Old friends turn up when you least expect it . . and it's great





Ron, left, and Steve Cocks inset on a photo I took of Torrance

Beach, Calif., in the 1970s.Steve and I recently reconnected

after following each other on Facebook for awhile.



Thanks to Facebook, Skype and other social media, I'm getting reacquainted with friends from the old days. It's fun!

Last week a long-lost friend who now lives in Colorado called to say hello. We talked for quite awhile. Retired fireman Steve Cocks and I hung around in the late 1960s and early '70s listening to music in the local taverns, going to the beach and parties . . . trying hard not to get into mischief.

Steve was just out of the Army, including a tour of Vietnam, and I was finishing up my four-year Navy stint with shore duty in San Diego. Sometimes I stayed with his folks in southern California on weekend's off.  Steve's younger brother Ronnie and I were high school pals, played music, partied and surfed together. Ronnie was my first roommate after the Navy. We rented a little upstairs apartment about half a block from Torrance Beach.

Sadly, Ronnie died a number of years ago. But it was great reconnecting with Steve who laughed as we were hanging up and said "let's not wait another 35-40 years to talk again." We won't.

At left, drummer Bob Shank and I hold trophy for winning

battle of the bands in the mid-1960s. At right is Bob plays

lead guitar in his late-1970s band. 

Months back I blogged about singing in a rock and roll band during high school. I wondered what had happened to my band mates over the years.  A few days later, drummer Bob Shank called from his home in Redondo Beach, Calif., to say hello and let me know he was doing fine. I hadn't heard from him since the 1970s, so we spent 45 minutes catching up.

As teenagers we spent a lot of time in Bob's sound-proof band rehearsal room, trying out new songs and polishing our act. We ate on the cheap at a local hot dog stand . . . and played a lot of shows too.

Just the other day Bob was taken to the emergency hospital with a serious illness. His recovery will be slow and I wish him the best. Bob's plight illustrates that life is precious -- and short -- and I'm so glad that we reconnected.

Not long ago I got a call from high school buddy Nick Bednorz, a fellow musician whose mother ran a music store/school in the old neighborhood. And I've recently linked up and swapped memories with other high school and college classmates through Facebook.

Mark and Laurie Patton, 1970.

I've been an avid photographer since I was a youngster and it's been fun sharing pictures from back in the day via e-mail or social networks. Recently I sent a digital video of photos and 8mm movies of scenes from 1962 to the present to old friends Mark and Laurie Patton of Spokane, Wash.

We all enjoyed seeing the old scenes of surfing, parties and our families and friends. It brought tears to our eyes seeing the smiling faces of people who are no longer with us.

The clutter of Facebook and other social media can be annoying, but when it leads to reuniting family and old friends, there's nothing better.

Ahh . . . those Thanksgiving day aromas





Holiday dinner at Grandma and Grandpa Palkes in the

early 1950s. Young Ken Palke is second from left and

 the grandparents are standing in the right rear.



I love the smell of turkey roasting in the oven . . . especially when it's at the place I'm eating.

Thanksgiving is upon us. It's a time for family and friends, fine food and drink, and to say thanks for the good things in our lives.

Even as a youngster I enjoyed the holiday . . . making pilgrim hats and turkey cutouts, learning my part for the fall program, and four days off from school.

When I was about nine or so, grandma and grandpa had a very special cook come in for Thanksgiving dinner in Los Angeles. Grandpa's co-worker friend and his wife were from the South and she and grandma spent hours in the kitchen preparing turkey and all the trimmings Southern style.

They started with a jumbo turkey -- expecting a healthy turnout of relatives -- stuffing the bird with a wet dressing that included raisins and plums. And the sideboard was overflowing with enough tasty dishes to make a young guy's heart swoon.

After that big meal, us kids looked forward to a walk around the block with our beloved maiden aunt, Addie. As a special treat -- and if we behaved on the walk-- she doled out sticks of tangy Dentine chewing gum. Years later, I realized these walks were a part of a plot to empty the house of pestering kids while the parents cleaned things up.

