My Life

I.

Writing about one’s life, if done honestly, is difficult for most people. Sometimes, usually in a religious context, what is known is expressed as a quadrant: I know things about myself that no one else knows; there are things that I know, that others know as well; then there are things about me that others know that I do not know; and, finally, there are things about me that only God knows.

I can’t speak to the last two because, strange as it seems after all these years, there are things about me of which I have no knowledge. So what you will get here is a thumbnail of my life, which, I hope, will inform various postings on this site. Some of the good and bad, nothing of the ugly.

I was born in May 1940 in Cincinnati, Ohio to John Albert West and his wife Dorothy (nee) Lewis, and christened John Armstrong West after my great great grandfather of the same name, who, according to family lore was a river boat pilot on the Kentucky, Ohio and Mississippi Rivers in the 1840s. Perhaps it is from this ancestor–my namesake–that I inherited my affinity for our great American rivers, particularly the Ohio.

Eighteen months after my birth, my mother birthed another baby boy, my brother Carleton.  

My father and mother married relatively late in life, he at thirty-nine and mother at thirty-four. It was a first marriage for both. My father was an insurance executive in Cincinnati for the Hartford Livestock Insurance Company. Prior to marriage, my mother was an elementary school teacher in the Cincinnati school system.

I need to speak of my father because he has been central to my life although he died as a result of an automobile accident when I was eleven years old. I never really knew him as a real person. I have only snatched memories and grew up mainly with just an image. Of course, images neither have faults nor make mistakes. Here are the contours of the image. 

My father, known as Jack West, had a privileged upbringing in an affluent Cincinnati family. His high school years were spent at St. John’s Military Academy in Delafield, Wisconsin, where he  graduated with honors in academics and athletics in 1916. He then matriculated at the University of Michigan in fall 1916 where he joined the freshman football team, rumored to be an All-American prospect at fullback. 

Forward to April 1917 – the war that had been raging in Europe for three years spilled over to the United States. The sinking of the Lusitânia, a Cunard passenger steamship, in 1915 with the loss of 1193 passengers, including 128 Americans, markedly changed public sentiment in the United States against Germany. Along with other events, the change in public opinion persuaded President Wilson to seek a declaration of war from Congress in early 1917. Congress obliged, and a state of war between the United States and Germany (and the other Axis powers) was declared in April. 

War fever swept the country. This was to be the war to end all wars or, in another version, the war to save the world for democracy.

My father was swept up. He left the University of Michigan that spring to join the Marine Corps, going to boot camp and officer’s training school at Quantico, Virginia. Commissioned a second lieutenant, he was soon on a troop transport to France as part of General John J. Pershing’s American Expeditionary Force. He was nineteen years old.

It is generally acknowledged that America’s entry into the war turned the tide in favor of the allies. And, although Army men would surely disagree, it was the Marines, engaged in key battles in France on the Western Front, that made the difference. The battles of Belleau Wood, Chateau Thierry, Mont Blanc Ridge, and others, are enshrined in Marine Corps history. My father was in most of these battles. In October 1918, a little more than a month before the armistice, he was wounded in the head by a machine-gun bullet in the Battle of Mont Blanc while performing a dangerous scouting mission. An eighth of an inch to the left and I would not be here. As it was, my father lost the hearing in his right ear. 

The Great War (now known as World War I) ended with an armistice (a truce of sorts where nobody wins or loses; the fighting just stops) “on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month” in 1918. My father had been in action for less than six months. After recovering from his wound in a hospital in Paris, he returned to the United States in time to march with his old company down Fifth Avenue in New York City as part of the Victory Parade. Shortly after returning home, he was honorably discharged with the rank of Captain.

For his service in one of the last major battles of the war — the Battle of Mont Blanc Ridge — he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross (the Army’s highest decoration), the Navy Cross (the Navy’s highest decoration), and the Purple Heart. He was also nominated for the Medal of Honor. The medal was not awarded, because, according to family lore, General “Black Jack” Pershing, an Army man, did not want the Marines to get too much credit for the AEF’s success in ending the Great War. I had my father’s medals framed for my mother; they now hang inconspicuously in a corner of my study as I write.

My father was welcomed home by his family and community as a genuine war hero, and for the rest of his life, he was revered among his many friends, as a man who had faced the ultimate test of courage and acquitted himself with honor. One of his closest friend in the war was Clifton B. Cates, who later served with distinction in the Pacific Theater of World War II. Afterwards he finished his service career as Commandant of the Marine Corps. His crowning achievement as commandant was to dissuade President Harry Truman from abolishing the Marine Corps as a part of his program to streamline and modernize the U.S. military. 

He and his wife Jane were my godparents.

Returning to Cincinnati, my father brought with him Carl Wallace, his other good friend from the war. Carl quickly fell in love with my father’s sister Alice, and they were soon married. 

It was then decided that the three of them would light out for California, where the opportunities for fun and profit seemed unlimited. Once there, they settled in the Long Beach/Los Angeles area where, for the decade of the Roaring 20s, they lived the high life for which the decade is famous. 

I have no idea what my father did during this time of his life. He apparently had no idea of returning to college, learning a profession, or carving out a way to make a living. There always was plenty of money from his father. There must have been women in his life, but none who became a serious prospect for marriage. 

In 1930, still at a loss for what to do with his life, he decided to travel around the world, sailing first to Casablanca in North Africa and the Mediterranean on the SS France, a French luxury ocean liner. I have some of the journals he kept. When he was in France, he visited the American Military Cemetery at Belleau Wood. Afterward, he wrote a memoir of the battle, which I have donated to the Marine Corps Historical Society. I intend to publish the memoir on this website.

