In April 1969, I was drafted for service in the U.S. Army. Then, after five months of intensive training, and with my brother Terry already serving in Viet Nam, I received orders to report for duty in West Germany.
After a short leave, I flew out of San Francisco to Fort Dix in New Jersey, and then to Rhine –Main Air Base in Frankfurt, Germany. There, I received my permanent military assignment to the 510th Ordinance Company in Gunzburg, Germany.
I served 19 months in Gunzburg, traveling whenever I could. I remember taking one 10-day leave to Spain with my friend Jack Broadbent. We had a great time. After that, I swore that when my discharge day came in 1971, I would take a European out and continue my travels abroad.
True to my promise, I took my discharge in Europe and set off with my buddy Sergeant Jeff Lucas to see the world.
We traveled to Austria, Yugoslavia and then Italy. However, after about three months, Jeff had to return home for a job interview, so I kept touring by myself.
Eventually I met up with three Australian guys at the Laughing Whale camp ground just west of Barcelona, Spain. They were headed to Pamplona, Spain for the annual running of the bulls. That sounded like an adventure to me so off I went with the Aussies.
We ran with the bulls in Pamplona, and then took our traveling party to Torremolinos on the south west coast of Spain. However, after staying several weeks in Torremolinos, I realized that my financial resources had dwindled to a perilous level. It was time to return home. So, I wished the Aussie boy’s good bye, and headed back toward Germany.
First, I hitchhiked to up the coast to Valencia and caught a bus to Barcelona. Once in Barcelona, I took a train to the Spanish/French border. There, I hitched a ride with a French couple headed home to Strasburg on the French/German border. They spoke German, so we had a nice conversation as we traveled. They were surprised at how well I spoke German. Eventually, they dropped me at a rest stop in Dijon, France. There, I stood with a sign that said, Brussels, Belgium.
Amazingly, a Dutch fellow pulled up almost immediately and offered a ride. He was headed for Holland, but promised to drop me in Brussels, at the Rue Du Dahlia, where my friend Guy Muzzi lived. Then, after an all-day ride, we pulled up to a building in Brussel’s that said: Frere Muzzi Vin Distribution. That was my friends wine business. So I stepped outside of the car, thanked my Dutch friend, and walked up to the entrance to the building. Just then, a workman came out, and I asked him if I could see Guy. He told me to wait, and went back inside. Soon Guy came out, and his jaw dropped. We had met in Torremolinos where he enjoyed my company so much, he told me to stop and see him when I came back through Belgium. He was really happy to see me. He took me across the street to his flat and then returned to his work to shut down for the day.
Later, when he returned, we went out for dinner at a café owned by his friend Claude who took an immediate liking to me. He loved California: the Golden Gate Bridge, Yosemite Falls and Disneyland. We spent a wonderful evening drinking wine, playing cards and talking about my home on Janey Way.
I had made a good start on my journey home. I was in a nice place now with my friend Guy. Rhine Main Air Base in Frankfurt Germany waited – the next big step on my way home to Sacramento.
In April 1969, I was drafted for service in the U.S. Army. Then, after five months of intensive training, and with my brother Terry already serving in Viet Nam, I received orders to report for duty in West Germany.
On September 27, 2014, I attended my 50-year high school reunion.
It turned out to be quite an experience. I saw some friends I had not seen since high school. The night was almost surreal.
We had begun our reunion weekend with a cocktail party the night before. That proved a good starter for a great weekend. One hundred fifty people filled a small room adjacent to the Club 56 Sport Bar.
As soon as I entered, I saw Tony Stratton, a fellow hurdler from the track team. We had lots of good memories to share. Later, I met a girl who I had asked out on a date back then, but she turned me down. She seemed to regret her decision now. How time changes our perspective of things.
Next, I met some of my friends from the junior varsity football team. We recalled how our team came together as the season progressed and how it ended with a great victory in our final game.
Then we talked about our coaches, our teachers, and our great principal at Sacramento High School: Albert Sessarago. We are so proud and thankful we attended this fine school.
The next night, 300 of us attended the reunion dinner/dance at the Dante Club. We literally filled the place up. We had the whole facility to ourselves. As I sat down for dinner, I looked around our table and saw both new and old friends. On my left sat Kathy and Dave Bristol who worked with me on the reunion committee. Across the table, I saw Wayne Alamo who grew up in River Park. We laughed when we recalled all the characters who grew up in that enclave: Tom Watson, Richard Carroll, Vince Angell and others. Back then we all hung out at Paradise Beach on the American River. Those days seem like such a long time ago.