In the early 1960s, my wife Pam and her family celebrated Thanksgiving  a bit differently in Oregon. Her clan was so large they needed a country clubhouse with enough tables and chairs to feed all the adults and kids on the big day. Her grandparents were farmers and it was a tradition that everyone helped in meal preparation, saving the turkey-carving honors for grandpa.

Pam's Thanksgiving dinners of the early 1960s

included a kid's table. Pam is second from the

bottom, right.

 

Pam's family had another turkey day tradition. After the last drumstick was downed, the kids put on a talent show for the grown-ups with singing, dancing, musical instrument playing and story-telling on the clubhouse stage.

When I asked Pam which of her many talents she chose to display at the event, she smiled, recalling how she pulled rank on her younger cousins. "I didn't do much singing or dancing, but since I was the oldest cousin, I coordinated things and helped the kids get on and off the stage. The bossy oldest cousin, you know."

A couple of years ago, Pam cooked Thanksgiving ham dinner for our kids here at home. Every carefully-prepared dish tasted wonderful, but even Pam would admit she overdid it. There was enough food on hand to feed an infantry platoon. Still, it worked out OK because everyone went home with a smile . . . and full containers of Thanksgiving leftovers.

This year we'll be going to my son and his wife's (Darrel and Hollie) Hillsboro home for our holiday turkey feast. I can't wait.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving is about people . . . and tasty dishes. Here are some photos

of turkey day celebrations from the 1950s through the present. Turkey

carvers and cookers in the top row are Jack Johnston, Shirley Palke,

and Fred McCall. Bottom left photo is from one of Pam's Thanksgiving

clubhouse dinners of the early 1960s. (Photos by Ken Palke, others)

 

Bicycle brings fun, exercise through the decades

Ken , left, and John Palke show off their Christmas bicycles

in 1961, a gift from the parents. The 10-speed bike is a

French-made Peugeot.

Over the last few months I've been disposing of stuff cluttering the garage. But there's something hanging on the wall I'll never part with . . . a 51-year-old 10-speed bicycle.
The lightweight Peugeot (made in France) represents both the past and future to me. As a kid I pedaled it to school, work and sports activities in ever-widening concentric circles from our house. Later it became a strand cruiser at the beach, and as I got older, a tool for exercise. Someday I hope to restore the bike.

It was a Christmas present in 1961 from Mom and Dad -- a derailleur (de-rail-er) named for the device that changes gears by moving the chain through a series of five different-sized sprockets. The bicycles were new to the American market then, but are commonplace today.

My younger brother John got a three-speed bike at the same time. We were thrilled with our new-found mobility around the neighborhood.

The folks bought the Peugeot from John Kucharik's bike shop in a small supermarket mall near South High School, my alma mater. Kucharik was a lanky man of European descent and he approached selling bicycles with missionary zest. I loved the sights, smells and camaraderie in his shop. There were new bicycles on the floor and hanging from the ceiling, with riding clothing and accessories decorating the walls. For a time, I even met weekly with his youth bicycle club.

 John died a few years back, but his family remains in the business today . . . designing, manufacturing and selling the Kucharik line of bicycle clothing all over the world.

I recall subbing occasionally in the '60s for Steve (the kid across the street) Drumright's newspaper route. I'd throw the bag full of Daily Breeze papers over the handlebars and deliver to houses following his carefully prepared list. I tell you though, delivering those papers was much easier than collecting payment from the customers.

 

There was another part of the southern California bike culture I found fascinating. Surfers too young to drive a car would rig up two-wheeled trailer carts for hauling surfboards behind their bicycles. It was aggravating when those squeaky-wheeled surfers would ride by my house toward the beach on Saturday morning while Dad had me stationed outside pulling weeds. I wanted to go surfing too.

 

At about 13 or 14, I began taking longer bike rides. One time a friend and I pedaled from Torrance along the scenic Palos Verdes Peninsula coastline to Marineland of the Pacific, a popular Los Angeles County aquarium that operated from 1954-87. There was one problem though, we forgot to bring enough money for admission. The 30-mile round trip was uphill all the way there, but much easier on the downhill way home. What an adventure for a couple of intrepid youths.

Now 50-plus years later that bicycle still brings me enjoyment. The trick is to get the thing in top working order so it will do me some good . . . especially around the middle.