The rest of the round-the-world trip included a railway transit across the vast reaches of Russia on the Trans-Siberian Railway, and then steamship passage to San Francisco from Yokohama, Japan. 

Returning to Cincinnati, as far as I can tell, my father still had no plan for his life. Ultimately, his only option was to go to work with his father (my grandfather) in the livestock insurance business. While that was honorable employment, it must have seemed a precipitous comedown for a decorated Marine officer, a world traveler, and the high-flying lifestyle he had led in California.

My mother and father grew up across the street from one another in Winton Place, Ohio, at the time a fashionable suburb of Cincinnati, but did not know one another. Somehow they connected in the 1930s, and after a brief courtship, married in 1937. I guess my father decided that at least he should get married. 

A few years later, I entered the world. 

In 1943, my father inherited Kenton Farm located in southern Campbell County in Northern Kentucky. The farm – 365 acres large – lay along the Licking River, what was left of a full 640 section that my great grandfather had acquired at a bankruptcy sale in 1913. Purchased for the virgin stand of timber, the magnificent trees were harvested and the logs floated down the Licking River to Cincinnati for sale. The cleared portion of the tract then became a farm that was named Kenton Farm. 

From about 1920 to 1943 my grandfather, Robert Henry West, had a thoroughbred racing stable on the property. But by the time my parents moved there in 1946 after my grandfather’s death, the racehorses were long gone, having been replaced by, of all things, a dairy operation.

I grew up at Kenton Farm and came to know all its wonders. I worked the fields, baled hay, plowed and harrowed fields for crops, and did everything that goes with raising and curing burley tobacco that one could do. If anybody were to ask — who are you really, John? I would say: ‘I’m a farm boy at heart.’ Kenton Farm was a beautiful and special place that I loved. As events would play out, I took care of it for fifty-five years. When time had passed it by and I finally took steps to sell the property, the acreage and the buildings never looked better or were better cared for. 

The portion of the farm with the home, barn and other buildings were purchased at an auction sale in 2004 by Jeff and Rachel Hulette. By all appearances, they have continued to love and care for the property as I did.

I knew everything important about the farm: where the stands of various tree species were—the majestic beeches (my favorite tree), the tall and sturdy white and red oaks, tall, straight graceful tulip poplars, and the stands of walnut, maple and ash trees. I knew where the wildflowers were and the natural springs. And I could ride a horse, learning by riding bareback with only a halter and lead for a bridle.

It is said that life can change in an instant, and that was certainly the case for my life, and for my mother and brother Carl. That instant came on a warm July night in 1951. After hosting a summer picnic for the AEF Second Division (my father’s military division in the war) at the farm, we went to Grant’s Lick, the nearest little town, to get an ice cream cone. We had a brand new Chevrolet station wagon. On the way back, my father decided to go the long way home, via Clay Ridge Road. Shortly after getting our ice cream and beginning the return trip, there came a terrific thunderstorm. 

We were proceeding down a long grade on a country road. At the bottom of the grade, the road made a sharp right turn over a bridge. At some point, the rain and wet roadway caused the brakes to go out on this new automobile. I remember my father yelling something as we picked up speed. At the bottom, the speed of the car prevented us from making the turn over the bridge, and we went over a ten-foot embankment into the creek. 

I have no memory of the crash or what happened afterward. Eventually, an ambulance came and took us to Spears Memorial Hospital in Dayton, Kentucky. This was in the days before seat belts, so my father had hit the steering column, which broke one of his hips. My mother’s face hit the windshield, which caused severe cuts on her face. Carl and I, in the back seat, were uninjured. We eventually returned home when my grandparents picked us up at the hospital. 

Ten days later, my father died of a blood clot that had traveled to the brain from the broken hip. The family doctor was heard to say “I was afraid of that.”

General Cates, then Commandant of the Marine Corps, attended my father’s funeral, along with and several other Marine generals. I still have the flag that covered his coffin, which, after being folded by a Marine Honor Guard, was handed to my mother by General Cates. It has forty-eight stars.

Later, at a reception following the funeral, my uncle, Carl Wallace, came to me and said: “Johnny, you are the man of the family now. It’s your job to take care of your mother and brother, and Kenton Farm.” I was eleven years old. 

My father left no estate other than the farm and a small military pension from his service in the war. The farm lost money every year and was a cash drain. We were essentially destitute, land poor.

Even though there was a family lawyer, nobody suggested suing General Motors for the defective brakes on the new Chevrolet station wagon. Nor did anyone suggest suing the doctor for malpractice by failing to prescribe a blood thinner as simple as aspirin to prevent blood clots. It was a different time; filing lawsuits was unseemly.

Looking back, I don’t know how we managed. My grandparents helped from time to time. Eventually, Mother got a teaching certificate in Kentucky and taught second grade at Grants Lick Elementary School, where Carl and I had attended. Later I contracted to sell timber from our woodlands, which paid for the repair of buildings and the main house. Somehow, we got by.

After my father’s death, Carl and I began to notice that, at times, Mother was just not right. It was extremely upsetting. Finally, I asked an aunt what was happening. I have never forgotten her words, spoken over seventy years ago: “I’m sorry Johnny, your mother has just had a little too much to drink.” 

That was my introduction to the disease of alcoholism, which I dealt with until Mother was well past eighty years old. It’s painful for me to remember the awful effects of Mother’s affliction. I tried various ways to get her to stop drinking. We made deals. They lasted a few weeks. I then took to finding where Mother hid the cheap sherry wine she drank and poured it down the drain. I talked to the doctor. Nothing worked for longer than a few weeks. We became dysfunctional as a family. The silence was deafening, a common attribute of families with an alcoholic parent. 