After dinner, we all gathered for a group photo, just like we did for our senior ball. Then the DJ began playing the old songs—our songs. That brought back memories of attending concerts at the Memorial Auditorium. I almost always got in free then because my dad was a Sacramento police officer. We just went around to the back door, and the officers working the event would let us in. We saw the Beach Boys, the Rolling Stones, James Brown and others that way. How could we forget those good old days?
As the evening progressed, I wandered out to the bar for a beverage and just surveyed the whole scene. There, I noticed a couple of guys who were the “big men on campus” back then. They looked a little funny to me now. They strutted the same way they did back then, but now they are bald on top and paunchy in the middle. Time, it seems, is a great equalizer.
As I sat there checking things out, I thought about my best friends from high school, both deceased now: Albert Wilson and Mike Gilson.
I used to drive around with Al in his 1950 Chrysler sedan. We cruised K Street, and ate pizza at Shakey’s Pizza Parlor on 56th and J streets. Those were good times.
I went to St. Mary’s School with Mike Gilson. Our teacher, Mother Carmela, gave him a hard time. He just did not have the patience for school. Later, we swam at the river, played football and basketball at the school, and slept out on warm summer nights. Sadly, he lost his life in Viet Nam.
Now, the good times we had then are just a bittersweet Janey Way memory.
I discharged from the U.S. Army in Europe during April of 1971. After that, I travelled through Austria, Yugoslavia and Italy with my friend Jeff Lucas. Then we had to return to West Germany in July so Jeff could go back to the Pennsylvania to interview for a teaching position.
After arriving back in Germany, we sold our car and I bought a train ticket for Barcelona, Spain. I left Germany the next day, and when I arrived in Barcelona, I went straight to a camp ground called the Laughing Whale. It sat right on a beautiful section of Mediterranean beach and teamed with European travelers.
Once there, I pitched my tent and went right down to the beach. There, nestled on the sand, were three Australian guys I had met in Venice, Italy. They were very happy to recognize a fellow traveler so I sat down next to them and struck up a conversation.
They had been in Barcelona for about a week and were planning to travel up to Pamplona in the north of Spain for famous “running of the bulls.” They asked me if I wanted to come along. I said yes, and two days later, off we went.
We went to Pamplona, ran with the bulls, and partied for about three straight days before heading off for Torremolinos on the southwestern coast of Spain in an area called Costa del Sol (the sun coast).
We arrived there three days later, and took up residence in a camp ground located next to a resort with a high rise hotel, restaurant, bar and massive swimming pool.
We went right down to the hotel to check out the scene. It was crawling with European travelers, mostly young women, there on summer holiday. We had discovered paradise.
We took up a strategic location in the bar, ordered beer, and checked out the action by the pool. I noticed immediately that a group of guys were sitting near the pool, playing guitars and attracting a crowd. So I pulled my harmonicas out of my pocket and went down to join them.
Once there, I blew a few notes and figured out they were playing traditional blues songs in the key of A. Then, I started accompanying them with my harmonica. After finishing an instrumental song, they asked me if I would sing a song. I said yes, and told them to play “Little Red Rooster” in the key of A. It went great. They liked my singing and my harmonica playing, and I hung out with them the rest of the day. I already loved Torremolinos.
I ended the day with an attractive young French girl named Lucianne. Life was good.
I spent several weeks with the Australians in Torremolinos. We went to a bull fight, featuring the famous matador, El Cordoba. We travelled up the coast to Malaga, where we spent an afternoon in a Bodega drinking fortified wine and eating tapas, mostly fresh sea food.
I had a fabulous time there. It was the perfect time and place for a young American man to be in that wonderful sea coast city. Now it’s just another incredible Janey Way memory.
After finishing my two-year tour of duty in the U. S Army, I returned home to Janey Way in October 1971. The old neighborhood seemed really different. Almost all of my friends had moved away. However, my friend Randy Puccetti, who still lived at home, soon came by. He told me that the Janey Way boys had formed a slow-pitch softball team and encouraged me to join.
So, despite the fact I had not played baseball since Little League, I showed up, mitt in hand and prepared to play in the next game. My good friend, Jim Ducray, who coached the team, said I can only play you three innings Mart, we have too many players tonight.
