1966 - Running The Rapids

Our scouting trip to the boundry waters in Canada was packed with new adventures or awsome scenery every day. The water was ice cold as it came from somewhere way north but it was crystal clear and visability was, easily, 50-feet. Days were warm...nights were freezing.

1966 – Running The Rapids

We turned the corner and a good sized lake appeared off the bow. Our paddles slapped the water as we motivated across the lake. Our shirts were off and our life-vests were lying in the bottom of the canoe as we enjoyed a beautiful and warm, but humid, day. On the chart there was a vague line across the width of the lake, which we had discussed and come to no conclusion. It seemed to split the lake in half so, we conjectured, perhaps it was a property designation. What could this unevenly dotted line mean? We were 4-days into our Explorer-Scout “Canadian Canoe Trip.”

The lake was about a mile across with the width being about half that. As we proceeded across the lake an actual vague dark line appeared and came closer and closer until we were upon it. The little dots on the chart had signified a series of boulders that walked a straight line across the lake. In between each outcropping was a short waterfall emptying in our direction. The water dropped only a couple of feet and was not turbulent at all. We could paddle right up to the lower edge of the waterfall and reach out to touch the flow of water being careful not to dip the bow of the canoe into the falling water. Dave and Bill climbed up on one of the rock outcroppings and, grabbing the bow of the canoe, easily lifted the craft up the waterfall noticing that the bow stayed floating on the surface of the rushing water. As soon as more than half of the canoe had climbed the tiny cataract the rear end of the canoe shot up, hanging over the edge and easily pushed forward onto the top end of the lake. As Hardy and Terry climbed onto the outcropping Mike said to me, “I bet we could just punch through that with a little speed.”

We backed off around 20’ and put paddle to water stroking as hard as we could. As the bow hit the down rushing water it dipped upwards trying to climb the liquid with its well designed buoyancy. As forward momentum overcame buoyancy the bow of the canoe dipped slightly as though it was about to dive under the slight waterfall. I was amidships and leaned back from the inflow of water, putting my weight as far towards the stern as possible. The bow popped up with barely a gallon of water actually spilling into the craft. We pulled hard with the paddles and smoothly sailed right up the falls to the exceedingly calm water immediately above the falls. We paddled back to the rock outcropping and held on as we urged our scout-mates on.

As this was the 3rd day out we had not before had a significant issue with the current as it was so slow and easy to paddle against. When our trek began we had accidentally selected to paddle into the current instead of with it by innocently selecting the wrong river as we moved from our starting point. It now became clear what reversing our direction of travel had done on some rare occasions like this one. We had missed out on the opportunity to just ride the current through little attractions like this. Mike and I sat back a few feet and with unanimous agreement between the two of us ran the waterfall 3-more times until Ron’s dad reminded us we still had a couple of miles to go until camp and it was getting to be mid-afternoon. We wrapped up our impromptu game of ride-the-falls and proceeded to camp without further incident.

We arose the next morning to find our socks, hanging over our heads inside our tents to dry overnight, stiff with ice. A couple of us collected deadfall and stoked the campfire while others prepared powered eggs and fresh bass for breakfast. Before breakfast we all beat our socks against the hot rocks to break the ice off and to warm them enough to wear…they were not dry and, upon pulling them on, our feet chilled quickly but warmed again when our body temperature managed to warm our toes. The day was warming as we got underway.

We had only been traveling for a few hours when the sound of rushing water again assaulted our ears. Earlier, only an hour into our day, we’d had to portage around a 15’-high falls so we were prepared for another trek around. It was a steep but short climb around. We contemplated the size of the expected waterfall and discussed how much water had to be falling to make the noise we heard ahead of us but still out of sight. Before long we came around a bend in the river to glide over a medium-sized pond situated at the foot of what appeared to be a small rapid. As the trees came right up to the edge of the water on our right we disembarked on the right hand side of the pond. We immediately realized this would be more of a major hassle than the falls were this AM. The distance around would be substantially further than this morning’s route around. The rapids were only around 100' long but the way around included a steep cliff that looked almost inaccessable. It looked like there would be a steep walk to a steeper cliff and onto a flat topped area near the top of the rapid. Even that area appeared to be overgrown with brush. As we were portaging around what was normally a downhill ride we surmised there was no trail cut for the up-hill go-around. We would have to cut our own. We were of course headed uphill or against the current because we routed ourselves against the current upon our initial route planning.

