A memory

poor georgie’s almanack: 

In the late 1960s I was on a panel that judged art work submitted in a perfectly meaningless  contest that had something to do with kids and the US Postal Service.  Our little group’s first and only session was in the bowels of a fabled, rusting, yet strangely dignified, former queen of the oceans.  She was either the USS America or USS United States.  

Having never seen such a ship, I fixated on nothing more than how to board early, and ogle as much as possible before being caught and marched to the meeting.

The ship met my already soaring expectations.  It blew me away.  Eventually, I joined our group in a tiny ornate room for lunch and the business at hand.

Seated next to me was a slight, older gentleman whose name I had trouble remembering.  His cigar, an extension of his body, ala Groucho Marx, was his major attraction until I spotted an eye-popping four stars on each shoulder.  Our small-talk must have been boring and totally irreverent because it, along with his name, didn’t stick.  

Yesterday something clicked.  I did some research.  The admiral’s namesake and son is the more famous, John McCain.  Our panel met before his son had been shot down over Vietnam and tortured … before his name would rest on the bow of one of the world’s highest tech warrior ships.  Incredibly, he was the son of yet another admiral with the very same name.  

All three McCains are national heroes.