Our neighborhood “NCO club” has ushered my comrade onto his next and final assignment. I am hoping that Valhalla receives him warmly. Sergeant John Norman, US Army veteran, 72 years old, died in the morning of October 19th at his home in El Cajon, California. He leaves behind his wife of 50 years, daughters and grandchildren, friends, golfing buddies and many members of his union retiree club. Though I neither golfed, nor was a truck driver, and our wives only knew one another generally, John and I could say we were as close as two veterans might be.

Origin of the NCO Club

We were neighbors for almost 24 years, and almost weekly over that time we shared several beers, sometimes good bourbon, and small talk. We would reminisce about our military experiences, family, and the state of the country and world. He enjoyed recalling his late mother-in-law, a female Marine, which always seemed odd in that her daughter, his wife, was quiet and reserved whenever I met him for a drink in his garage – our clubhouse. He could remember names of those he went to basic training while I struggle, though our similar experiences were only separated by five years. One story, he particularly enjoyed retelling, concerned a recruit who had money stolen, and the drill sergeant giving the offender time to place the money at night in an office drawer. Apparently, the guilty party did not return the stolen goods; the company then threw the thief a “blanket party”. Team reunified, justice dispensed, and funds recovered.

He served during the later years of the Vietnam War, in a medical compound next to the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). The stories he recalled treating soldiers’ indiscretions – drunkenness and for things that penicillin cured, never got old. As a truck driver delivering to military installations in San Diego, he would often tell a story of a delivery when a Navy supply sailor would not receive his shipment because he was playing games on a computer. Returning to the freight company, and behind schedule, a senior officer called John’s company to ask why needed equipment was not delivered. The story apparently did not paint the lazy sailor in a good light. As John told it, that officer subsequently reassigned the individual to the point farthest away from his home in the south of San Diego County, to Camp Pendleton 50 miles away. And one of the stories that I particularly recall had to do with his long-unused medical training. Though John never continued working in healthcare after his Army service, like some former Army medics and Navy Corpsmen I knew, I believe a cabinet installer owes his present use of fingers to John’s quick thinking. Some eight or ten years ago, in a brief lack of focus, the man installing cabinets for John’s kitchen strayed too close to his table saw. John packed the wounds and bundled the amputated fingers in ice, and got him to the ER.

Roses are not only red

We all benefitted from Sergeant Norman’s many talents. His passion was growing roses and he was a dedicated member of the San Diego Rose Society. He would show me many different varieties he tended, recognizing all by name. For several years, he would help me tend to roses I had grown under his mentorship. This continued until I could no longer hide that I was absolutely horrible at keeping them alive. His prowess as a gardener, though compromised years ago by a war with gophers (still ongoing), was unmatched. For 2 decades, the neighbors in our little block were recipients of delicious oranges and grapefruit, squash, tomatoes and peppers, which he distributed over his wife’s protests all year long. When he brought these gifts to my wife, she would generally nod in my direction, and say I should go over to have a beer (or 3 or 4 or 5!) with him. These were the best times for the “NCO Club”. Each Christmas, we traded gifts – my wife’s peanut butter chocolates were exchanged with his homemade cheesecakes. Sometimes these individual cheesecakes, gifts to neighbors, family and friends, might include an additional gift as an incentive for a little NCO Club time – a Bloody Mary he concocted for my wife. (I am allergic to spicy peppers but that’s another story.) Though we had conflicting New Years Day festivities, he would always subsequently invite us to enjoy a lavish spread for a Superbowl party at his home.

His talent thus extended to more than roses, vegetable gardening, golfing, or consuming Coors Light. Using skills I assume developed in his formative years of the 1960s and 70’s in carpentry, welding, plumbing and auto mechanics, he lent expertise to others. Those were great times to recall during our “NCO Club”. Though we served in different eras, and different branches of the military, we were able to see eye-to-eye on many issues. We routinely talked politics, gardening, social issues and married life. He was never concerned with spiritual things – rejecting me politely but brusquely or lecherously off-putting the infrequent door knocking parishioners of a local church. He knew I practiced my faith and would tease me to have a beer with him before going to my evening church meetings.

Neighborhood watch

In the early 2000’s, John would dutifully text or call to report at 10pm to his newly-married neighbor, “neighborhood watch: your garage door (or car door or trunk) is still open”. He kept an eye on things when my family traveled out of town. Over a quarter-century, we only had a few incidents that gave us reason to lock our doors at night and install security cameras. Before COVID, a lost, drunken sailor crashed into a neighbor’s home. On a street that boasted 3 veterans, a retired federal agent and a retired cop as longtime residents, thieves broke into my car and one night, sawed off the catalytic converter from John’s 1992 Ford F250. But John’s watchful eye kept wanderers out of the area. We often joked of protecting our street with sandbags and a 50 caliber gun emplacement. Instead, we had the watchful John Norman.

He used to encourage me after I retired as Navy reservist, that we would have more time to defend our homes once I retired from the job I commuted to for another eight years. Whether it was someone recently licensed speeding up the street, or learning that the long-parked car beside the overgrown pepper tree at the boundary of his front yard belonged to my middle son, things did not escape him. Through and after COVID, we never needed to defend ourselves from the Zombie Apocalypse but with age came more challenges to health. We all endured small bouts of COVID, and survived. We attributed our longevity to all the exposure we had in the service – everything from malaria pills and flu vaccines to anthrax shots and chemicals we worked around. As other neighbors and I joined him in retirement, while I and others endure age-related heath problems, John was the enigma. He worked in his yard constantly, tending to dozens of roses, vegetables and harvesting fruit from lemon, lime and grapefruit trees. He volunteered every year at the county Fair Rose garden. Every Thursday, he was part of a foursome playing golf all over the county. He liked his beer and Crown Royal. He boasted but for his neck and his waistline and overall health defied doctors expectations. When his wife’s medication no longer let her eat grapefruit, the harvest would be distributed to me. Then I went on the same medication. For the last ten years, John changed his eating habits to cooking mostly vegetarian meals to support his wife’s health. I assume those habits kept him going right until Sunday morning.

I shall miss you my friend. Until we all meet in that next realm, rest easy. We will stand the watch.