The terrible thing about alcoholism is it takes away the person you love. Sober,  Mother was a wonderful person. She had a great sense of humor, played the piano by ear, and had the gift of friendship, which she extended freely. But drinking caused a frightening Jekyll/Hyde phenomenon. Mother became someone else and was somewhere else, zoned out. 

Mother’s alcoholism had a pronounced effect on me and my brother. We both suffered from depression and anxiety for most of our adult lives. It was our cross to bear; I would not wish it on anyone.

But life had to go on. After elementary school, I attended Campbell County High School in Alexandria, Kentucky. It was a mediocre high school, and I was a mediocre student, receiving no encouragement from anyone to knuckle down and excel. Mother’s view was that my father’s war record, and the family name West, would make my way in life for me. As I was to painfully find out, that was an appallingly naïve and wrong-headed view. Each generation has to make its own way.

Since my father had been a star athlete at St. John’s Military Academy, I believed I should be a star athlete as well. So I went out for the football team. I made the team but never progressed further than playing linebacker on defense, far from a standout. I did intercept a pass once; that was the high watermark of my football career. My brother Carl, on the other hand, inherited some of our father’s athletic ability, playing at the end position on offense. Carl was also a good basketball player, playing on the team that went to the Kentucky Sweet Sixteen high school basketball tournament, the first time the Campbell County Camels had ever made an appearance.

There was no money for college after high school, so I worked for a year at Procter & Gamble in Cincinnati unloading freight cars at Ivorydale. I have handled enough Mr. Clean, Tide, and Oxydol (now discontinued) to clean and launder most of Cincinnati for an eternity. Then I worked for Newport Steel in some kind of office job. At the end of a year, I had enough savings that, together with loans, would pay for college

I wanted to go away to college, particularly to an Ivy League school. But my mediocre high school grades and lack of money put these institutions out of reach. So I decided I would go out west to school. The University of Wyoming in Laramie seemed a good choice. I was attracted to the American West probably from my comic book days with The Lone Ranger, Gene Autry, Tom Mix, et al. Wyoming seemed to fit. So I applied and was accepted. But first: A trip which my good friend Bud (Harold) Shaw calls The Great Sojourn. 

In the summer of 1959, my brother Carl and I, together with Bud Shaw and Roger Gosney, toured the American West. We took my mother’s 1953 Oldsmobile ‘98 sedan, which was one of the classic freeway cruisers of the 1950 s. Over the course of a month we traveled 8,000 miles, mostly at 80-85 miles an hour. Our route took us from Kentucky through Missouri to the “great” state of Texas, where we stopped to visit a cousin in Abilene, then on to the Four Corners area (where Colorado, Texas, New Mexico and Utah share a common boundary), thence to the Grand Canyon. From there, we crossed Death Valley at night to Long Beach, California, where we visited my aunt and uncle, Carl and Alice Wallace.  

Then, we drove north to the Sierra Nevadas for camping and fishing in high mountain lakes. Afterwards, driving through Northern California, we heard on the car radio about a forest fire in the area and a call for volunteer firefighters. We decided to sign up. The fire, known now in forest fire fighting circles as the Mt. Shasta fire, was still small when we arrived at the fire camp – about 1,000 acres. We spent a night in fire camp; the next day we were trucked to a spot near the fire line and then hiked in from there upon one hill, down and up another hill, all through mesquite shrubs until we reached the fire. We were doing our jobs of making a fire break and putting out spot fires when the wind suddenly picked up, which caused  the fire to blow up. I remember standing on the fire line with my shovel watching as the out of control fire overran a D9 Caterpillar dozer, which the operator had abandoned seconds before the fire reached him. For a while we were surrounded by the fire, until the crew leaders found a way to get Dodge Power Wagons in to rescue us. It was a thirty mile, thirteen hour ride, crammed with twelve exhausted firefighters, to get back to the fire camp. 

When we left the next day, the fire was out of control, and was burning over 10,000 acres. To this day the Mt. Shasta Forest Fire is known in fire fighting circles as one of California’s largest forest fires. This was the real deal as far as fire fighting goes. 

As I had to be home to get ready for college, we asked to be released from the fire crew, which thankfully was granted. Our experience as novice firefighters on the Mt. Shasta fire is worthy of a full write-up, as it was one of the signal experiences of my coming of age years. As my friend Bud Shaw is fond of saying, that write-up will come ITFOT (in the fullness of time).  

After leaving the Mt. Shasta fire camp, it was on to Boise, Idaho. When we arrived in Boise, we looked for a motel with a swimming pool. We were filthy dirty and smelly from our firefighting duties. After taking a room, we pulled on swimming trunks and jumped in the pool, emerging sometime later refreshed and clean. We probably clogged the filter for the pool, but we were long gone before any problems cropped up. 

Then it was on to Billings, Montana to visit another cousin, who took us trout fishing on the famous Yellowstone River. We fancied ourselves gentlemen sportsmen who eschewed bait fishing and spinning rods in favor of fly rods and hand tied trout flies. In truth, we did not know what the hell we were doing, which I am sure was painfully apparent to my cousin, himself an accomplished master of all things fly fishing. And, of course, we didn’t catch any fish.

After Billings, it was a long drive home, straight through Wyoming, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, and Illinois.

Shortly after arriving home, it was time for me to go off to college. And so, in August 1959, I took the train to Chicago and boarded a Burlington Northern train to Denver. From Denver, I took a bus to Laramie, where I matriculated as a freshman at Wyoming’s state university. 