Because most of the boys were trying to get out of their canoes all-at-once Mike and I held back, talking and awaiting our turn. Our impatience was showing as in some cases several trips would need to be made per canoe to trek all of the food, tents, sleeping bags as well as the pots and pans that we carried in our canoe along with our personal items. We had anchored ourselves by relaxing a foot each on the boulder that completed the downhill end of a rough line of rocks and boulders that cut the length of the rapids as we contemplated the water that spilled down the short hill before us. The line of boulders and rocks broke the rapids into two distinct channels: one wide and fast and one somewhat narrower but with wilder looking waves and troughs. As I held us fast Mike clambered out onto the bunch of boulders and rocks making up the bottom spot. He climbed over the boulder and called for me to throw him the rope that was fastened to the bow and join him on the other side. I was glad to do this as it looked like more of an adventure than sitting in a canoe waiting for our turn. The first of the portage party headed out for the trail up with more than a few grumbles.

As I climbed over the rocks in our little island of stone in a current of chaos I could see why Mike was excited. It appeared there was really no reason not to simply unload both of us and, skipping from rock-to-rock towing the lightened canoe behind, reach the top of the rapids and push off to the calm waters above the wild water. Mike, holding the rope, made the jump up-stream to the next boulder. I followed immediately behind pushing the canoe ahead as Mike reeled in the rope. The series of little rocky outcroppings were fairly easy to traverse as most of these “islands” were easily big enough to hold both of us without too much crowding. Although most of the jumps were easy there were a couple that were a bit challenging and once I dunked a boot in the stream to my ankle. That short exposure to the current tugged hard at my foot – the current was much stronger than it appeared. We had reached the final jump which Mike barely made, slipping on the wet rock and stretching just barely enough to make good purchase on the rough stone holding tightly and pressing a cheek against the rock until his balance was fully restored and he felt he was in no danger of going for a swim. The rock jutted up tall and narrow and separated from the rest of the group by a good sized gap. The jump was wide enough that Mike had to hold his full-length against the rock for a couple of seconds to assure a good solid hold. I eyed the gap.

I prepared for the jump chickening out at the last second. The gap simply looked too far for me and I had no confidence I would be able to come even close to the tiny little ledge I would need to reach to assure good footing. I prepared again but stopped a second time by the size of the gap and the wildness of the water filling that gap. After my second failed attempt Mike suggested I climb into the canoe. He would pull me the 3-4 feet required for me to get to a spot where I could climb out. Although the water was moving very fast the stream was less than a foot deep and we could easily see the bottom right through the water where it was calm enough not to foam. The water was so shallow that it appeared that as soon as I climbed into the stern the craft it would settle to the shallow bottom and I could climb the length of the canoe using it as a temporary bridge, and then climb back out and onto the rocks. It sounded like a good plan and Mike confirmed he would have no trouble holding the canoe against the current. I stepped.