 

Beach Boys still cruisin' after all these years

Beach Boys, from left, Mike Love, David Marks, Brian Wilson,

Bruce Johnston and Al Jardine gather around piano to sing at

recent Eugene, Oregon, concert.

It's cool when you can attend the 50th anniversary concert of your favorite rock and roll band. I've been a Beach Boys fan since they began playing Southern California shows in 1961-62 and I was at their outdoor concert in Eugene, Oregon, just a few days ago.

When I see those guys on stage -- or look in the mirror -- I realize that five decades has passed quickly . . . and that times change. Over the years the Beach Boys have had their ups and downs, but haven't we all. Along the way two founding band members have died, brothers Dennis and Carl Wilson.

Music has enriched my life . . . and the Beach Boys have always hovered at the top of my playlist.

The band originated in the Los Angeles suburb of Hawthorne, Calif., where my cousins Tommy and Marlene grew up. I lived just a few miles away in Torrance. Several beaches mentioned in the song "Surfin' USA" were nearby.

One of my first 45 rpm records was "Surfin," the Beach Boys' debut single on the small independent  X Records label. That was just before they signed with Capitol and became a national sensation with songs about surfing, sunshine, cars and racing.

As a young teen guitar player, I remember going to an early Beach Boys show at a local recreation hall. Either the place was full or we didn't have admission money,  so we stood outside and listened to the music as it reverberated through the doors. Beach Boys songs were a radio mainstay when I was young . . . "Surfer Girl," "409," "I Get Around," "Little Deuce Coupe," "In My Room" and more.

During the 1960s the Beatles, Rolling Stones and Beach Boys sold tons of records and played concerts all over the world. But it was Dec. 29, 1974, when I got to see my first Beach Boys show . . . in Long Beach, Calif. The band was enjoying a resurgence in popularity and were playing to sold-out halls everywhere. Brian Wilson wasn't touring with the group at the time, so his brother, guitarist Carl Wilson, and cousin, singer Mike Love, led them through "Good Vibrations," "Do It Again," "Sail on Sailor," "California Girls" and more.

Beach Boys Jardine, left, Love, left center, and Carl
Wilson, far right, play Bicentennial show in July 1976

at Anaheim Stadium in Southern California.

The  most fun I had at a Beach Boys concert (until last week, that is) was on July 3, 1976 -- the big Bicentennial Fourth of July weekend gala at a packed Anaheim Stadium, home of the California Angels baseball team. Supporting acts included the groups America and Santana, plus skateboard and stunt flying shows . . . and, of course, fireworks.

In a review for the Palos Verdes Peninsula News, I wrote that the Beach Boys played 27 songs that evening. What I remember, too, is a sea of people in the double-decked grandstands and shoulder-to-shoulder on the playing field, laughing, dancing and cheering with every song.

In fact, dancing in the upper deck became too spirited. Urgent scoreboard messages warned the cheap-seat crowd to stop dancing because the undulating upper deck was straining the stadium structure.

During the show Beach Boy guitarist Al Jardine sported a red, white and blue Uncle Sam top hat (see photo above), which matched the festive mood and was appropriate for the patriotic occasion.

I've been to a few other Beach Boy shows and I've had fun sharing their CDs with my kids as they were growing up. That's why I jumped at the chance to see 'em again when I heard their 50th anniversary tour was stopping at the Cuthbert Amphitheater in Eugene on July 14.

Beach Boys Brian Wilson, Mike Love, Al Jardine, Bruce Johnston and David Marks were backed up by a team of fine musicians. They enthusiastically performed 46 songs . . . most crowd favorites with several tunes from their new hit CD, "That's Why God Made the Radio."

The all-ages audience was loaded with Baby Boomers and their purpose seemed clear . . . to have fun. The evening turned into a giant sing-along as the Beach Boys played one familiar tune after another. My wife Pam and I were right in there singing and dancing, too.

There was an underlying message to the Boomers at this concert. We're older now and time becomes more precious with each passing day. That's why it's good to celebrate life and to have fun, fun, fun!