Of course, I had to play football, right? There was my father’s ghost, sitting on my shoulder, telling me that my father played freshman football at the University of Michigan; and that, of course, I was to do the same at the University of Wyoming. So I was a “walk-on” on the Wyoming Cowboys freshman football team. 

About a month into practice, and before playing any games, I got hit real hard on the line of scrimmage one day at practice and my shoulder popped. The shoulder was dislocated, and had to be put back in place by one of the coaches, a painful procedure. That was the end of my football career. My father’s ghost was mute. Eventually, my shoulder was so unstable that I had to have surgery, a procedure known today as a rotator cuff repair. Sixty years later, the repair still holds, but my shoulder hangs by a thread.

I spent a year and a half, three semesters, at the University of Wyoming. My first-year roommate, Mick McCarty, from Longmont, Colorado, became a good friend. His father owned a 60,000-acre ranch ten miles south of Laramie. Mick and I spent weekends on the ranch trout fishing in beaver ponds and hunting deer and antelope. Unfortunately, I spent more time hunting and fishing in Wyoming than I did with my studies, and my mediocre academic performance continued.

Eventually, I realized Mother could not manage her life or the farm; things were a mess. So I came back to Kentucky after the fall semester of my sophomore year and enrolled at the University of Kentucky in Lexington. And that’s where I finished in 1963, graduating with a BA degree from the Patterson School of Diplomacy and International Commerce. Along the way, I joined Sigma Alpha Epsilon, one of the better fraternities at UK, serving as the Eminent Archon (President) of the Chapter during my junior year.

I had several girlfriends at UK, who for their sakes shall remain anonymous. But I preferred the Kappas, Chi Omegas, Thetas and Tri Delts. Enough said. I went to UK basketball games in Memorial Coliseum and football games at Stoll Field. The legendary Adoph Rupp coached the Wildcats basketball team. I remember the graceful Cotton Nash and Scotty Baesler, later Mayor of the Lexington-Fayette County Government. Blanton Collier was the football coach.

So I had graduated from college. What now? At that point in my life, it was a given that I would go into the Marine Corps. My father would have expected that, I believed. But my shoulder injury knocked me out of Marine Platoon Leaders School. It also caused my Selective Service Classification to change to 4F. Between the Marine Corps or being drafted, I surely would have gone to Vietnam. So, while I was bitterly disappointed that I would not follow in my father’s footsteps as a Marine officer, in later years I came to see it as a blessing that kept me out of the Vietnam War, which even in 1963 was causing massive opposition and unrest in the US. 

II.

But I had no backup plan for what to do with my life. 

So, without much thought, I decided I would go to Europe. After all, hadn’t my father traveled the world? So I would travel the world as well. I wouldn’t be flying on a Pan Am Clipper, sailing on the Queen Mary, or staying in first-class hotels like my father had. Indeed, I would be at sea on a German coal freighter for fourteen days with a German crew and eleven other passengers, none of whom spoke English, going home to Germany after a holiday in the US. But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

In July 1963, I traveled by car to New York City with Bud Shaw, who I think was reporting for Army duty. I had little money and would have to find a cheap way to get across the pond, as the saying goes. Beyond seeing a friend and a relative, I did not have a plan in mind about what I would do or where I would go. I would make it up as I went along. Looking back, it seems hare-brained that I should take off, sail across an ocean, and travel around countries I really knew nothing about and whose languages I didn’t speak. From my current vantage point much later in life, I chalk it up to the follies of youth. I had a friend in the Army in Germany, Albert Sisk of Hopkinsville, Kentucky, and a cousin, Dick Lewis, who was studying at the Jungian Institute in Zurich, Switzerland. I would visit them, then travel to Spain. Spanish was my foreign language in college, so I could practice my language skills, such as they were, and see a country that was said to be unique and exotic among European countries. That was about as detailed as my plan ever got.

After Bud and I spent a night in a cheap hotel in New York, he left to begin his Army service. I then moved to the International Youth Hostel in the city, where I mingled with young men from all over the world. I remember especially a young Chinese boy. He found out I played chess and wanted to test his skills against mine. I was a decent chess player (I thought), but this guy overwhelmed me. I didn’t win a game. It was a painful comeuppance for me, brought up as I was with my generation to believe in American exceptionalism.

I cannot fathom today how I did everything during the six months I spent traipsing around Europe, much of it hitchhiking with a small American flag pinned to my travel pack. I would dearly love to get in touch with that person today. Looking back, I crossed an ocean twice and navigated, with apparent ease, a world that was new and foreign to me, where often I did not speak or read the language, all when there was no internet, iPhones, Google Maps, or any of the other conveniences that we take for granted today, and can’t imagine living without. My bible was “Europe on Five Dollars a Day,” the leading guidebook of the day for young travellers.

My itinerary was roughly as follows: Norfolk, Virginia to Bremerhaven, Germany, a major German port city, to Bad Kreuznach, the location of a U.S. Army base in southern Germany, where my friend was stationed in the Army. From there to Zurich, Switzerland, where I visited with my cousin. From Zurich by train to Barcelona, Spain, and then to Madrid. A month in Madrid and then a side trip to Morocco in North Africa. Back to Madrid and then to Paris. From Paris to London, and then on to Dublin, Ireland. 

And then from Ireland to Edinburgh, Scotland, where I sat in a pub in November 1963 watching news coverage of the assassination of John Kennedy on a small black and white TV behind the bar. I remember the overwhelming feeling of loss and loneliness being away from my country at that time of national tragedy.