As soon as my full weight was on my foot I could feel the canoe scrape against the bottom of the stream and slip sideways. It obviously was not settling to the bottom due to the high speed of the rushing water. At this point the torrent was just starting its downhill fall and there was plenty of energy trying very hard to get downstream. I started to step forward and the shifting current caused me to almost lose my balance and catch myself by falling heavily into the aft seat. “Stay there!” Mike shouted. “Let me pull it a couple of feet closer and you can climb out.” Sounded like a plan. I sat. Mike pulled. The canoe moved toward Mike with very little effort but as soon as I rose to my feet it bucked, trying to break loose. Mike dug in with his feet and pulled. I could see the nose of the canoe was dug in between two uneven slabs of rocks and as Mike pulled the nose the rear of the canoe rose up until it took about a 35-degree angling forward. It began slipping through the air sideways and Mike immediately dropped it back into the current. The front of the canoe was trying to wedge itself in between the two rocks. I put my weight on my rear foot to try and raise the front of the canoe but with Mike pulling hard on the bitter-end of the nose this caused the nose of the canoe to buck up and threw me toward the rushing water. In reaction I was thrown completely off-balance and I fell heavily forward toward the front seat landing on my hands and knees. I felt the canoe slip sideways to the current and felt it roll, unbalanced, to the left where it began to dip a rail towards the water.

The canoe gave a hard shimmy and feeling the power of the current I looked back down the canoe towards the stern noticing immediately that there was a hollow tube of water rushing into the bottom of the canoe and making a tube down the length of which I could look, however briefly. As time dilated I watched my sleeping bag spin around the walls of this watery tube, immediately followed by dad’s tackle box and Mike’s sleeping bag then the brown packs full of pots and pans. This was about the time I realized the whole world was turning around with the rushing water. I didn’t fully realize until I was submerged face-down in the water that this illusion had been caused by my irresistibly joining the rest of the canoe’s contents. I felt smooth rocks and stone glide by underneath my fingers but I was moving way too fast to get a hold on even one of them. I felt myself spinning around like an out-of-control water bug. I raised my head to see one of the boulders spin by only a few inches from my head. I distinctly remember getting a visual of a smashed watermelon with its red inside spilling all over with black and white seeds spilling everywhere and green rind split with multiple deep cracks and breaks. I desperately reached out time and time again to the rocks scrapping under my desperate grasping hands with no relief whatsoever. I picked my head up again and saw I had spun fairly close to the left-hand side of the stream and grabbed at a low hanging tree branch to have it jerked out of my hand while being physically and violently thrown back into the current. At that moment my foot caught on a sunken tree root and I threw my self toward that secure purchase. I held on for dear life drawing myself close enough to the bank to find a spot where the water was calm and enabled me to sit up in my 3-6 inches of water to get my breath back.

The journey had only taken a couple of seconds but seemed like all day as I could recall every spin and buffet I took while the current was abusing my body. I crawled onto the bank noticing a well worn path we had all missed. It continued gently uphill. It was well shielded by this season’s edge growth. Jack and Bill were there almost as soon as I came to rest yelling “Get in! We’ve got to retrieve the stuff!” I jumped in and we paddled off in pursuit of our still floating supplies. The pack, although full of pots and pans, had retained enough air to enable it to float low on the surface where we quickly retrieved it. We managed to recover everything except my dad’s tackle box which sank out of site just as I reached for it, dropping into the invisible depths when I was quite literally 12 inches away.

I spent an additional ½ hour trying to dive for dads gear using the mask and fins I had brought along but, as clear as the water normally was, the turbulent rapids had muddied the water until it was simply too murky to see clearly to the bottom which was an undetermined distance below.

To this day I have few regrets about Mike, Hardy’s and my and my decision to go in the direction we headed when we started. It is now all ancient history but so many of our adventures could have been a lot calmer and the trip a lot easier if our direction of travel had been reversed. In fact I could have been perfectly happy not to be able to relate this tale.

But here it is.

1962 - A Sense Of History

As long as I can remember I have been acutely aware of history and our place in it. Family was so important in my life that when I decided to become a working and possibly traveling musician I made a conscious decision to wait for family - I had noticed the two rarely mixed well. Having that historical perspective may have saved more than one heartbreak. Consequently, although saving my childhood collectibles may not have lasted until there were kids in my life after all - it would have been nice to try.

1962 – A Sense Of History

There they were:
Tucked in the back of the top shelf of our recently purchased house: 2 little boxes.