Then he handed me the team jersey, a T-shirt emblazoned front and back with the following: “Downtown Dealer’s Association.” I laughed. This was a veiled reference to the plethora of pot dealers now living in the downtown area. Then, out I ran to my new position: Right field (where the weakest player on the team goes). No problem. I would soon rectify that assignment.
I got off to a bad start though. In the third inning a guy hit a towering pop fly at me. In my rush to catch the ball, I overran it, and the ball trickled off the end of my glove, allowing a run to score. After that, I ran to the dugout where I remained for the rest of the game. So much for good starts. Fortunately, we won the game.
The next game turned out better for me. Our team fielded just enough players that evening, so I got to play the whole game. It proved a tight game with the lead seesawing back and forth. But, by the fifth inning we led 8 to 6, as we ran out to the field.
Randy, our pitcher, fielded a weak grounder for the first out. But then, he got into trouble. He walked one batter, then another, putting men on first and second base. The next hitter popped out. With two outs, Randy walked the next batter. The bases were loaded. A hit would likely empty the bases, erasing our lead. The situation grew tense.
With a right handed batter up, I edged over toward Bill Jones, our center fielder. In high school, he had played on the varsity team at Sacramento High School. Randy threw the next pitch, a ball. Then he proceeded to fill the count at 3 and 2. The next pitch was critical. We were on the tips of our feet. Randy hurled the pitch: a strike. The batter swung, cracking a hard line drive to center field. I broke toward the ball. Bill Jones held his ground preparing to field the ball on one bounce. I kept running. As the ball hurtled toward the ground, I bent down, arm extended, and the ball popped into my mitt. I immediately stood straight up extending my arm to show the ump I had caught the ball, and he yelled, “You’re out.”
I looked back and Jones. His eyes were as big as silver dollars. Then I ran in toward the dugout past the flabbergasted Puccetti. As I passed him, I said, “Come on bud, it’s time for us to hit.”
We won the game, 12 to 4.
Needless to say, I started every game from that day forward at my new position, left field. The team had a good season, finishing in second place. One of the teams with sponsorship and full baseball uniforms won the league.
The Downtown Dealer’s Association never played again after that year; I went on to play soccer, a sport I truly loved. Now my days of playing on that storied team are just another hard hitting Janey Way memory.
One Sunday last month, along with 26 million other Americans, I watched the Federated International Football Association World Cup of soccer championship game on television. The game lived up to its hype. After 120 minutes of hard fought play, my favorite team, from Germany, triumphed 1 to 0.
The game brought back wonderful memories of my time abroad and my own experience on the soccer pitch.
Back to 1969, after completing my U. S. Army training in Fort Lewis, Washington, I received orders to serve a tour of duty in the Republic of West Germany.
Weeks later, I boarded a plane for Frankfurt, Germany. Ultimately, I landed in the small town of Gunzburg in Southern Germany, where I served with 510th Ordinance Company at a German military base called Prinz Eugan Kaserne. There, I had many great experiences. I ate wonderful German food; drank good beer and wine, met many gregarious and friendly people.
However, my most lasting and exhilarating memory of Germany is of soccer. I remember walking along the fringe of Gunzburg one Sunday in spring and stumbling upon a soccer game in progress. The fans cheered wildly for the home team as players moved the ball back and forth on the field with speed and grace.
At one point, one of the home team players kicked the ball 30 yards to the front of the net and another leaped high into the air and headed the ball right into the net. It blew my mind. I asked a German standing next to me. How does he do that? He replied, “We play football from the time we are 5 years old and over time we learn these skills.”
I said to myself, then and there, “I have to play this game.” Thanks to my friend, Bill Sontag, I did learn how to play “the beautiful game.”
When I returned home to the states, I began looking for an opportunity to play soccer, and eventually I found it. One day, I engaged in a conversation with my friend Bill, and he mentioned that he coached youth soccer.
I told him that I wanted to play the game. Bill told me that he was starting a team composed of youth soccer coaches and asked me to join.
Weeks later, I arrived at Glenbrook Park, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, ready to play. Bill assigned me to play goal keeper. He figured that with my size, 6 feet, one inch, 210 pounds, as well as my experience playing wide receiver in football, I could play that position well. He was right; I fit the position like a glove.