Then it was back to Ireland across the Irish Sea again to Belfast where I had secured passage on an Irish coal freighter sailing to Norfolk, Virginia, from whence I had started six months earlier. Then a bus from Norfolk to New York with my newfound Canadian girlfriend, where I somehow had arranged with a car delivery service to drive a new Buick station wagon to Kentucky to the new owner. I was home just in time for Christmas.

Somewhere about mid-voyage on the return across the Atlantic in December (not a good time to cross the North Atlantic on an empty freighter), I decided I would go to law school. I knew nothing about the law, nor did I know any lawyers; I had never been to court except for traffic tickets. Apparently, I could somehow think rationally about a career while in the midst of a steamy romance with said Canadian girlfriend. 

Well, okay, I can’t wait for the fullness of time. I’ll tell two stories. Here’s the first: After arriving back in Madrid from my sojourn in North Africa, I decided that I would go to Paris. In those days, for Americans abroad, American Express was the place where important things happened: You got mail and money at the Amex office. And most offices had a bulletin board where notices could be posted. One day while visiting the Amex office in Madrid, I saw a notice offering a ride to Paris in exchange for sharing expenses. I got in touch and found out that the notice had been posted by a young couple on their honeymoon who were touring Europe in a Volkswagen Beetle. I signed on. 

On the day appointed for departure, it turned out there would be a fourth passenger, a young man who was making a documentary film for CBS; he had been filming in Madrid and nearby environs. The four of us set off on a bright sunny day (most days in Spain are sunny!) All these years later I remember this trip as the best of times – brillant conversation, lots of laughing and good humor. We were good traveling companions. How four of us fit into a Beetle I cannot fathom as I write this. But it did not seem to be an issue at the time. I suppose we must have put our luggage on top of the little car. 

Late in the day we reached San Sebastian, on the Spanish-French frontier, and decided we would spend the night. San Sebastian today is a vibrant center of culture and tourism. But in 1963 it was still a sleepy town without much going on. We drove downtown and found a hotel where we inquired about rooms. Yes, they had two rooms left, which we booked. First we ate dinner and then went to our rooms. The filmmaker and I would share a room. I still remember unlocking the door and walking in to see: one bed (!), which in keeping with European ideas about bed sizes, was not very large, certainly not even close to what we Americans would consider queen size. My new friend and I looked at one another and shrugged. In due course we undressed down to our shorts, got into bed and passed an uneventful, restful night.

The next day we drove to Paris, with me doing most of the driving for some reason. We would first drop off the film maker who was staying with friends on the Left Bank. After we parked, I volunteered to help with his luggage and camera equipment. I remember we had to walk up a long, straight flight of stairs to the second floor flat. When we arrived at the top, my friend rapped on the door, which after a moment was opened. As I looked in I saw several men lounging on sofas. Even to my unpracticed, Midwestern eye, I could see that these men were obviously gay. As I stood there in the doorway, the wheels of my mind slowly turned and I realized that if they were gay, and my new friend was staying with them, then he – well, he must also be gay. It had never occurred to me that he had any other gender inclination than mine! I felt like I had been smacked in the head by a 2 x 4. I remember wishing my friend the best, thanks for the memories, etc, etc. and making a hasty retreat down the steps back to the car. I had just spent the night in the same bed, and a small one at that, with a gay man – completely clueless. 

I should state here that neither at the time of this incident nor today do I harbor any prejudice toward gay people. I believe they should be accepted as equal members of society, and have all the rights, including the right to marry, that hetrosexual people have. They are God’s children just as I am, and make in many instances remarkable contributions to our society. But I am not inclined to a homosexual relationship in the slightest, and would not have spent the night with my companion had I known. The story is only useful today because, when there is a lull in dinner party conversation, my wife might say “Tell that story about you spending then night in bed with a gay man.” It’s guaranteed to get everyone’s immediate attention.

The second story involves the return trip across the Atlantic Ocean aboard an empty Irish coal freighter bound for Norfolk, Virginia. As might be expected, the ship was crewed by Irishmen. There were accommodations for twelve passengers. But, on this trip in December 1963, there were only two passengers – myself and a young Canadian woman returning home after a study abroad program. Therese (not her real name) was from Montreal. She was quite attractive – light brown hair, about 5’ 6’’ tall, slender with a full bosom. With her angular French-Canadian face, she was altogether fetching. 

There being only two of us, we naturally fell in together, which soon progressed to spending time together in each other’s cabins. One thing led to another and we  quickly became a couple in the midst of a full-blown shipboard romance. I have had  limited experience, but will say that shipboard romances are the best!

I will skip to the last night at sea before we made port in Norfolk, Virginia. We were about 100 to 150 miles out at sea when late in the afternoon, we ran into a ferocious gale. I remember at the time it was either a Force 7 or Force 8 gale on the Beaufort Scale. That’s serious and dangerous weather for any ship to traverse, especially a ship that was empty and thus sitting on top of the water, a cork bobbing on the water as it were, fully exposed to the violent forces of sea and wind. The ship rolled, heaved and pitched, and heaved and pitched. It was alarming. To make matters worse, the Irish crew was drunk: It was apparently a ritual, at least on this ship, that the crew be allowed to drink themselves to oblivion the night before making port. They were wild, I remember. At one point with the worst ship motion, I thought we were going down, that we would not make it through the storm. In fact, about a month after our voyage, a freighter did go down in a similar storm off the Virginia coast.

But. as alarming as the storm and the drunk crew were, Therese and I continued with our amorous exertions mostly unabated, proving I suppose that sex causes one’s survival instinct to be either distorted or suspended. Something like that. We rode out the storm locked in one another’s arms, our motions mirroring the motions of the ship, as if there would be no tomorrow.