They measured about 2” x 3 ¼” by 7” & no one in our family had seen them before. We were cleaning out the old discards from the previous owner when I found these mysterious boxes containing…what? Standing on my tiptoes I reached back and, catching a fingernail on the edge of the box, drew it forward a couple of inches. Grabbing a firm hold I pulled out the box and opened it. To my surprise I found a box tightly packed with baseball cards. I thought, “These are so old they must be worthless. They’re not even in color.” I paused. Just like the comic books dad and I had discussed a few weeks before, some old things seemed the same as current stuff, but had somehow changed over the years resulting in differences that could put things in a completely different light. Even then I remember being aware that differences in context could completely change the meaning or value of something. The example I was most aware of was the difference in comic book characters during and after “The War”, sometimes called “World War II.” Dad stressed that a character, Prince Nemo, had been a hero in comic books during the war but in my Fantastic Four comics he was a bad-guy. I was shocked and dismayed. I still remember the resulting conversation where dad ruminated people could see things differently if in trouble than they might perceive if everything was good. He said that during the war kids were looking for more good-guys so publishers gave them…more good-guys. I realized right then that the environment surrounding an event, and the execution of the event had direct bearing on both the event and how that event was planned and, perhaps, later perceived. Context was everything! Things that happened yesterday might be acceptable behavior because the world they lived in was different than ours! This came to me fairly early in my life.

“Maybe something as old as these baseball cards should be saved for my kids,” I thought. I had been saving my Weekly Readers, a weekly newspaper distributed to grade-schools for grades 1-3, for my children. As I read these short pieces on current events I was well aware I was living in history. I had figured if my children were as curious as me these would be appreciated. Maybe these baseball cards were historically valuable. At that age although I had a sense of history, I had absolutely no sense of value except intrinsic value. Issues regarding money values were still a mystery.

As I dug through the cards I found a few I recognized. There was Dizzy Dean and Babe Ruth. There was Ted Williams, Roger Maris and Sandy Koufax. There was Yogi Berra, Phil Rizzuto and Mickey Mantle. Unfortunately the majority of these cards were of players completely unknown to me. I showed them to my dad which resulted in an hour of reminisces about his boyhood, the radio and the Cubs baseball game we had attended together at Wrigley Field with my Cub Scout Troop a couple of years before. My memories of that game were more of the purchase of a chameleon (which died in about a week) and the sights, sounds and smells of the ball-park…but I don’t remember the actual game. I do remember that we were all in Cub-Scout uniforms except dad who was in jeans (cuffs rolled, of-course) and an open-necked shirt. I remember being slightly embarrassed when we were entering the park and I looked around and noticed that most of the other dads were sharply dressed in suits and ties with, in many cases, a fedora to go along…my dad wore a plaid woolen ball-cap. After we entered and found a seat in general seating I wasn’t nearly as sensitive to this as we were surrounded by families and groups of men and boys all dressed like us, with very few as sharply dressed as those I had seen at the entrance. Some of the players I saw that day were right there in that stack of cards, as my dad happily pointed out. As he went through them he would pause and point out a special player or someone we had seen that day at our ball game. I don’t remember any of them…they must not have registered that strongly at the game.

Thinking back I’m sure no one in the collection was black, or negro, as African-American’s were known at the time…something I’m sure I didn’t notice then but, looking back, in retrospect it was too bad the Negro League didn’t have baseball cards. But then, in the long run, if these had been a batch of Negro League cards they would have eventually gone the way of my other collections, including those Weekly Readers. But for now, I tucked them away in my bottom drawer…my junk drawer…and forgot about them.