Playing in the net, I saw the whole field of play in front of me. That taught me the strategy of soccer. Learning the skills took lots of time and practice. But, we played 35 games per year, and eventually my skills matched my desire and love of the game.
I played soccer for nearly 15 years. Age ultimately caught up with me and I quit in my mid-40s. Soccer is a game for the young and hearty.
Now, I watch the game on television, and I watch my grandson, Angelo, play it. I yell at him, “pass the ball to Ryan, now run to the open space, shoot.” He rarely listens. He is too busy playing “the beautiful game.”
These days all that is left are my Janey Way memories of Germany, and soccer and my dearly departed friend, Bill Sontag.
Last Friday night, my wife and I attended the Music Circus production of “A Chorus Line.” We loved the show.
One of the most compelling stories in the production was the story of Paul, a young, gay, Puerto Rican dancer trying to earn a part in the chorus line.
During his interview for the part, the choreographer asks Paul to tell his story.
Despite his reluctance to open up about his life, Paul breaks down and tells all.
As a boy, he was different from all the other boys. He didn’t like sports and really didn’t want to rough it up. He wanted to dance.
So, he taught himself to dance by watching Hollywood musicals. By the time he got into high school, his difference from other children caused trouble for him. They teased and bullied him. Eventually, he sought the help of a psychologist who told him he was perfectly normal and urged him to drop out of school and pursue a career in dance. So, he took the psychologist’s advice and left school. But, it wasn’t that easy for the 16-year-old boy from the Bronx find a job as a dancer?
Ultimately, he got a job dancing in drag in a club on the lower east side of New York. His new occupation embarrassed him and he didn’t dare to tell his parents. However, when the manager of the show decided to take it on the road to Chicago, Paul asked his parents to give him a ride to the airport after the evening show. That night his parents surprised him by arriving early to pick him up, and when he walked by them in full costume, gaudy dress and all, they recognized him. This made him feel horrible, but he went on to finish the show.
After the show, he walked out the stage door and discovered his parents talking to the show manager. He saw his dad point a finger at the manager and say: “You take good care of my son.”
At this point in the interview, Paul broke down and said, tearfully, “that was the first time my dad ever called me his son.”
This was a touching moment in the show and it brought back memories of my father. I remember him introducing me to his friends, saying proudly, “this is my son, Marty.”
What made Paul’s story even more meaningful to me is that just two days before seeing “A Chorus Line,” I attended the funeral of one of the Janey Way fathers, Virgil Petrocchi. In fact, he was the last surviving Janey Way father.
His son, Dan, delivered the eulogy. It was a good story about a man who lived a good life, had a good sense of humor, gave sound advice to his children and cared deeply about all the children in the neighborhood. Virgil, like all the Janey Way fathers, played a special role in my life.
These men coached little league, took the boys camping, set off fireworks on the 4th of July, and taught us how to live our lives with honor and dignity.
With Virgil’s passing, all the Janey Way fathers have left us, but we will always remember them in our Janey Way Memories.
In fall of 1969, I completed my advanced infantry training at Fort Lewis, Washington.
Two weeks later, I boarded a plane headed for Germany, my next duty station. After three days at the 29th Replacement battalion in Frankfurt Germany, I boarded a bus and headed off to join the 510th Ordinance Company in Gunzburg, Bavaria.
When I arrived at the 510th and assumed my duties, fall was ending and winter was approaching. By the first week of November, snow covered the ground. It remained there until April of 1970. This kept us pretty much limited to our base. However, by April, the sun came out and we began to venture into town and explore the countryside.
One Saturday evening, my friends Jack, Walt and I headed into Gunzburg, one kilometer away, to have a night on the town. As we explored the main part of town, we discovered a little wine bar called the Wein Keller (wine cellar). Curious, we went in.
The place had wine for takeout on sale. Or, you could pick out a bottle you liked and drink it in the back. We picked a bottle of Moselle wine called Rosengarten and drank it on the premises. The shop owner told us find a table and be seated.
Minutes later he came in, uncorked the bottle and poured our wine. We picked our glasses up and smelled the wine. The aroma was wonderful. We tasted the wine and agreed it didn’t taste at all like the swill we drank at home. We knew we were on to something. For the rest of the evening, we sipped the wine, ate some snacks and chattered away.
At some point in the evening, a group of three older German men engaged us in conversation. “Where are you from,” they said. We told them that we were American soldiers stationed at Prinz Eugan Kaserne just down the road from Gunzburg. Almost in unison, they thanked us for our service to Germany.
