Kenneth Howard Smith - THIS BEAT IS MILITARY - From the VINYL KNIGHTS BOOK.

 Kenneth Howard Smith - THIS BEAT IS MILITARY - From the VINYL KNIGHTS BOOK.

THIS BEAT IS MILITARY

It was the year we lost Diane Boswell — a car accident took her life too soon. She was the preacher’s oldest daughter, one of five Boswell kids who made that long Sunday drive from San Fernando Valley to our little country church. George was my age, and his sisters, Diane and Joyce, brought the sparkle. Joyce especially — she liked me, and I liked her. She was from the city; I was a country boy with hay still in my hair. She made me feel like I was walking on clouds.

As time passed, church became more than a place of worship — it was where friendships deepened. Reggie and I, both fifteen and full of energy, started visiting Los Angeles, staying with Norman and Ramona Stancil. The Stancils had been our desert neighbors before their family split and moved to the city. Seeing them again was like stepping back into childhood — Norman teasing, Ramona stealing kisses in dark corners. Life was confusing and wonderful all at once.

With about fifty dollars saved between us, my first stop in L.A. was always the record shop by KGFJ Radio, where you could watch the DJ spinning live on air. Sometimes a famous artist dropped in to promote a new record, and you could even grab a signed copy. That’s where I met Ron and Kathy Holden — a friendship that would resurface years later in Seattle.

Then came my 19th birthday, marked by a head-on collision that nearly ended everything. I woke up in Antelope Valley Hospital, staring into the kindest brown eyes I’d ever seen — Mary Beth Broderson, a nurse’s aide who held my hand through the pain. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. We became inseparable for a time, our love woven with laughter, moon landings, and music. When Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon, I held Mary Beth close and whispered, “The eagle has landed.”

But life shifted. She moved on, and I turned to music to mend my heart. I wrote “Proud Mary Sunshine” and later merged it with another tune, “You Keep Holding Back.” Years later, that song found a home in England — proof that art has a way of surviving heartbreak.

Then came Kathy Holodnick — my “running buddy.” Together, we hit every concert and film in Hollywood. She was even featured on the cover of Seventeen Magazine. When she transferred to Valley State College, our paths began to drift apart.

I enrolled at UC Santa Barbara — right as protests ignited and bombs hit the registration building and Bank of America. Governor Reagan ended student deferments, and my draft notice soon followed. My parents tried everything, but there was no escaping it.

I thought about fleeing to Canada. My mother stopped me cold. She handed me her Bible and said, “If you go, you’ll be dead to your country — and to yourself.” She told me to serve, but wisely. That’s when I found Warrant Officer Martinkovic and turned toward the Air Force.

Around that time, I met the woman who changed everything — Irene Joanne Tarbell. She convinced me to play bass for Up With People’s Sing Out Antelope Valley, where she sang two solos that could melt stone. We’d spend weekends exploring caves and searching for Native relics. One night, overlooking the valley lights from a Palmdale hilltop, I told her I was going to be drafted — and that I wanted to marry her. She said yes before I even finished asking.

We married on March 28, 1970. I’ve never regretted it. Love changes, people grow, but that love was real.

Soon, I was on a bus headed to San Antonio for Air Force basic training. I’d dreamed of a desk job — something safe. Instead, I found myself facing drill sergeants who could’ve passed for Marines. “ALL YOU DICKHEADS OFF THE BUS!” was my welcome to Texas.

Boot camp was brutal: sleepless nights, endless drills, and a climate so humid it felt like walking through soup. But I made it through — stronger, leaner, and with one stripe up thanks to ROTC. My motivation was simple: Irene, pregnant and waiting back home. Her weekly letters, photos of her growing belly, and stories from Edwards Air Force Base Medical Center kept me steady.

When training ended, I received my assignment: Travis Air Force Base, California. Close enough to home to taste. I couldn’t pack fast enough.

Irene and I settled in Suisun City near the Pinole Straits. Life on $155 a month was tough, but we made it work. I got promoted quickly, but every new stripe brought me closer to Vietnam. I was writing for the base’s Information Office when the General himself commended my work. He asked me to call him “John” — a rare kindness in the military world. When he reassigned me to 60th Supply Squadron, I didn’t complain. It turned out to be a blessing.

There, Irene and I created one of the first computer databases on base — a simple COBOL and BASIC program to track personnel and inventory. When we ran it successfully for the first time, it was like launching a rocket. That little program saved the Air Force over 250,000 man-hours per quarter and was later adopted across multiple bases.

The Colonel offered me a chance to attend Officer Candidate School in computer systems — my dream. I studied hard, missed passing by one point, but stayed determined.

Then, life delivered its most beautiful surprise. On December 5, 1970, Irene went into labor early. Hours later, a nurse placed a tiny bundle in my arms — our daughter, Kristine Joanne Tarbell-Smith. Holding her, I realized I didn’t need medals or ranks to prove anything. I was already home.

Two weeks later, we took Kristine to Southern California so my father could hold his granddaughter. It was the last time he would.

Not long after, my orders came for Vietnam. I had tried to outsmart fate — but it found me anyway. Still, I faced it with pride. I had a wife I loved, a daughter I adored, and a story worth telling.

This beat was military — but the rhythm was life itself.