Beach Boys entertain audience during recent 50th Anniversary

concert tour stop in Eugene, Oregon. (Photos by Ken Palke)

Summer's here and the time is right for . . . barbecue



1960: Mom (Shirley Palke, left) and neighbor Freida Steinwachs

prepared baked potatoes and steaks for barbecue in our backyard

in Torrance Calif. The present: I'm loading a serving plate

of hamburgers and Swiss cheese fresh from the grill.

Summer is barbecue season. For the Palkes that means sizzling chicken, steak, ribs, hamburgers or sausage on the grill . . . often with friends and relatives on hand for socializing and a yummy meal.

Last weekend my son Kevin hosted a big family birthday party for his brother Darrel who turned 26. Kev's barbecued chicken breasts were moist and tender and the homemade marinade/basting sauce gave the bird extra zing. The side dishes were tasty -- seasoned baked red potato pieces, a multi-lettuce green salad and sweet watermelon.

After playing a few rounds of Scattergories, we topped off the afternoon with birthday cake and/or fresh strawberry shortcake. Later several family members talked Kevin into sharing the recipe for his BBQ sauce.

Moreover, there's good reason to hold another barbecue soon -- Independence Day!

Growing up I looked forward to the fun and excitement of Fourth of July barbecues. I still do. The menu included:

·         spareribs

·         potato salad

·         corn on the cob with butter

·         baked beans with brown sugar and bacon

·         deviled eggs

·         French bread

·         relish tray with plenty of pickles, olives, carrot sticks and celery

·         lemonade or iced tea

·         watermelon 

Mom usually made up several dishes and others came from grandma and various aunts and cousins. Dad sometimes added mesquite chips to the charcoal to flavor the meat. The food was served beneath a patio roof covered with red-flowered bougainvillea vines.

There's something special about dining outdoors with family and friends. Those were happy times and the laughter flowed freely.

Dad and Mom shared grilling duties, but making the traditional homemade ice cream was strictly Dad's department. He had this old green wooden-slatted ice cream freezer and he'd pack ice and salt around the rotating container of cream as we boys turned the crank handle.  Cranking became more difficult as the ice cream set up. Dad or one of the uncles usually stepped in then . . . and soon we had sweet, creamy vanilla ice cream.

After dark we'd light up sparklers and watch the fireworks. And sometimes us kids would sneak back into the refrigerator for another slice of watermelon.

I'm not going to continue talking about barbecues in the past tense. I'm open to any and all invitations to an outdoor grilling fest -- and I'll even bring the pickles!

The Palkes have used many types of grills over the years. The main goal of our barbecues is to have fun, good food and fellowship with family and friends.

Song reminded Vietnam G.I.s and Sailors of going home



Sailors from aircraft squadron VAQ 130 aboard the USS America
enjoy liberty in Hong Kong in 1968 during a break in action from the Vietnam War.
 Ken Palke is third from right.

Whenever I hear The Animals' song "We Gotta Get Out of This Place," it reminds me of the 1960s, the Vietnam War and being homesick. Sometimes thinking about it still gives me a little knot in the stomach.

In 1968, I was a 19-year-old sailor in the Navy. My ship, the aircraft carrier USS America, had recently docked at Subic Bay Naval Base on a deployment to Yankee Station in the South China Sea off Vietnam. The ship had stopped at The Philippines port to replenish food stores, ammunition and other supplies. When the new airplanes were hoisted aboard the 1,000-foot carrier, we knew we were bound for the war and round-the-clock air operations.

Meanwhile, the crew had liberty every other day during the five-day port call. On my first liberty, a couple of saltier (experienced) shipmates took me to Olongapo, a city adjacent to the base known for its raucous bars, restaurants and hotels . . . and for its anything goes attitude.

On the next liberty, we traveled by landing craft to Grande Island, a Navy recreational center in the middle of Subic Bay with hiking trails, ball fields, coral beaches, swimming and a huge enlisted sailors' club with plenty of food and drink.

We spent the last few hours of our liberty at that club sipping San Miguel beer and listening to a small rock band. As the musicians broke into "We Gotta Get Out of This Place," dozens and dozens of sailors and Marines stood up and began cheering and singing along. Soon everyone in the place (200-300 people) jumped up and joined in singing "we gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do. 'Cause, girl, there's a better life for me and you." It was a thrilling moment and sent shivers down my spine.