By 11 in the evening, we had finished our bottle of wine and stood up to leave the wine bar, but before we could exit, one of the old German gents asked if we would like to come to his home for a night cap. “Sure,” we said.
So, we followed the men to a nice stone house in a residential neighborhood near the bar. There, we were served more good German wine and a tray of meat and bread. They asked us where we lived in the United States. I said “California,” Jack said, “New Jersey” and Walt said, “Oregon.”
They were particularly interested in hearing about the Golden Gate Bridge and the Pacific Ocean in California and the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building in New York City. They didn’t know where Oregon was.
After we finished the wine and meat, our host poured coffee for us and brought out a tray of pasties. We were getting full, but we ate and enjoyed. Finally, our host poured us a glass of Schnaps and we toasted to peace and prosperity. By now, it was 2 a.m.
So, we thanked our host and headed back to the base. Our first evening out had turned out better than we could have imagined. We made some new friends, drank some very good wine and learned a great deal about German hospitality. Now my first night on the town in Gunzburg is yet another culturally-enriching Janey Way memory.
The Relles/Petta family has always been close-knit. When I was growing up on Janey Way, the family gathered often for holiday dinners, parties and road trips.
So it’s no surprise that after I retired in 2001, I began to meet regularly with my aunts at their Thursday coffee gathering. Back then, my mother, and aunts Alice, Kay and Margaret met regularly at the Muffin’s Etc. on 57th and H streets. That gathering has since moved to La Bou on Howe Avenue.
It is no big deal. We usually just chatter about current affairs, family happenings and stories from the past. The stories these ladies tell crack me up.
For example, my aunt Kay recently told me about my (step) Grandpa Rosario Petta’s migration from Sicily to the USA. He arrived first in New Orleans, Louisiana. There he worked for the railroad, saving money to pay back for his passage here. She tells me that after his first week on the job, he stood in line to sign for his pay. Standing there, he noticed the men signed their pay slip with an X. So when he reached the front of the line, Rosario, a man who read and wrote in three languages, signed his pay slip with an X. The sad truth is that the other men could neither read, nor write, hence the X.
After he finished repaying his passage to the USA, Grandpa Petta moved up the Mississippi River to Chicago Heights, Illinois. Some of our family still lives there. It was there that Grandpa Petta met my grandfather Xeverio Relles and grandmother Elena Sclafani/Relles. He rented a room from the Relles’ and they all became good friends.
Sadly, my grandfather Relles died in the 1920 Spanish flu epidemic that killed over 500,000 people in the USA alone. When that happened, my grandma took her three boys, George, Ross and Martin Relles to Sacramento to be with family. Grandpa Petta followed her to Sacramento.
There, he proposed to her. With three boys to raise, she needed all the help she could get. She accepted his proposal. Soon they managed to acquire a property on 52nd Street and 14th Avenue in an area called Colonial Heights. Grandpa Petta, a farmer, liked this property because it was located above the flood plain.
One day in the 1920s, as they sat in their kitchen drinking coffee, Grandma said to Grandpa, “When I married you, I thought that your had money from the “old country.” He replied to her, “I thought you had money from insurance from your husband’s death.” They both laughed and went on with their challenging lives, raising seven children. Ultimately, five of those children graduated from University, a testament to the Petta’s hard work and working class values.
I won’t see my aunts this Thursday as they will be out of state attending a family wedding. But, on the following Thursday, we will gather as usual to share more stories and reminisce about our Janey Way memories.
I played football in 1962 at Sacramento High. That year I played weak side end for the junior varsity team. I had a good season catching several passes from quarterback Bob Ferguson. I even scored a touchdown in our last game. That gave me the confidence to ask the coach for approval to play football for high school credit in the fall of 1963. He rebuffed me saying, “Let’s see if you make the varsity team.” That disappointed me so much; I didn’t even try out for the team that year. I thought that marked the end of my competitive football career. It didn’t.
In the fall of 1969, I shipped out for a tour of duty with the U.S. Army at the 510th Ordinance Company in Gunzburg, Germany. After arriving at the 510th in the fall, I soon learned that they participated in an army competitive flag football program. Units from all over Germany competed in this program. The 510th team had just finished its football for that year, but next year loomed on the horizon.
When tryouts began during the summer, I participated along with my friends Jack and Walt. Jack had played pitcher on the baseball team at the University of South Carolina.
