Wreathes and holly,
tinkling bells.
Jolly merchants,
Jesus sells.
Traditional
Jack Saunders
Garage Band Books
Box 10501
Panama City, FL 32404
Copyright © 2009 by Jack L. Saunders, Jr.
I was the government inspector on the turnover of
a tropo-scatter radio-relay
station to the Republic of Korea
Air Force (ROKAF) by ITT/FEC, who installed it.
I
lived on-site and initialed meter readings. We were at Kangnung,
in the mountains,
up by the DMZ. On the coast. I flew up from Seoul
in a Korean Air Lines gooney
bird (C-47). Mama-sans got on
carrying crates of chickens on their head. The
cook had worked at
a GI mess hall and spoke English. He cussed the wood stove
he
had to cook on like a sailor. He baked fresh bread and sweet rolls,
daily. The
seafood was okay, we ate a lot of chicken. Pork was
hard to come by and the
beef was tough. He served kimchee and rice
with every meal. You don't smell
the garlic on a bargirl's breath
if you eat kimchee yourself. I got to like it.
The hotter the better.
I was up there for Thanksgiving, but I think the job was
over
by Christmas. I was back in Japan where I was stationed.
I was TDY.
I drew per diem. The contractor didn't charge me for
my meals or the bunk in
the Quonset hut where I slept. This was
a conflict of interest. The old military-industrial-academic
complex
Ike warned about. I just got a rejection slip from the University
of
Tampa Press for a book of poems I call at the house.
My stove is broke.
My car's wore out. The roof is sagging
on its eaves. My printer died. New
ones don't support Windows 98.
Situation normal, chez Jack the Raver. All fucked
up.