We soon learned that most of the singers were from the carrier USS Enterprise and were sailing home after a 10-month Vietnam deployment. I was happy for those guys, but felt pangs of homesickness as I knew we had many months left to go before returning to the U.S. Our war was ahead of us.

I was reminded of that day in Subic Bay recently when reading Dean Ellis Kohler's enjoyable memoir, "Rock 'N' Roll Soldier" (HarperCollins, 2009). Kohler was an Army military policeman serving in Qui Nhon, Vietnam, in 1967. He was a guitarist and formed a rock band with fellow soldiers to pass the time during off-duty hours.

With encouragement from his commanding officer, Kohler's band began entertaining troops at Army clubs and remote fire bases to help buoy morale. He describes one particularly harrowing truck trip to an outpost near Pleiku. The mountainous area had been infiltrated by enemy soldiers, that fact brought home by the "unmistakable clatter of machine guns strafing a mountainside nearby and the echoing explosions of air-to-ground rockets."

The music at that remote fire base that day brought the soldiers closer together, "trumping everything . . . doubt, fear and death" . . . at least for those few hours, writes Kohler. When the band began playing the soldiers anthem, "we were all on our feet, singing at the top of our lungs: "We gotta get out of this place. 'Cause, man, there's a better life for me and you."

As those song lyrics so aptly illustrate, soldiers and sailors would rather be anyplace else than fighting a war, whether it be in Vietnam, Iraq or Afghanistan

(Note: More information about Kohler's book is available at www.deankohler.com. Co-author of the book is Susan VanHecke). 

Ken Palke on USS America's flight deck during 1968 port call
 in Hong Kong.

A kid's love affair with baseball

Torrance American Little League All Stars sporting brand new uniforms in 1961. Ken Palke at rear center.

The sun's been out  around here for the last few days and it's got me thinking about baseball. The major leaguers are playing and in a couple of months our local minor league team -- the Salem-Keizer Volcanoes -- will begin its season.

Baseball was a big thing in southern California when I was about 11 to 14 years old. Most of the neighborhood boys loved to play catch or get up a ball game in the street. Often we'd go to the schoolyard to play over-the-line, a hitting game designed for just a handful of players.

A lot of the guys played Little League ball. I was a first baseman and pitcher on the Red Sox and my brother John played for the Padres and Pirates. The Torrance American Little League marked the beginning of each new season with a parade near city hall and opening day ceremonies at the ball fields a few blocks from our house. I loved the pageantry and the multi-colored rainbow of uniforms as each team gathered on the field.

As I am to this day, I was drawn to the warm sunshine and smell of freshly-cut grass and the cultivated infield dirt of  those magical diamonds. According to my scrapbook, the Red Sox won 12 games and lost seven during my 11-year-old season in 1960.

We practiced once or twice a week and our manager Leonard Fink hauled us kids to and from the field in the bed of his battered red '52 Chevy pickup truck. He was a patient guy, good with kids (including his sons), and obviously dedicated to the team. He taught my teammates and me a lot about playing the game.

Mom worked in the snack shop during a few games. Kids who chased down a foul ball and returned it there were given a free piece of bubblegum -- a nice treat in those days. Dad told me recently that he'd been roped into umpiring a couple of times. "They weren't too happy with me, because I didn't know too much about umpiring," he said.

The Red Sox won a few more games during my 12-year-old season in 1961 and I became a better hitter and pitcher. I was selected to the All-Star team and remember the nervous butterflies flittering in my stomach before the first game.

The all-stars played well and won the first two games on 8-0 and 9-5 scores. I hit homers in both games and was a happy camper because the folks were in the stands watching. Our dreams of advancing to Williamsport, Pa., were dashed, though, when we lost the next game. And sadly, a few years later I learned that one of my teammates -- Tommy Haslet -- was killed in Vietnam.

The next season I moved to Pony League where the fields were bigger, the fences were farther away and we wore metal-spiked shoes just like the big leaguers. I loved the sound of those spikes on the pavement as we walked from the stands onto the field. About that time I also started noticing pretty girls in the stands.

