thedrifter
05-03-09, 08:52 AM
Ron Jackson -- Reunion with ex-Marine buddy delayed
05/02/2009, 9:40 am
A buddy of mine passed away this past week. Edward Jerome Johnson was just 52, the same age as me. Not only was his death shocking, but until this point I have never referred to him as Edward Jerome Johnson.
Since our friendship began in 1972, he has always been "Squirrel" to me. I don't know why and never asked how he got the nickname, but it fit. Not because he was squirrelly, though; it fit like a big guy named Tiny or Skinny.
Squirrel was cool and macho; too cool at times and too macho at other times. We played softball together in Hobbie Heights. We both fell in love with the same girl the same day, for exactly the same 24 hours, and simultaneously dumped her without her even knowing it. We joined the Marine Corps together, went through boot camp together, and spent time exploring Southern California and Mexico together.
How cool was Squirrel? His coolness caused me some physical discomfort on more than one occasion. When you join the Marines, you are stripped of any semblance of civilian life and molded into identical U.S. Government machines. Most of the bright-eyed, scared recruits accepted this from the moment we stepped off the bus and onto those famous yellow footprints. Not Squirrel.
One particular day, about midway through basic training, Mr. Cool Squirrel emerged. After chow, it was standard procedure to run as fast as you could to formation and stand at attention until every platoon member was present. All 71 of us from Platoon 1020 did this. Number 72 did not. As we were standing tall, bodies locked, eyes staring straight ahead at nothing, Squirrel coolly strolled back to the formation. He was real cool, diddy-bopping like Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder in the jail scene in the movie "Stir Crazy."
After he finally took his position in line, the drill sergeant immediately put the bill of his cover on the bridge of Squirrel's nose. Sounding like a parent at the door at 2 a.m. reminding you of curfew, the sergeant asked, "Private Johnson, are you too cool for my Marine Corps? Huh? Huh? Huh?"
All 71 of us prayed in silent unison, "Dear God. Please don't let him say 'yes.'"
"You are just too cool to run from chow to formation, aren't you, Private Johnson?" he was asked again.
"Sir, yes, Sir," Squirrel shouted.
A collective "Oh, shucks" left our bodies as we marched double-time to the barracks for a couple of nonstop hours of compliance reinforcement training, commonly known as pushups, squat thrusts, bend-n-thrusts, and any other body movements that generated sweat.
We survived boot camp and were separated by only a few miles while stationed at Camp Pendleton. It was on a trip south of the California border that Squirrel's international coolness almost landed us in a Mexican jail. Somehow, we ended up just losing every penny we had. Squirrel returned to Kankakee after his military time was up. I stayed in California for another 18 years.
When I returned home in 1997, Squirrel was the first person I contacted. We had both changed. Squirrel was still cool, though. When I introduced him to my wife, he corrected me. "Um, Ronnie. It's Jerome," he said real cool-like.
"OK," I said to her, "He says his name is Jerome, but he will always be Squirrel to me." Over the years we would look at pictures from our California and Marine days, even talked of putting together a Hobbie Heights softball reunion. I think we were waiting until we were old and in our 60s.
Then I got the call that Squirrel had died. No, not Squirrel. Not the Squirrel who was too cool for the Marine Corps and bold enough to tell them. However, there his picture was in the obituary. It was classic Squirrel with his confident smirk. It epitomized his cool. I can still see him walking when he felt extra cool about something. He would hitch his pants by the buckle and walk away with a little extra bow in his legs.
I guess if we're to have that reunion, it will have to be in heaven because Edward Jerome "Squirrel" Johnson was too cool for hell.
Ron Jackson is a regular columnist with The Daily Journal and can be reached at rjackson@gmail.com.
Ellie
05/02/2009, 9:40 am
A buddy of mine passed away this past week. Edward Jerome Johnson was just 52, the same age as me. Not only was his death shocking, but until this point I have never referred to him as Edward Jerome Johnson.
Since our friendship began in 1972, he has always been "Squirrel" to me. I don't know why and never asked how he got the nickname, but it fit. Not because he was squirrelly, though; it fit like a big guy named Tiny or Skinny.
Squirrel was cool and macho; too cool at times and too macho at other times. We played softball together in Hobbie Heights. We both fell in love with the same girl the same day, for exactly the same 24 hours, and simultaneously dumped her without her even knowing it. We joined the Marine Corps together, went through boot camp together, and spent time exploring Southern California and Mexico together.
How cool was Squirrel? His coolness caused me some physical discomfort on more than one occasion. When you join the Marines, you are stripped of any semblance of civilian life and molded into identical U.S. Government machines. Most of the bright-eyed, scared recruits accepted this from the moment we stepped off the bus and onto those famous yellow footprints. Not Squirrel.
One particular day, about midway through basic training, Mr. Cool Squirrel emerged. After chow, it was standard procedure to run as fast as you could to formation and stand at attention until every platoon member was present. All 71 of us from Platoon 1020 did this. Number 72 did not. As we were standing tall, bodies locked, eyes staring straight ahead at nothing, Squirrel coolly strolled back to the formation. He was real cool, diddy-bopping like Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder in the jail scene in the movie "Stir Crazy."
After he finally took his position in line, the drill sergeant immediately put the bill of his cover on the bridge of Squirrel's nose. Sounding like a parent at the door at 2 a.m. reminding you of curfew, the sergeant asked, "Private Johnson, are you too cool for my Marine Corps? Huh? Huh? Huh?"
All 71 of us prayed in silent unison, "Dear God. Please don't let him say 'yes.'"
"You are just too cool to run from chow to formation, aren't you, Private Johnson?" he was asked again.
"Sir, yes, Sir," Squirrel shouted.
A collective "Oh, shucks" left our bodies as we marched double-time to the barracks for a couple of nonstop hours of compliance reinforcement training, commonly known as pushups, squat thrusts, bend-n-thrusts, and any other body movements that generated sweat.
We survived boot camp and were separated by only a few miles while stationed at Camp Pendleton. It was on a trip south of the California border that Squirrel's international coolness almost landed us in a Mexican jail. Somehow, we ended up just losing every penny we had. Squirrel returned to Kankakee after his military time was up. I stayed in California for another 18 years.
When I returned home in 1997, Squirrel was the first person I contacted. We had both changed. Squirrel was still cool, though. When I introduced him to my wife, he corrected me. "Um, Ronnie. It's Jerome," he said real cool-like.
"OK," I said to her, "He says his name is Jerome, but he will always be Squirrel to me." Over the years we would look at pictures from our California and Marine days, even talked of putting together a Hobbie Heights softball reunion. I think we were waiting until we were old and in our 60s.
Then I got the call that Squirrel had died. No, not Squirrel. Not the Squirrel who was too cool for the Marine Corps and bold enough to tell them. However, there his picture was in the obituary. It was classic Squirrel with his confident smirk. It epitomized his cool. I can still see him walking when he felt extra cool about something. He would hitch his pants by the buckle and walk away with a little extra bow in his legs.
I guess if we're to have that reunion, it will have to be in heaven because Edward Jerome "Squirrel" Johnson was too cool for hell.
Ron Jackson is a regular columnist with The Daily Journal and can be reached at rjackson@gmail.com.
Ellie