A Marine's Lapse in Synapse

Chapter 1

Introduction: Life with Dad prepared me well for the military.

Don’t misunderstand this chapter’s message. My father is my hero, and the role model I always needed. However, the background given here won’t make it sound that way. In fact, it will probably sound like he was one mean SOB. If he sounds that way, it’s because from the perspective of my youth, he probably was. Dad traded being ‘buddies’ with me as a child, for a mature, understanding love and deeper friendship as an adult. That’s the way every father should do it. Looking back, he was just what I needed, and I wouldn’t trade a second (except for maybe that one time when...).

Dr. James Elliot Ossian was born in Red Oak, Iowa, in 1938. I’m told he went by Tod because too many youngsters in the area were already pegged with derivatives of James; Jim, Jimmy, etc. Somebody else told me that Tod was short for ‘toddler’ or Elliot. I get the former, but I never figured out the latter, so we’ll go with the first version.

Dad was quite an ornery youngster himself. I’m told he grew up as ornery as all of us boys put together, so he probably deserved every thing we put him through. I can just hear his mother saying, "You’re going to have one just like you." Little did she know he’d get cursed with four.

Dad was a hell of a ball player. Sure, everybody’s Dad will recall stories of heroic performances for their boys’ entertainment, but my Dad was for real. He’s been inducted into the Clarinda A’s Hall of Fame, alongside legendary players like Ozzie Smith, and Von Hayes, and some not-yet, maybe never, legendary players like Chuck Knoblauch and Andy Benes.

In his youth, Dad had the luxury of being born to two catchers. My Grandfather, Paul David Ossian, was a catcher for the Beatrice Blues, a AA club out of Beatrice, Nebraska, and my Grandmother, Mildred Ossian, was the only left-handed girls’ catcher in NAIA history with the Peru State Bobcats. He could work on his pitching anytime he wished because he had parents who were always eager to ‘have a catch’. He credits them for assisting his invention of the ‘curve’ ball. If you ever saw him throw it, you’d almost believe it.

The time came when he had to choose between a contract to pitch with the Chicago White Sox and a scholarship to Iowa State. At that time, pro contracts weren’t nearly as lucrative as they are now, and my folks already had their forth child, so getting a free education was the simple and obvious choice.

When I started this book, Dad was sixty-four (64) years old. He is one of those unfortunate people to have been born on September 11^th, except it doesn’t seem to bother him, since the first sixty-two of them were just his birthday.

Except for the ‘Ossian appliance curse’, most of the remaining misfortunes my father experienced were caused by any number or combination of his sons. I’ll leave my brother’s stories for future books written by them, unless they are part of mine, which mostly, they are.

You’d think, my being the third of four boys, my father (one of three boys) would be accustomed to the problems an adolescent male could create. I wasn’t any more mischievous than my other brothers. I just have this weird shit-o-meter that pegs every time I dare to delve into devilishness. To include them all here would require volumes, so I’ll just attempt to tackle the most memorable and humorous.