I played outfield for the Braves (I still have my cap) at Ryan Field, which was adjacent to the Torrance Airport. I still hear the sound of those private planes puttering overhead as I played my position in right field.

Though I loved playing the game, Pony League was where the serious ballplayers were separated from the rest of us. Other things came up in life and I wasn't the best curveball hitter anyway, so I didn't follow my friends into high school ball.

I've played softball over the years and still enjoy attending baseball games, but somehow those youthful days of playing ball hold a special place in my heart.

Days and nights of fun playing surf music

Craig Shumaker and Ken Palke belt out a tune during a Band X concert
at the Grand Theater in Torrance, Calif., in the mid-'60s.

I love to hear the great surf music of the 1960s. Dick Dale and His Del-Tones, the Chantays, the Belairs,  the Surfaris, the Challengers . . . and their great Fender guitar-driven instrumentals "Miserlou," "Pipeline," "Mr. Moto," "Wipe-Out" and more.

Some folks may not recognize surf music when they hear it, but if you recall the movie "Pulp Fiction," much of the soundtrack is surf music. The Beach Boys are celebrating their 50th anniversary this year, and they started out playing surf music.

Recently Kent Crowley's terrific book "Surf Beat . . . Rock 'n' Roll's Forgotten Revolution" carried me on a nostalgic wave back to surf music's heyday of 1963-64. Growing up in southern California then, I was both a surfer and budding guitar player. The book explores the musicians and their instruments, the small recording companies that put out the records, and the West Coast venues where the kids flocked to hear this new kind of music.

At age 15, I played some piano in a surf band called the Vibrasonics, mostly at middle school and church youth dances. For instance, we played a Teenage Dance at the Torrance, Calif., YWCA on April 25,1964. We earned $35 . . . split among the five band members. Mom and Dad were probably wondering if they'd frittered away their money on my classical piano lessons.

Kids didn't have to be great musicians to play surf music on their guitars, just exuberant and loud . . . with plenty of echo (called reverberation). Our band must have gotten better though, because a few gigs later, we changed our name to The Coastmen and received a whopping $65 to play the Hideout Youth Canteen at Redondo High School.

We were young and having a great time playing music for other teens. It was a red-letter day when I got my first electric guitar and amplifier.

The band spent a lot of time setting up amplifiers and microphones and rehearsing. Sometimes we'd practice in my Dad's garage and draw lots of neighborhood kids to watch us. Of course, we just as quickly drew my parents' admonishment to "turn it down" if the music got too loud.

Later as vocal music by the Association, Beatles, Beach Boys, Lovin' Spoonful and others supplanted surf music in popularity, we added some new personnel and changed the name of our now six-piece group to "Band X" (a takeoff on Brand X). I was one of the lead singers and our instruments included three guitars (one a bass) and drums.

We played lots of high schools, dances and clubs. We won a Battle of the Bands contest in March 1966 and were awarded a two-foot tall trophy (pictured above) and a headlining gig as top winners.

It was a great night when the group played for a dance at our high school (South Torrance). Lots of kids were dancing and applauding our music . . . even the teachers were tapping their toes. The best part: we made a lot of people happy that night, including ourselves.

Here's to my fellow band mates: Joe, Bob, Craig, Gordon and Ronny . . . wherever you may be!


Band X performing at the Grand Theater in the mid-'60s. From left, Joe Sarazen,
 Craig Shumaker, Ron Stone, Ken Palke, Gordon Sims and Bob Shank.



Thanks to the WWII generation . . . and Dad

Dad carrying mortar tube in jungle during WWII.

The last of America's World War II veterans are fading into history and it's sad. These men and women gave so much of themselves seven decades ago when called into battle by our government. They are in their 80s and 90s now and death is thinning their ranks daily.

I'm a product of the WWII generation, a so-called "Baby Boomer," and I've felt its influence all my life. During my formative years our country's leaders were WWII veterans -- Ike, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon  and others. For 50+ years world events were shaped by that war.

My parents laid the foundation in my life and they both came of age during WWII.

Mom is gone now and Dad (Byron Palke) turns 88 in July. During WWII he served in combat as a mortar sergeant with the Army's 33rd Infantry Division in the Philippine Islands in 1944-45. He was wounded twice . . . the second time by bullets from a Japanese machine gun, which led to a dramatic around-the-globe journey home and a three-year stay in Army hospitals.

