Carl Levitian
member
My old man was a genuine piece of work.
He was a modest guy, low key and maybe the prototype of the gray man. I think he made a study of inconspicuous behavior and appearance, because he could blend in and get lost anywhere. Maybe a good thing in his line of work, that he never let on to his kids, exactly what kind of work he did. His story was, he was a government file clerk in one of the entities "downtown", Downtown being Washington D.C. where we lived when I was a kid. He'd disappear for periods, then return with very nice gifts for me and my sister from places like West Germany.
We had an apartment on the northern end of Blair Road, above where it turned into North Capital street, and while the neighborhood wasn't really bad, the bad neighborhood wasn't that far away. Dad eventually moved us out the the Maryland suburbs and a better area, but D.C was the place where I spent my formative years. It's also where I saw the use of a good stick.
Dad wasn't a gun guy, even though he had a little Colt .22 woodsman he was a good shot with. He didn't carry a gun, even though I think in those days, D.C. and Maryland hadn't turned into the liberal anti gun places yet. But a lot of times, when dad would take us kids to the zoo, or the Smithsonian museums' he'd be carrying a nice stout walking stick. Sometimes he had a flat blackjack in a back pocket, as they were not illegal in those days. The apartments we lived in were three story jobs, with an a dead end ally in back and apartments backing to the us on the other side of the alley. Mom had some family that had movers to the D.C. area for the post war boom in the job market, and an aunt and maternal grandmother lived in those other apartments. Often they would come over to visit or have dinner, and after dark, dad would way them over to their own apartment. But he went prepared.
JUst inside the coat closet door, he kept a sawn off length of shovel handle. It was cut to be about forearm length, and when dad walked our aunt and grand mom back across the alley, he'd put on his coat, and pick up his cut down shovel handle and escort the ladies. Nothing much happened, except once.
It was after dinner, and it had gotten dark, and dad went to do his evening escort duty. They all left the apartment, and we settled in and expected dad back in a little bit. But a few minutes after they all left, Aunt Julie and Grandma came back and told mom to call the police, dad was in a fight in the alley. Cops were called, and we went to the back bedroom where the second floor window looked right out over the alley between he two apartments. There was a common area where some people had planted some flowers and a small herb garden. By the light of the apartment windows, we could look down and see dad standing over two males laying on the ground. Aunt Julie and Grandma couldn't say much about what happened, other than they were confronted by these two guys with knives, demanding money. Dad told them to get back and swung his stick. As we watched, one of the men tried to getup and flee, but dad sacked him in the head and knocked him back down.
Flashing lights closed in while we watched, cops took over and dad handed one cop his stick. It took a while, they talked to dad, while the two guys were cuffed and tossed in a squad car. It seemed to take forever before dad came back up to the apartment with two cops who talked to at length at the kitchen table while mom made them some coffee. Somehow, my 8 year mind couldn't grasp how dad with a piece of cut down shovel handle took two young men armed with knives. Only later, when I was a bit older, did dad give me some insight into what can be done with a piece of wood.
Years later, dad took me into the woods, and showed how to use what he called snap strikes. I had a pocket knife he gave me, and he instructed me to cut a stick about my forearm length, and about the thickness of a industrial mop handle. Dad was always a knife carrier. He told me that if I had pants on, a pocket knife was to be in one of those pockets. Dad's own knife was a small Case two blade jack, a peanut. To him, it was a cutting tool, nothing more.
I once asked him about it, as I was beginning to feel the knife knut urging. I was 12 or 13, and a buddy had got one of those eye-talian James Dean switch blades. They were actually still legal in those days. Dad was openly scornful of a knife as a weapon. He called it a "punk's" weapon, but more important he said it lacked fight stopping power. Dad impressed me with how blunt force truma was a fight stopper, and cutting or stabbing someone was too slow. He was a big supporter of the "bash your enemy's" approach like the two punks in the alley with knives. The cut off shovel handle broke bones and made fighting on totally impossible.
It's been a bunch years since that night where dad took down two punks with knives, but life has re-enforced the lesson many times. My army service with pupil stick and riot stick training, my police service where we were trained with the strait night sticks, and my 'older age where I can get away with carrying a walking stick everywhere with me. And I can carry my stick anywhere, including court house and airports.
Maybe my old was a piece of work, but he seemed to know how to get by. He makes me thing of what Clint said in one movie; "there's nothing like a good piece of hickory."
