. Just this afternoon I spent three hours on the Gas Truck, running up and down the line of planes filling them up with gas. The truck I was on holds 3,000 gallons and had to be refilled twice. So now you can see where some of your income tax money goes. OH, Eff—I meant to tell you that while in Miami I happened to see a little movie called “Aida.” I can honestly say it was one of the most beautiful movies I’ve ever seen. The scenery was out of this world; the color was Italian Ferriniacolor, and even more vivid than Technicolor. The music and singing was remarkable, and the actors and actresses were wonderful. As you may have gathered by now, I liked it.
Even if you hated music, it would still be beautiful. There was no speaking and it was all sung in Italian, naturally (it is just as Verdi wrote it). An announcer comes on in English just before each scene and explains what will happen. Doll, you’ve got to see it! Tell Ted about it, too.
Finals coming up this week—yes, we have them, too. Only instead of being in English 362, ours are on Engines and Navigation. So, if I want to pass (as usual, I’m just on the borderline), I had best get with it.
Please write very soon and I’ll do the same. Until I hear from you, then, I will send
Much Love,
Roger
22 January1955
Dear Folks
Well, I’m writing, like I promised. However, don’t expect it to be too long, as I’ve got to go to band later this afternoon. Ground school has been cut to just three weeks! Before it was eight or ten! So that means next week is my last week of ground school out here. I’m not exactly broken up about it, but it will be hard to have to take those finals so soon—I’ve got a Navigation quiz Monday, and I’ve got to get a good grade in it or else. We’ve dropped our Aerology course altogether and instead are having a recognition course. We have to learn practically every ship and plane in the United States or any foreign country. They have slides which they flash on the screen at 1/50 of a second, and we’ve got to tell what they are. 1/50 of a second isn’t very long—about as long as it takes you to blink.
I’ve decided that when and if I ever get out of the Glory Boys, I’m going to become a professional Collegian. I’ll go to school for three more years to get my degree in Journalism, then I’ll go four more years and get a degree in something else, and so on. That way I can become one of the most well-educated people in the world. Believe me, when I get back to school, my attitude is going to be completely different from what it was—after all, I’m paying them to go to school—they don’t own me. I can do anything I want any time I want.
The routine around here would probably be of very little interest to you, but I’ll tell you anyway. Reveille sounds at 0530. The COOD (Cadet Officer of the Day) goes on duty about 0500. He picks up the mike that is connected to both barracks, and says “Reveille.” Period.
Now, most of the guys around here don’t like the squawk box blaring at them, so they either disconnect it or stuff it full of paper; so when the COOD calls reveille, nobody hears it. Everyone starts milling around about quarter of six, stumbling off to chow (which is just across the street, to the left). The sky is just beginning to get light in the east, over the hangers. The routine in my room is somewhat different. We never get up until six o’clock. Since we have only one half hour until muster, I never eat, though the chow hall is so close—I don’t mind, though: it’s usually horrible anyway. Well, we all dash around, washing, dressing, making the beds (or “stacking” them—folding everything up and placing it in the middle of the bed). The floor is given a very hasty sweeping, someone runs out with the papers and trash, and there
is a general air of ordered confusion. At 0625 or thereabouts, we tumble down the stairs, book bags and plotting boards under our arms, and out the front door. Directly in front of the barracks, which faces east, we have our muster—small groups of ten or twelve with one guy taking roll.
Then we all march the two and a half blocks to the main hangar. This is the center of all the flight operations. On the floor just as you enter through the huge sliding doors (which are only open a crack on cold mornings) is a painted copy of the Standard Field Entry pattern, which everyone must learn and obey if he doesn’t wish to end up running into or being run into by another plane.
In the center of the hangar is the operations desk, where you sign in and out. Large plastic boards tell who the instructors are, and under each instructor the name of his students. After each name is a large area divided into squares for each hour. If you are scheduled for an A-1 hop, this is where you find it and also what time. Also watches and lectures are scheduled on the same board, so that just by looking at it you know what’s going on.
On one side of the hangar are the numerous offices and mail room (stuck away in the Southwest corner, near the sliding doors). On the other side are the Officer-Students and Navcad Ready rooms, where you sit most of the day.
Well, muster is taken again at the hangars by classes—all band members muster by the Safety Notices board. Then, at 0645, we leave for ground school, which is located in barracks just about at the bottom left hand corner of the paper. At 1035, ground school is over. We go and eat dinner (I eat at the Gedunk—bottom right corner) because I’ve usually got a hop scheduled for 1115. Then we go back to the hanger and sit around till either a) we go on our own hop, b) they secure us (which happens on bad days about 1:00), or c) until 2:30, when everybody goes home. I haven’t had a hop all week, and it gets pretty boring just sitting.
Enough for now—my handwriting is getting progressively worse!
Till next time, I am
Always
Roge
29 January 1955
Dear Folks
Well, here I am per order. I’m afraid I have neither the time to make it a short novel nor the talent to make it a literary masterpiece. Nevertheless, I am doing my best to keep you informed as to my life and hard times.
Enclosed find a gem from Time Magazine—its coverage of the Shah’s arrival. They seem to have taken a rather dim view of the Sans Souci’s valiant efforts. One or two slight mistakes slipped in in the rush—he didn’t drive up in his $23,000 Rolls Royce—it was there when he got there. I didn’t notice the red carpet, but then I didn’t notice much of all. Fortunately, there was no mention made of the band. Oh, by the way, the Marine Commandant (Lemual Sheppard) was the one we played for at Birmingham. I think I did see the frantic press agent, though. He was bouncing up and down and waving like mad, evidently to get their attention.