Eventually I had quite an impressive collection of comic books and various “historical” documents – or what I considered historical documents including some National Geographic magazines and various and other sundry items of interest. I had a collection of some pottery I found buried in the mounds in the woods. All of the neighborhood kids knew of the mounds and often dug in them to make “forts or towers” as we called them. Some of the mounds were deep in the woods and, along with the pottery, I had a big rounded piece of bone I had found buried with it. Thinking back I know it could easily have been a piece of human hip or skull, although at the time I thought it was a piece of deer hipbone or something similar because, after all, people are buried in graveyards and not in dirt mounds that are found in the middle of the woods or, like the other mounds we played on, in the middle of acres and acres of fields we used for our summer playground. In and around these mounds we sometimes found arrowheads, pottery and long, thin chipped pieces of stone that, as an adult, I’m fairly sure could have been Paleolithic stone scrapers or knife-blades. From reading articles about my cousin Dave I know Paleolithic natives lived in our area long before metal knives were available.

Included in the junk box that resided in the back of my junk-drawer was a 12” long “knife” that had a soft pewter-looking blade and a brass handle hand inscribed “ANKARA.” This knife was very flexible and bent easily sideways but if thrust forward, in a stabbing movement, it easily penetrated a full box of Kleenix. After what passed for research in a pre-teen and teenager of the pre-internet 60’s, visits to the Chicago museums and trips to the library, I concluded this dipstick-looking weapon that originated in the Middle East where the word “Ankara” meant “change.” As the definition I read specified violent change I surmised this was the weapon of a middle-eastern assassin. Complete fantasy of course. The handle had originally included a ring at the end of the handle where a line could be attached but which I found broken and deformed. I had located this item buried on the beach were I first thought I had found someone’s missing dip-stick. It was a valued treasure possibly from the cargo vessel that had sunk several weeks before. Part of it’s cargo were museum pieces so I, of course, fantasized I had one of these pieces – no longer of value due to the broken ring.

In this box was also a special arrowhead I had found in my backyard when I fell during a game of tag. Finding a flat stone under my hand, and being the one that mowed the lawn, I drew back to throw it into the field near our house when I felt a sharp point on one end. I drew my hand back and looked that the “rock” in my hand. It was an arrowhead that would seriously rival any similar piece I have seen before of since. It was white stone with hundreds of tiny chips that had formed it into the classic Beaker-style arrowhead style point. It was about 2 ½“ long and about 1 ¾“ wide. It was a little less than ¾” thick. This came to be my 2nd most valued treasure although it had been my most valued possession until I received an authentic 1800’s era German switchblade.

This knife was my choice of a remembrance item from my Grandpa’s collection of assorted junk he had collected over his life. It was being discarded by my grandma soon after his death and she offered each of us one thing with which to remember him by.

I had originally asked for the newspaper clippings and papers through which I once found him sorting through and about which we spent a pleasant afternoon talking. Grandpa had seen, not met, Bat Masterson and Wild Bill Hitchcock as well as Chief Rain-In-The- Face and a couple of other famous native Americans and cowboys, none of whom I now remember. Our conversation about these papers was one of my fondest childhood memories and represented not only my grandpa’s life but the parts of history that he walked through and experienced, often in the first-person. As a teen he had crossed the prairie in a covered wagon and fought Indians with his family and, eventually, became a well-sought-after skilled carpenter. Following his first marriage they lived in a sod-cabin in the Dakota’s until the eventual heartbreak and re-settling of his life after the still-birth of his child and the death of his first wife. Per grandpa’s brother-in-law Uncle Willie, her death resulted from uncontrollable bleeding subsequent to that unsuccessful childbirth. Thereafter he decided to move to the city where doctors and medical help would be more readily available.

Unfortunately my grandma told me I didn’t really want all of those “dusty old papers” and mom backed her up. I was told to find something else.

I remember they didn’t particularly want me to choose the switchblade I found in the back of his desk drawer but a little fussing and whining about not really making my own choice convinced them the knife was an acceptable alternate. I kept that knife for years but eventually lost it in a motorcycle accident in 1969 in which my brother’s motorcycle and I took a quick side-trip into a swamp.

