It was cold, bitter cold, and the biting chill of the frozen night seeped through every layer of my winter gear.
The crunch of trampled snow beneath my boots was the only sound disturbing the stillness of the star-filled night.
The brightness of the searchlights rising above the lookout posts every hundred yards cast eerie halos outside the double rows of concertina wire safeguarding the camp’s perimeter. They extended their flickering glow beyond the inky blackness that stretched endlessly into the shadows of the barren and battle-scarred countryside.
I was on guard duty, walking the fence line with a half-hearted conscientiousness and bone-chilling weariness.
The task’s uneasiness promoted a menacing tenseness that intensified as the night progressed. My thoughts ran unchecked and swelled with wakefulness, only dampened by the routine and sameness of each passing hour.
My nose wrinkled and clogged from the stench of the cooking fires that wafted and hung heavy from the nearby Ville while the pall of the smoke they fashioned lent a hazy layer to the night sky.
Despite the frigid temperature, my probing eyes never left the fence line, trusting the tramped and worn pathway through the snow leveled by scores of sentries who trooped this track before me.
Unease was a constant companion as I searched and surveyed the landscape outside the wire, seeking demons and phantoms lying in wait and prowling beyond my night vision.
Worry, dread, and nervousness of the unknown and unseen cripple your soul and constrain your inner self, more profound than the icy blasts ripping through your winter hood and helmet.
They were out there, watching and waiting; you could feel their presence with each step you took, and suspicions grew more prominent with every image imagined lurking in the shadows, summoned in your mind, flashing continually through your consciousness. With fright and foreboding, those thoughts and fantasies gathered and amplified.
The camp was in the war zone, just a few short miles south of the DMZ, and danger was always present, with North Korean soldiers gathered along the border that separated the two countries.
Infiltrators, spies, and undercover agents were continually slipping through our forward lines to observe and probe our defenses, watching me as I searched for them.
Apprehension and fear are unnerving motivators when hopelessness and despair plummet into the unashamed depths of melancholy.
A state of mind that can only be mitigated with thoughts of better days, hope, belief, and expectations that my future outlook and prospects for a better tomorrow will improve.
Walking the fence line, with its long hours of never-ending contemplation and deliberation, afforded me ample time to think and ponder alternate viewpoints, amending my outlook and perception of what I needed to do to be happy, optimistic, and successful when I entered civilian life again.
The army will do that to a person.
With its vertical chain of command, differing levels of authority, and strict hierarchal system, the military stifles originality while rewarding a divine sense of entitlement with its rigid system of rank and privilege.
But not just the army, with its entrenched and structured culture, made me think and envision my plight.
The military revealed me to a line of reasoning that changed my mindset and attitude, which had slowly ripened throughout my youthful, unsophisticated years of assorted and diverse encounters, which had lacked organization and development and had, up until now, been easy and carefree.
I had gotten by in my past on good fortune, luck, cleverness, and some degree of talent, with a generous measure of pluck, brashness, and bluster thrown in.
What I recalled from all my past associations and the emotional and physical trials and baggage they presented, and the army had reinforced this throughout my year-long tour, is that a good number of people who receive praise for their professed importance or privilege and then coupled with inadequate know-how, training, or education, thrust into positions of authority for whatever reasons and then promoted upward within those structured hierarchical systems, gaining positions of power while collecting measures of accomplishment from that upward mobility, are inclined to overestimate their self-importance and vanity.
Nowhere was this more apparent than in the military.
This entitlement, when coupled with a stubborn self-denial of the many opportunities, advantages, or support that boosted them to their achievements, habitually empowers them to mistaken claims that, rather than some quirk of fate or happenstance, it is their singular self-fortitude, grit, determination, talent, and the proverbial “pulling themselves up by their bootstraps,” that allowed them to achieve their access to good fortune and special privileges.
This arrogance and self-delusion seemingly justify people in positions of power: their narcissism, lack of humility, and empathy towards individuals afforded lesser opportunities.
An attitude and way of behaving, after my year in the army and past involvements, I now loathed, despised, and vowed never to embrace.
That was the recurring theme as I reflected on my previous experiences and contended with The Good Old Boy Network and the social and community inequality those involvements infiltrated and permeated my present and past.
And I promised myself again, with each frozen footstep I took, that if I made it out of Korea alive, my life would change; I would be more tolerant and easy-going, and I would return to college with a renewed commitment and compassion, using my talent and consideration for my fellow man, along with a recharged purpose for whatever road lay ahead.
I knew without a doubt that education would be the key to my future success and fulfillment.
It was time to change direction and get off guard duty.