Walt played linebacker at Laney Junior College in the bay area. Another fellow, Dave Goss, had played on the freshman football team at Penn State. We had the nucleus for a good team. Jack would be our quarterback. Walt would play linebacker and Dave Goss played on the defensive line. I played tight end. Our team bonded together as we practiced hard and looked forward to a successful season.
We won our first game easily and quickly gained confidence. Jack whizzed passes to me and the other receivers, and our running back zigzagged through the line for big running plays. By the end of our 8-game season, we were undefeated. That got us into the playoffs.
We played the first playoff game against a team that won the league title in Augsburg a big army town. We handled them easily, winning 28-7. Next, we went to Munich to play for the Bavarian Section title. There the going got tough, but we won a close game, winning 14-7. I caught the winning touchdown pass.
Now, we were heading off to Stuttgart to play for the Southern German championship. The whole battalion was buzzing with excitement.
We bused up to Stuttgart on Friday evening, staying over at a barracks near the field. I remember arriving at the field that day feeling really nervous. This was it. If, we won this game, we would play in the all-German finals in Frankfurt. It wasn’t to be. We played hard. The game was close. I nearly scored a touchdown, getting inside the ten yard line on one play, but we couldn’t get into the end zone on the ensuing plays. We lost 13-7.
Our spirits were low on the bus ride back home, but our buddies were waiting for us when we arrived. They dragged us over the enlisted man’s club and drank to our success. At formation on Monday morning our commanding officer praised us for representing the battalion honorably. It was a great feeling.
That turned out to be my only Army league football experience. Prior to the next fall, I discharged from the army. However, I would play football again in the State of California league and the Sacramento City League where John Ducray led our team to the city championship. I will never forget my Army league football experience though, yet another hard-hitting Janey Way memory.
In September of 1969, I completed my military training at Fort Lewis, Washington, and received orders to serve in West Germany. A few weeks later I boarded a charter plane headed for Rhine-Main Air Base in Frankfurt, Germany. A few days later, after processing through the 21st Replacement Battalion, I was on a bus headed for Gunzburg in southern Germany.
By this time, fall was settling in and the weather was changing. In November, the first snow began falling. It remained on the ground until April of 1970. By that time, I had settled in, made friends, and planned a trip for my summer leave. Along with my best friends, Jack and Charlie, I would travel to Spain.
And so it was that one Saturday in June we donned our back packs, got in cab and headed for the train station. There we booked first class tickets to Barcelona. Within an hour, we headed on our way. The train took us to Munich first, where we changed trains. When we stepped onto our assigned car we took note of a placard on the door: Orient Express. Yes, indeed, we were boarding the train made famous by Agatha Christy. Off we went.
The first thing we learned about European train travel is that a ticket does not guarantee you a seat. For the first three hours we stood in the space by the restroom at the end of our car. Eventually, three passengers exited and we claimed their seats.
After a dozen hours or so (no bullet-train here) we landed in Paris and changed trains. Jack had a sandwich at the train station. That proved to be a mistake. With an hour he had full-on food poisoning. In the end though, it worked out for him. While he hung his head over the rail of the train being sick, he met a girl name Pat. She ended up spending the next three days with us.
When we landed in Barcelona, the four of us booked rooms in a Pension, and headed out to explore the city. We had a ball. We visited a modernistic park designed by the famous Spanish architect Gaudi, the Barcelona Zoo, and a famous walkway called Las Ramblas. Later, we shared a wonderful Spanish dinner.
After three days, we traveled to Madrid, the beautiful capital of Spain. There, we toured the famous Prado museum, viewing incredible paintings by the likes of Goya and El Greco. Over the next few days, we explored much of the central city, seeing beautiful buildings, cathedrals, and upscale stores.
However, all good things come to an end. By Friday, we were on our way back to Germany. Thirty hours later we arrived back in Gunzburg completely exhausted, but already planning our next adventure.
During my tour in Germany, I traveled extensively. In fact, I took a European discharge there in 1971. After that, I continued to travel for six additional months. By then, I had visited Austria, Yugoslavia, Italy, Switzerland, France, Belgium, and Spain. The travel bug had definitely bit me.
Since that trip, I have traveled all over the world, setting foot on six continents. Only Antarctica has eluded me. But, my first trip in Europe, back in 1970, is still an unforgettable Janey Way memory.