He was a modest guy, low key and maybe the prototype of the gray man. I think he made a study of inconspicuous behavior and appearance, because he could blend in and get lost anywhere. Maybe a good thing in his line of work, that he never let on to his kids, exactly what kind of work he did. His story was, he was a government file clerk in one of the entities "downtown", Downtown being Washington D.C. where we lived when I was a kid. He'd disappear for periods, then return with very nice gifts for me and my sister from places like West Germany.
We had an apartment on the northern end of Blair Road, above where it turned into North Capital street, and while the neighborhood wasn't really bad, the bad neighborhood wasn't that far away. Dad eventually moved us out the the Maryland suburbs and a better area, but D.C was the place where I spent my formative years. It's also where I saw the use of a good stick.
Dad wasn't a gun guy, even though he had a little Colt .22 woodsman he was a good shot with. He didn't carry a gun, even though I think in those days, D.C. and Maryland hadn't turned into the liberal anti gun places yet. But a lot of times, when dad would take us kids to the zoo, or the Smithsonian museums' he'd be carrying a nice stout walking stick. Sometimes he had a flat blackjack in a back pocket, as they were not illegal in those days. The apartments we lived in were three story jobs, with an a dead end ally in back and apartments backing to the us on the other side of the alley. Mom had some family that had movers to the D.C. area for the post war boom in the job market, and an aunt and maternal grandmother lived in those other apartments. Often they would come over to visit or have dinner, and after dark, dad would way them over to their own apartment. But he went prepared.
JUst inside the coat closet door, he kept a sawn off length of shovel handle. It was cut to be about forearm length, and when dad walked our aunt and grand mom back across the alley, he'd put on his coat, and pick up his cut down shovel handle and escort the ladies. Nothing much happened, except once.
It was after dinner, and it had gotten dark, and dad went to do his evening escort duty. They all left the apartment, and we settled in and expected dad back in a little bit. But a few minutes after they all left, Aunt Julie and Grandma came back and told mom to call the police, dad was in a fight in the alley. Cops were called, and we went to the back bedroom where the second floor window looked right out over the alley between he two apartments. There was a common area where some people had planted some flowers and a small herb garden. By the light of the apartment windows, we could look down and see dad standing over two males laying on the ground. Aunt Julie and Grandma couldn't say much about what happened, other than they were confronted by these two guys with knives, demanding money. Dad told them to get back and swung his stick. As we watched, one of the men tried to getup and flee, but dad sacked him in the head and knocked him back down.
Flashing lights closed in while we watched, cops took over and dad handed one cop his stick. It took a while, they talked to dad, while the two guys were cuffed and tossed in a squad car. It seemed to take forever before dad came back up to the apartment with two cops who talked to at length at the kitchen table while mom made them some coffee. Somehow, my 8 year mind couldn't grasp how dad with a piece of cut down shovel handle took two young men armed with knives. Only later, when I was a bit older, did dad give me some insight into what can be done with a piece of wood.
Years later, dad took me into the woods, and showed how to use what he called snap strikes. I had a pocket knife he gave me, and he instructed me to cut a stick about my forearm length, and about the thickness of a industrial mop handle. Dad was always a knife carrier. He told me that if I had pants on, a pocket knife was to be in one of those pockets. Dad's own knife was a small Case two blade jack, a peanut. To him, it was a cutting tool, nothing more.
I once asked him about it, as I was beginning to feel the knife knut urging. I was 12 or 13, and a buddy had got one of those eye-talian James Dean switch blades. They were actually still legal in those days. Dad was openly scornful of a knife as a weapon. He called it a "punk's" weapon, but more important he said it lacked fight stopping power. Dad impressed me with how blunt force truma was a fight stopper, and cutting or stabbing someone was too slow. He was a big supporter of the "bash your enemy's" approach like the two punks in the alley with knives. The cut off shovel handle broke bones and made fighting on totally impossible.
It's been a bunch years since that night where dad took down two punks with knives, but life has re-enforced the lesson many times. My army service with pupil stick and riot stick training, my police service where we were trained with the strait night sticks, and my 'older age where I can get away with carrying a walking stick everywhere with me. And I can carry my stick anywhere, including court house and airports.
Maybe my old was a piece of work, but he seemed to know how to get by. He makes me thing of what Clint said in one movie; "there's nothing like a good piece of hickory."