In fairness to Therese, our amorous activities never progressed beyond what we called heavy petting. She did pay me a compliment of sorts, saying that if she was going to “do it” with anyone she would pick me! 

Towards morning the storm abated and we cruised into Norfolk harbor where we docked and quickly disembarked. Both Therese and I were going to New York, so we soon boarded a Greyhound bus, where we took two seats in the rear, to be inconspicuous, you see, so that we could continue our – ahem – activities. As I said it was a steamy affair, and it continued all the way to New York City to the censure of fellow passengers in our area of the bus, who by their stares and expressions let it be known that they disapproved of our scandalous behavior. You can judge us if you wish, but we didn’t care. In New York at the bus station we parted with one last embrace, promising to keep in touch. We didn’t. But we both have the memory of an Atlantic crossing in December 1963 that was something akin to magical. 

After leaving Therese, I contacted the car delivery service I somehow knew about, and got my assignment to deliver a new 1964 Buick station wagon to the new owner in Paris, Kentucky. I picked up the car I was assigned to deliver, and drove straight through to Kentucky, delivering the car in time for me to be home for Christmas. 

Thus ended my European adventure. Perhaps I was a little wiser in the ways of the world. But, in retrospect, the trip served principally as an interlude for me to decide what to do with my life, and to get serious about embarking on the chosen path.

Arriving home, I decided to attend the University of Cincinnati College of Law. First I had to take the Law School Aptitude Test which I did in early spring 1964. Then, after completing the law school application, I worked to earn money for tuition. Somewhere in this process, I got notice from the law school that I had been admitted to the class of 1967.

Then, it was another nine months of work at Proctor and Gamble in Ivorydale unloading more freight cars. In fall 1964, I matriculated at the University of Cincinnati College of Law

III.

Law school was a rude shock for me. Suddenly, I understood that academic performance was important and my lackluster performance in high school and college would not cut it. I knuckled down and worked. My second semester I made the Dean’s list and was thereupon invited to join the Law Review, a credential much favored by prospective employers. 

Three years of law school passed quickly in my memory. After my second year, I was invited to be a summer clerk for Frost & Jacobs, a prestigious law firm in Cincinnati. Summer clerkships are, for the most part, fancy courtships, where the law student is wined and dined to convince him or her that the firm would be a good career choice after graduation. With a nod to my mother, I relate that the door to F&J (as it was known) was opened by a Marine friend of my father’s.  

After my clerkship I was offered full-time employment as an associate attorney upon graduation, which I accepted. But first came my senior year of law school which passed unremarkedly in my memory. Importantly, at the end of my senior year fall semester, I married a fellow law student, and we honeymooned in Bermuda over the semester break (more below.)

After graduation, the next hurdle was the Ohio bar examination, that rite of passage that law students must traverse to become lawyers. It was a three-day exam administered in Columbus, OH consisting of true-false, multiple choice and essay questions. I remember it as a grueling experience.  

Most law students facing the prospect of taking the bar exam take a bar review course. It’s more of a safety net than anything else and most such courses fall somewhere between awful and useless. The one available to me was a course put on by two lawyers named Weiner and Miner. I signed up as did most of my classmates. The course consisted of a voluminous, terribly written outline of the areas of law to be covered by the bar examination. We were to attend nightly sessions at the old Sinton Hotel in downtown Cincinnati during which either Weiner or Miner would stand at the podium in an insufferably hot room reading word for word from the outline. All present just followed along in the outline. It was a complete waste of time and money in my view and I soon stopped attending.

 As an alternative, I got out all my old casebooks and, with a fellow law student, used the table of contents for each of the course casebooks – torts, contracts, constitutional law,  etc – to do a review of the legal subjects to be covered on the exam. I remember that during this intense review process I gained insights and understanding into the law that went far beyond what  I had learned in law school. 

My strategy for preparation paid off, as I received a score on the exam that was near the top score for that year.  

After another trip to Columbus to be sworn in as a lawyer, I began my career practicing law at F&J. My reputation soon became that of a hard worker, a good writer and a young lawyer who could figure out how to solve legal problems. This period – from the 1960s through perhaps the year 2000 – will be seen by legal historians as the golden age of law in America. Law firms began to get bigger, much bigger, through mergers and hiring. During this time, women began to matriculate at law schools in greater numbers and thus make inroads with hiring partners at prestigious law firms. At my firm, I remember the initial reluctance to hire a woman lawyer. So, when it finally happened, the young woman hired was first in her law class and had all the other blue ribbon credentials to boot. In the end, law firms depend on hiring the best and the brightest young lawyers to service the legal needs of sophisticated clients. And, as a general matter, women, it turns out, are smarter and better law students than men; eventually they began to take their place in the ranks of the major law firms in the country.

I know this very well because I married one of these law students. Since we were married for seventeen years, I should say something about her. Gina Selman was a tall, dark haired young woman, who was one of two women in my law class of approximately ninety. She was smart, good looking and an excellent student. I don’t recall exactly how we got together, but we did, and in December 1967 were married at St. Thomas Episcopal Church in Terrace Park, Ohio, a suburb of Cincinnati.

 For the most part, ours was a good marriage which produced two children – Sarah Windisch West, now married to Paul and known as Sarah West-Hoover of Parker, Colorado, and Timothy Armstrong West, now married to Lea, of Lexington, Kentucky. Sarah and Paul live in a lovely home on a small “ranchette” outside Parker, Colorado, a suburb of Denver. They participate in the myriad recreational activities that Colorado offers. Several years ago Sarah got into running marathons, but, after a few races, decided that a 26 mile distance was not enough. So she undertook the ultimate test of endurance – running the Leadville 100, which is a 100 mile endurance race at an average altitude of 11,000 feet. Sarah has run and finished this race several times, much to her father’s consternation. But she is happy, healthy and has many friends who support her endurance running. What’s not to like about that picture?