For many years, Dad didn't talk much about his days in the infantry, which included duty in Hawaii, the Dutch East Indies, and New Guinea before landing on Philippine soil on the island of Luzon. Dad and his fellow soldiers fought in mountainous terrain on a push toward Baguio City. His war ended when enemy fire ripped through his leg. Then stretcher bearers labored for hours to carry him uphill to a battle first aid station.

These actions are both remarkable and courageous and they took place day in and day out in every theater of the war.

As Dad grew older he began to tell us more about his days in the Army. He gets together periodically with his old first sergeant (in his 90s now) and I've been there when they talk about the war. They grow somber when describing the fierce fighting and the loss of buddies, but moments later they're laughing at something privately funny about Army life.

I know that Dad, Uncle Ed (Army Air Corps) and other veterans are proud of their WWII service.They remember the good things and the friends they made during wartime, but deep inside there must be scars too.

No matter how noble the cause, war is a dangerous and ugly business. Just ask those who fought in Korea and Vietnam and those who are fighting today in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Everything passes, but before the remaining members of the WWII generation slip away, I say thanks to Dad and his fellow veterans for their sacrifices so many years ago. I hope that their great-grandchildren and following generations remember what they did.

Pizza anyone? Try Angelo's neighborhood bakery

Angelo Revels was my first boss. Back in 1965-66, I was a cleanup kid and pizza cook at his neighborhood bakery on Palos Verdes Blvd. in Torrance, Calif.  It was a great experience.

I really started working several years earlier, though, with a neighborhood lawn-mowing route. But Angelo Revels Bakery was the first place I drew a paycheck.

Angelo, now in his early 80s and living in the Palos Verdes area, has always been proud of his Greek heritage. He closed the bakery just recently, but for many years Angelo carried a variety of Greek specialties among the breads, rolls, cakes and pastries in his display cases.

The bakery was divided into three sections. The showroom with cash register, glass display cases and a few tables faced the street. In the evening, this was the strict domain of the high-school girls who worked with the customers. Directly behind was the baking area with a big gas-fired brick oven, the bakers' work tables, rotating pie oven, flour bins, mixers, refrigerators and cooling racks -- plus my work station . . . a double deep sink for washing every instrument, tray, pot and pan the bakers used during the day.

In a smaller room in the back, Angelo created his masterpieces -- frosted cakes of various shapes and sizes, including double and triple-decker wedding cakes.

Mornings, the bakers turned out dozens of loaves of bread, baguettes (for the local restaurant trade), dinner roles, muffins, cupcakes, doughnuts, pastries, éclairs, pies, cakes and other desserts. I came on after school at 3:30 -- tied on my white baker's apron -- and did my cleanup and mopping chores, while getting ready to make pizzas later in the evening.

Angelo was a good businessman who got in on the take-out pizza trend early. Since the big brick oven wasn't being used in the afternoon, why not turn it into a profit center by cooking pizzas? This was years before pizza restaurants were commonplace.

My pizza prep included grinding blocks of mozzarella cheese by hand, turning whole cooked tomatoes into sauce with the huge copper colander, thin slicing two-foot-long pepperoni sticks and rolling out dough to have enough pizza crusts handy when the rush started. And I almost forgot . . . folding together cardboard pizza boxes and stacking them near the oven.

On Fridays the rush started at 5 p.m. and lasted until we closed at 8 p.m. Wives ordered pizzas by phone for their husbands to pick up on the way home from work. Nothing better than a hot pizza for the family during evening television. A typical extra large pizza with the works included  a hefty helping of cheese, sausage, pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, black olives and sometimes anchovies. We didn't have fancy names for the pizzas yet and a loaded pizza was way less than $5.

During busy times, we often baked 15 large pizzas in the oven at once. Sometimes it was like leading an orchestra with pizzas going in and coming out of the oven at different times. And retrieving hot pizza pans with those 5-foot-handled wooden paddles was no easy task either.

But it was all fun and part of growing up. Angelo Revels has left a lasting impression on me . . . as have those sounds and smells of that wonderful bakery.