I now realized my only recourse and relief from guard duty was to leave the grunt work I had been assigned and the enforced bureaucracy it entailed, along with all the other mundane and dreary jobs associated with military life like KP and switch jobs, swap out my military specialty area of expertise I was randomly assigned in basic training, and request transfer to an administrative job.
Using my native intelligence, resourcefulness, and previous education, I applied for and was successful in obtaining the position of Legal Clerk for the Battalion. I was promoted to staff NCO and reassigned to Headquarters.
I was now administering and adjudicating the legal affairs of the thousands of enlisted members in my unit with my office, assistants, and privileges.
With more free time, on my hours, using my athletic talent and prowess gleaned from High School and College, I participated in organized team sports for the rest of my tour, playing football and baseball on the battalion teams traveling the length of the country performing and barnstorming on the playing fields and ball diamonds all over South Korea, while retaining my sanity, sense of purpose, and never walking guard duty, working KP, or touching a loaded weapon again.
The Seattle-Tacoma International Airport was a beehive of bustle and activity, jammed with passengers, visitors, and returning servicemembers arriving home from the Pacific Theater.
The main demarcation and separation depository for all military personnel inward bound from Southeast Asia, Japan, and Korea was teeming with commotion and hubbub, coupled with the unavoidable din and clamor arising from the chorus of demonstrators and protestors amassed outside the central terminal.
The anti-war protests of the 1970s were in full swing, as the bus from Fort Lewis had dropped me and the other newly discharged GIs off at the main entrance, but we were now alone and on our own as we disembarked and braved the gauntlet of anger, spite, and hatred that accosted our arrival.
We had heard the stories and watched news coverage of the welcoming committees that would greet our appearance and return home from hostilities but were all taken back by the mob’s wrath and scorn as security kept a watchful eye.
Who, after years of war, enduring countless protests, and shepherding thousands of returning soldiers through the doorways of the building, were immune to the shouting, agitation, and discontent of the enraged hordes.
Security officers ignored the picketers, who were sequestered behind barriers preventing physical encroachment with the returnees, as we, with eyes adverted, hastily entered the building and scurried to our boarding locations and the safety of the loading gates.
As my flight finally became airborne, I sat back, took a deep and thankful breath, and watched the teeming Seattle metropolis disappear beneath the aircraft’s wings as the airplane gained altitude, circled out and over a placid and serene Pacific Ocean, banked, turned, and headed for Salt Lake City, and the home I had not seen for almost five long, senseless, and unrewarding and years.
My long psychological and emotional nightmarish ordeal was almost over.
I could now start anew, refreshed, and with a newborn perspective. I faced an uncertain future and an unaccustomed life, and I had no idea where either one might lead me.
There was no answer when I called my parents at home from the airport, which was unsurprising for two reasons: first, they did not know when to expect me, and second, it was a long Fourth of July weekend, and I knew they would be busy and out of town.
So, I took a cab.
The house looked the same, with the key in its usual place under the doormat.
I let myself in, went downstairs to my old bedroom, found some clothes in the closet, and changed out of my uniform, which I hung carefully, ensuring my medals and awards were displayed prominently.
I went back upstairs and laid my dress greens out on the couch where they would be seen the first thing, laid down, and promptly fell asleep.
When I awoke, it was late afternoon, and the house was eerily quiet as I went back to check for changes in the yard and deck.
Waves of nostalgia and memories washed over me as I sat under the patio and reminisced on events and celebrations of the only house I had ever lived and grown up in and, for the second time in my adult life, a home I thought I would never return to.
It was getting dark, and with nothing to do and nowhere to go, I walked to the store, bought a twelve-pack of beer, returned home, and with newfound and untroubled independence, I drank until I passed out.
Morning came early, and the house was dark and unresponsive as I stumbled groggily to the bathroom in the early daybreak.
I needed nourishment, and as expected, it was readily accessible, plentiful, and more than enough to appease my emptiness and headache.
Back in the family room, I slowly nursed my coffee, munched on a piece of toast, and little by little contemplated my uniform, still displayed neatly on the couch where I had left it on display and just the day before had worn proudly home in great expectancy and anticipation of my homecoming and reuniting with my family.
The more I studied it, the more it came across as vulgar, tasteless, and unbecoming.
I soon grew weary and bored of its grainy coarseness, old-school, and unfashionable attire.
So, I gathered it, carried it back downstairs to my bedroom, stashed it away in my closet, and never took it out or wore it again.
Realizing my parents were not coming home anytime soon and it was a long holiday weekend, I called some old high school friends and asked if they wanted to party.
As I waited for them to pick me up, I checked the time on my wristwatch with its camouflage band I had purchased from the military commissary in Japan and worn throughout my year-long tour in Korea.