Tim is a lawyer who now is the Chief of Staff for the University of Kentucky College of Agriculture in which position he oversees the far-flung operations of the college across Kentucky, which entails a $100 million dollar budget. He and Lea have two children – Aaron and Caroline – and live in a lovely home in a nice Lexington neighborhood. Recently Tim started teaching in the college. 

My years F&J were productive. I was assigned to important litigation cases, several of which I will write about separately. One important experience during those formative years was being selected to attend the Second annual meeting of the National Institute of Trial Advocacy in Boulder, Colorado. NITA, as it is called, was and still is an intensive training program for trial lawyers. When I attended, it was a one-month long program. The NITA method is learning by doing, so every day we had assignments to perform, which were critiqued by the instructors, some of whom were legendary trial lawyers. The NITA experience served as the foundation for my trial skills for the rest of my career. 

Returning to Cincinnati, I immediately had three jury trials, winning all three. Because of its unusual nature, I am hard pressed not to recount the first of these trials. The circumstances were these: F&J was retained by the White Castle Restaurant Group for various legal matters. So it was that one day shortly after my return from Boulder, one of the senior partners in the firm received a call from a White Castle executive. It seems that the manager of a White Castle’s restaurant had been named in a paternity suit filed in a Kentucky court.

 Joe Elwood (not his real name) was alleged to be the father of a child born to a young woman who had been a waitress in the restaurant where Mr. Elwood was the manager. The young woman claimed that she and Mr. Elwood, who was married and had children, had carried on an affair for some months prior to her pregancy, which involved  numerous sexual liasons – in the back seat of his car parked on lonely country roads,  in motels, and once in the restroom at the restaurant. 

He said that he had never been with her. 

Thus the state of the evidence was simply a case of credibility, her word against his. This was before the availability of DNA evidence, so there was no conclusive test for paternity. The test that was available could only exclude; otherwise the test was inconclusive. In Mr. Elwood’s case the test came back inconclusive; he could not be ruled out as the father of the child.

I practically drove myself crazy preparing for this case, my first jury trial.

On the day appointed for trial, we assembled in a dingy courtroom of the courthouse. The case would be tried to a six person jury. Phil Taliferro, a well known, and, by his own admission, legendary trial lawyer, was the Assistant County Attorney and would present the case on behalf of the young woman.

In due course, we selected a jury and the testimony of the mother and Mr. Elwood came in. She said he did it, going into some detail. She actually was articulate and her testimony was believable and convincing.  Mr. Elwood said her testimony was a fabrication and that he had never been with her. Prior to the trial I had done what all trial lawyers do: prepared my witness, taking him through his testimony.  I told him above all else he had to talk to the jury; they were going to decide the case. So it was vital that he look the jury members in the eye. But, alas, in answering my questions, poor Mr. Elwood would not look at the jury for love or money. He looked at me, around the courtroom, everywhere, in fact, but at the jury. I remember thinking that he looked like a liar.

After both parties had testified, it was time for closing arguments. I don’t remember what I said in the closing argument. I thought the case was a stone cold loser at that point. But, surprise: the jury retired to deliberate and returned about an hour later, with a verdict for the defendant, my client!

When the jury verdict was announced, Phil Taliaferro jumped up and said in a loud voice, “This is an outrage! We will appeal to the circuit court, where the appeal will be de nova.” The use of the latin phrase de nova was ominous, because it means in the legal context that we do it over again. It is as if the first trial did not take place.

I was outraged at this prospect. I thought I had won the case fair and square, and, in my view, against long odds. Now I would have to win it again. In due course, we convened again, this time in circuit court. But Phil Taliferro had neglected to ask for a jury trial, so I objected to a jury opting to have the case tried to the court, in this case to Judge William Wichman. On the appointed day we did a repeat of the trial in the lower court. Again I cautioned my client that he was to look at the judge when answering my questions. And again, Mr. Elwood only wanted to look at me; he would not so much as glance at the judge. He looked, as he had previously, like a liar. 

But fortune smiled, and in due course the judge delivered an opinion finding that the proof was disputed and that the plaintiff had not carried her burden of proof. Thus, judgment for the defendant–again. I had won my first case – twice.

The reader must be thinking: The outcome of this case was a gross miscarriage of justice – a mother whose child would never know his father, and who would raise the child without any financial support from the father. 

Largely speaking, the American system of jurisprudence for adjudicating civil and criminal cases comes from the English, and the English method is known as the “adversary system.” The theory is that the lawyer for each party to a lawsuit, or counsel for the government and a defendant in a criminal case, is concerned only with representing the position of his or her client, constrained only by the rules of ethics which govern attorneys. The lawyer’s job is not concerned with doing justice, but is solely with advancing the interest of his or her client within the bounds of law and ethics.

The theory of the English system is that the clash of adversaries in the courtroom in the presentation of evidence and cross examination of witnesses will cause the truth to emerge for the jury, which will then render judgment accordingly. It’s a nice theory but, in my experience, has uneven results in practice.

Trial work is a competitive undertaking and when you as the trial lawyer prevail, it is cause for kudos, a notch on your belt. So, while in a calmer moment, I might regret being a party to what seemed at the time to be an unfair decision, that was not my concern. I had represented my client successfully according to the rules, and had prevailed. Case closed. Mr. Elwood didn’t so much as say thank you. But White Castle paid his legal fees. Such is the way of the world.