I actually got to fly (once) last week. Thursday I couldn’t because my instructor had some duty or other; Friday he had to go to Los Angeles. I have hopes for next week. You know, I like to watch the weather around here. Usually it comes up fast—the day will be perfectly clear and all (or almost all) of Corry’s 208 planes will be out. Then, in the northwest, black clouds will start rolling in, and all the SNJs will flock in, like yellow chicks hurrying home to the mother hen.
And when you do get into the air and look around, all you can see are varying size yellow blobs. It’s a wonder they never collide in midair—especially since the instructor sits in the rear cockpit and can’t see a thing.
My phonograph is on the blink—I’m going to have to take it down town today and see what’s wrong. Also have to buy another needle, and an O.D.Jacket. And you wonder why I don’t save money!
Yesterday afternoon while on our way to band, we noticed a huge, billowing cloud of smoke rising from somewhere in the city. It looked like pictures you see of volcanic eruptions. When we got to Mainside (Pre-Flight) we could look across the bay and see flames. Several freight cars of chemicals had exploded in the railroad yards—firemen who knew a lot about fighting wood fires but very little about chemical fires, poured water on the flames which only made the chemicals burn more fiercely. The reaction caused by the water on the burning chemicals (Sodium-something-or-other) threw another chemical into the clouds of smoke. It turned out that the result was a dust which could eat paint off cars. So all that night the radio kept broadcasting to the area residents to wash their cars and put them away. Fortunately, though, most of the smoke blew out over the gulf—the government would have been very unhappy if the smoke had blown over their pretty yellow SNJs.
Tonight, lucky me, I have a watch from 0200 to 0600 (a.m.) And I also get it next weekend; same hours.
Oh, in case I forgot to tell you—I passed both my finals (just barely). I don’t get it—I’m not stupid, yet I just can’t get some things right.
Well, short as it is, this will have to do for now. I’ll try to write again soon.
Till then, I am
Always
Roge
P.S. I’ve decided I can’t wait till I get my wings to get a car. When I get to Saufley Field and Barin, I won’t have any way at all of getting into town. So I’ll just have to start saving my money and buy some old heap—anything that will run
February 1, 1955
Dear Folks:
Yesterday I saw a movie called “The Bridges at Toko-Ri,” a real Gung-Ho-Three-Cheers-for-the-United-States-Naval-Air-Force type thing that will make a tremendous impression on the public in general and a rather adverse one on the young gentlemen who are currently training to be Naval Aviators. As the picture fades out on the teary-eyed fatherly old Admiral, he looks into the screen and says dramatically to himself, the camera, and several thousand viewers—“Where do we get men such as these?” I could tell him!! Be sure you see it, though—it’s quite good, in spite of making all the NavCads DOR-minded.
Today was a beautiful day—all the planes were out—all but one, that is. Number 229 was sitting calmly on the sidelines waiting for me and my instructor. I was scheduled for a 1230 hop—I’d signed out the plane, filled out all the necessary forms, and waited. Well, I waited…and waited…and waited. He never did show up, so at 1415 I called it quits and went home. Saturday afternoon I saw a guy in my class (34) who was out at Whiting—he‘s on his A-15 and here I am on my A-2. So tomorrow, if I haven’t gotten up, I’m going to have to request a change of instructors; and when I say I can’t afford it, I mean it—every day extra I spend here, I lose $10 a day that I’ll be getting when I get my commission
Mother, are you still not smoking? If not, I’m very proud of you—if you have started again then you’d better quit, cause you promised me.
Saw the pictures of dear old NISTC in the paper and felt real nostalgic.
We’re through with ground school as of tomorrow, but I’ve still got 34 hours of Code to put in. I’m having one heck of a time with Morse code—I remember that it is one of the things that kept me from making Second Class boy scout.
As to my “rank”—which father is always inquiring about, I am now a third class cadet; which, comparatively, is about the rank of a snail compared to an ameba—not a very high step up the ladder of evolution, but a small one nevertheless.
Got to study now. I’ll write again sometime.
Till then, I am
As Always
Your Son
Roge
13 February 1955
Dear Folks
Somewhere in one of the photo albums around the house is a picture of yours truly taken about fifteen years ago. There are three kids in the picture—I think I’m the one on the left. I was wearing a genuine imitation Army Air Force jacket; my pride and joy. At the time, war was a vague word, but to be in some branch of the United States armed forces was comparable to a minor god, or a knight in shining armor. I hadn’t then the slightest idea of what I’d be doing at the age of 12. I doubt that I thought about all—to me (then in third grade) the very
peak of mental and physical maturity was the eighth grade.
Nevertheless, here I am fifteen years older and quite a bit wiser. I’ve always thought it unfortunate that the mind lives in the past and the soul in the future, while the body must live only in the present. It’s like riding backwards in a train—you can’t see the view until it’s passed, and by then it’s too late to enjoy it.
Sorry I haven’t been writing as regularly as I should have been, but as I said on the phone, I have been busy. The band is giving a concert at Mainside early next month, and I’ve had to write the script.
Also, as I’ve said, I’ve been flying every day, and it takes up a lot of time—you must know exactly what to do and how to do it before you get into the air. Providing everything goes well, and I don’t get any “downs” (extra time given because you don’t do something right) I should be soloing a week from this Friday! Of course, this means that every day must be good flying weather. One of my classmates got a “down” the other day because he tried to raise the wheels while the plane was still on the ground (which, you may imagine, is rather hard on the plane—especially on the propeller). Fortunately, his instructor caught it before the plane belly-flopped. I’m laying here trying to listen to the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, while one of my roommates is plunking away on a ukulele—he’s currently giving a slightly off key rendition of “Baby Face.” When he makes a mistake, he goes back to the beginning and starts over.