In a concluding act of defiance, closure, and a final symbol of my new freedom, I walked to the garbage cans at the end of the driveway and tossed away the watch, never wearing one again, as time now became my most important commodity and mine alone to keep.
I waited for my friends to arrive, and, for the second consecutive night, I partied into the wee hours of the morning, safely ensconced in my parent’s home, comfortably secluded in Utah, and shielded from harm’s way with nothing but time and thoughts of my impending future.
My parents finally arrived Tuesday afternoon, and, as suspected, they had spent the long holiday weekend at the family cabin in the mountains above Park City, Utah.
They gently admonished me for not letting them know when I would be arriving, but I explained when the army said to go, I did not argue; I went.
We talked long into the afternoon and night about the past five years, my many experiences, heartaches, disappointments, and moments of accomplishment, the serendipitous and circular journey I had taken to the present moment, and my plans for the future.
I also presented my proposal and a rough idea of my aspirations, which were both singular and straightforward.
Finishing my education and graduating from college was paramount.
Training for a career would validate that education, my former experiences, and everything else were secondary.
With those objectives, self-determination meant freedom to plot my course, and with all my siblings married and gone, the house was conveniently empty.
If they permitted, I would get a job, return to college, and move back home until I could re-adapt to conventional life and begin to attend school regularly.
As a family member staying in their home, I would no longer be on scholarship; I would pay for board and room, help with the house and yard chores, respect their space, and abide by their house rules.
I was extremely blessed and fortunate that my parents were caring, open-minded, and trusting folks whose love was unconditional.
They were never reluctant to send me off on another adventure, and their home was always open and welcoming when I returned, no matter the circumstances.
They both agreed to little or no stipulations and conditions other than working hard at school and honoring their house rules.
With a place to live and hang my hat, which is precisely what transpired, four things happened in rapid order.
First, I applied for the GI Bill to receive tuition compensation and get paid to go to school.
Second, I registered at the Veterans Hospital to be eligible for health care and medications.
Third, I completed the paperwork for admission to the University of Utah, transferred my credits from Utah State, was tested, and enrolled as a non-traditional student.
Finally, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, a friend asked me to play Golf with school, which was still months away. I soon became a fixture at the golf course and loved the newfound freedom it offered me.
The pro, whom I had known for years, suggested, “If I was going to be there every day, I might as well go to work,” which I did. Those two pursuits, Education and Golf, would govern my existence for the next half-century.
College would fulfill my intellectual curiosity, needs, wants, and the wonder and enjoyment of learning while corroborating my credentials.
Golf would provide support and economic advancement while satisfying my physical compulsions, cravings, and competitive desires.
It would also afford me resolve and a reason to get up every morning.
This is precisely what happened for the next fifty years, and my everyday existence became a predictable lifestyle.
I studied and attended school in the winter and played Golf in the summer.
Like clockwork, as the seasons changed, so did I, moving from one lifestyle and character to another, typically coinciding with the advent of Daylight Savings Time.
Along the way, I gained my diplomas, degrees, certificates, and accreditations while teaching at every level, including Middle School, High School, Community College, and University.
Active in Golf, I played competitively as an Amateur and Professionally, locally, nationally, and internationally; I joined the PGA of America, earned my Class A and Master Professional Classifications, and became a Head Golf Professional, Administrator, and Small Business Owner while traveling the globe promoting Golf.
I also joined the Broadcast Media Realm by launching a syndicated talk radio show covering golf-related subjects, including attending and airing the Major Championships on the PGA’s annual schedule. I also blog informative pieces and host my own streaming podcast, Talking Golf with the Golf Guy.
Meanwhile, fulfilling a long-time desire and compulsion to record my many experiences and encounters in life and sports, I started writing, composing, and submitting articles, stories, and essays to various magazines, journals, and additional internet platforms.
I was accepted into the Golf Writers Association of America.
As an accredited Journalist, Broadcaster, and Published Author, I now embarked on covering and announcing Major Golf Tournaments worldwide while visiting, competing, and reporting from some of the most acclaimed and famous golf courses in the world, including those on every Continent and Country on Earth except Australia, China, Russia, and Antarctica.
Along the way, I got to play most of the Golf Courses on Golf Digest’s Top 100 list, including some of the most famous and iconic courses in the world, including Pebble Beach, Augusta National, The Old Course at St. Andrews, Valderrama, Portmarnock, and Shinnecock Hills.
After much searching, I finally found my life’s meaningful purpose, which also became my calling, occupation, amusement, and recreation, and achieved the validation I had pursued throughout my life.
The happiness, joy, and satisfaction my career had brought me on my journey to becoming a Golf Professional were almost complete; all that remained was to record that journey for posterity and tell the story.