After several years at F&J, I came to the unsettling conclusion that my life there was simply too nice, too pat. Despite the occasional interesting case I might get pulled into, much of the legal work was routine. I couldn’t see spending the rest of my career at the firm or in Cincinnati. During the latter years of my time with the firm, we had moved to a lovely home in Hyde Park, a very nice and old suburb of the city. It was a nice life, but it was too nice. I was bored even though I had been made a partner in the firm, considered to be an honor and virtually guaranteeing substantial compensation in the years ahead. But, and this was paramount, I considered myself a Kentuckian, and here I was living and practicing my profession in Ohio, on the wrong side of the Ohio River. It wouldn’t do.

I decided that I wanted to be an Assistant United States Attorney in Kentucky. AUSA’s, as they are known, are responsible for prosecuting federal crimes and representing the United States government in civil litigation in the federal courts. Much later in my career, I realized that my desire to become an AUSA was my way of living up to what I believed would have been my father’s expectation for me. In other words, if I could not be a U.S. Marine fighting our country’s battles on the battlefield, I could be the prosecutor fighting crime for my country in federal courtrooms.

In those days, U.S. Attorney’s offices were political; that is, appointments to the position of AUSA were considered patronage. So I contacted the office of U. S. Congressman Tim Lee Carter of the Fifth Congressional District of Kentucky. Congressman Carter was the ranking Republican in Congress for purposes of patronage appointments in Eastern Kentucky. 

 I then made arrangements to meet Congressman Carter at his office in Tompkinsville, Kentucky, where I presented my credentials and reasons for wanting to join the U. S. Attorney’s office. I remember being nervous about the interview, realizing what I was giving up: a partnership in a prestigious law firm with a secure and comfortable future, balanced against the uncertainties of making my way in the new and unfamiliar world of prosecutions and criminal law. But I wanted the position, and at the conclusion of the interview Congressman Carter said that he would sponsor me.

My nomination to be an AUSA was forwarded to the U.S. Department of Justice, the F.B.I. investigated my background, and in due course I was approved. My appointment certificate was signed by then-U.S. Attorney General Levy, the former Dean of the University of Chicago College of Law. It hangs on my wall in my study as I write this, and is one of the mementos from my career of which I am genuinely proud.

In January 1976, I was sworn in as an Assistant United States Attorney by Chief Judge Bernard T. Moyahan. Looking back, my years as an Assistant U. S. Attorney were the best of my career. I remember the sense of pride I felt every time the U.S. District Judge would look at the government’s table when my case was called for trial and ask: “What says the United States”? And I would respond: “The United States announces ready.” 

I had more than my share of success as an AUSA and intend to write separately about some of my more notable cases. But I never intended the U.S. Attorney’s office to be a career. I now had a wife, two children and a mortgage. So after four years or so of trying criminal cases in Kentucky, I began to look for an exit. Fortune, if I could call it that, smiled on me in the form of a new friend who introduced me to the senior partners at the law firm of Greenbaum, Doll & McDonald, a prestigous law firm headquartered in Louisville, Kentucky. This firm was expanding to Lexington and wished to add attorneys to the new office. 

I arranged an interview and eventually was offered a partnership interest in the firm. I accepted the proffered partnership, albeit with some reservations, and soon was back to the kind of life I had left behind in Cincinnati. But I had to earn a good living to support my family, so I bit the bullet like a good soldier, rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

I spent the next thirty years at the Greenbaum firm during which I was lead counsel on numerous notable cases, some of which I may write about separately. But the Greenbaum years were not an easy time. Big firm lawyers have big egos (I might have had one of them), which does not make for a harmonious existence. Still, I made a good living, putting my children through college and otherwise providing them with a good upbringing, including interesting overseas trips, study abroad, and adventures climbing tall mountains and canoeing wild rivers. 

Regarding my time with the firm, I used to say that Greenbaum was not a place for the faint hearted or thin skinned. And I would add that when my time comes to leave this earthly existence, and I arrive at the  pearly gates, when St. Peter asks me: “So tell me my son, what have you done with your life to justify your admission into heaven ?” I will simply say: “I spent thirty years at Greenbaum.” And St. Peter will say: “Enter my son.”

That’s too harsh. When the day of my retirement arrived I sent an email to the firm which more accurately summed up my feelings about my time with the firm. It went like this.

“Today marks the end of my thirty years at the firm. During my time, I have had more than my share of interesting cases and success. Along the way, I had the good fortune to work with talented young  lawyers who not only helped me win cases but made me a better lawyer, indeed, a better person. It all added up to a full life in the law, for which I am grateful.”

Beyond the stresses of an active career as a trial lawyer, after seventeen years of marriage, it was clear to me that Gina and I came from different planets, or marched to different drummers. Something like that. We separated and, over the course of two years, were divorced, the most difficult time of my adult life. I wanted it to be a civil undertaking to avoid unnecessary trauma to our children. But old issues between us bubbled to the surface and made the process not civil and therefore difficult for both of us and our children. I was not at my best and it’s one part of my life for which I would like a do-over. Gina would say the same, I’m sure.

Eventually we both remarried, Gina to a man who, from all appearances, brought her happiness. And I married a wonderful woman named Ginger who also brought me happiness. As I write, we have been married for 28 years and have five grandchildren, three from Ginger’s daughter Gretchen – Maya, Rhythm Joy and Isabella, and two from Tim and Lea – Caroline and Arran.

       [To be continued]