The last item, or items, added to my collection of “historic documents” was a copy of every newspaper I could lay my hands on when President Kennedy was assassinated my freshman year of high school. Wall-Street Journal, Chicago Tribune and the Daily News, the Waukegan News-Sun, the Zion-Benton News. I even had a copy of Grit – the newspaper printed once-a-month and sold by kids (like my brother) that fell for the advertisement on the back of Boy’s Life. I knew, for sure, the assassination was an important event about which original documents would be appreciated. They got stashed with my other collections which had, by this time, become several boxes stacked in my closet. These were the early signs of a relatively-controllable pack-rat.

What happened to all of these “important papers?” Early in 1967 dad was asked to assume management of one of Convection Cabinets biggest accounts: Iowa State University. This was an exciting time for our family: moving to a new place far from our traditional family holdings. Dad insisted the company wait until his eldest child, me, had graduated from High school so within a couple of weeks following graduation we packed a truck and both of our cars and headed out for Iowa City. All belongings were packed solid in the truck and we could get no more in any vehicle when mom showed up with one last box of clothing that simply would not fit regardless of loading and re-loading. After the third re-load mom asked, “Bob, what’s in this box?” “That’s all of Larry’s collectibles.” After a short pause my mother said well that’s all just junk he’s had for too long as it is. We’re going to have to leave it behind.”

I was devastated. No amount of complaining or wailing changed mom’s mind. I had already managed to go through years of collections and trim my belongings down to one large 3’x3’x3’ box. On the bottom were years of comic books, including many I have since seen priced at ComiCon for hundreds of dollars. On top of that were weekly readers and wrapped in my Surf Club jacket and tucked into a corner was my mayonnaise jar of knifes, arrowheads and foreign coins I had gathered over the years. The last items, those things I saw when I retrieved my little jar from the corners of my box were several newspapers. “Kennedy Shot” and “President Assassinated in Dallas” shouted at me from the top of the box as I folded the top shut. The pain was almost physical. All of my years of collecting, some things since kindergarten, were going to be discarded. All of my years of collecting these valuable papers were all for naught. My children might never know the thrill of discovering pieces of history in their own hands. My depression was palatable but I wasn’t the only one forced to leave things behind so with a stiff upper lip I tried to set a good example for my brothers. Eventually, while I was in the Navy, mom discarded my mayonnaise jar telling my dad “These are boy things. Larry’s a man now.” Mom was not an historian.

After all of these years I still often remember that collection with some satisfaction knowing that although my “stuff” is long gone, the attitude of belonging to history has passed honestly from my grandpa and my dad to me.

I am history…so are you.

1972 - The Blue Angels

Postings have been a bummer all week - time to perk it up a little. This actually predates the last so it is a good indication of how boundless optimism can turn sour.

Want to make God laugh?
...Tell Him your plans.

1972 – The Blue Angels Have To Practice, Too

It had been a cold winter. I had returned from the Navy in January ‘72 to a typical Illinois winter where it was “the coldest winter in memory,” as it always seemed to be every year of my childhood. After a couple of weeks with mom in Iowa City with her new husband, Gene, I got tired of living under her rules in a town in with which I felt completely unfamiliar. I caught a Greyhound to Southern Illinois where my dad lived, in Olney. I had a completely miserable ride with the bus seeming to stop at every drugstore and remote village along the way. The bus was packed so I took the last available seat next to a smelly bum who insisted on either sleeping with his head on my shoulder or talking nonsense non-stop.

In Olney, after 4-weeks of no work and a location with which I was even more unfamiliar than I was with Iowa City, I decided it was time to head north where I had friends that would put me up for a while until I found a job and got established. I set off with a suitcase, which contained mostly a waterbed mattress, and a couple of changes of clothes. I also carried my guitar. Standing by the side of the highway on a brisk but sunny day I quickly caught a ride several miles north to an exit near Effingham, Illinois. A light snow began as we rode the side roads and country highways, many of which slowed through each village we came to. After about 2-hours we got on the interstate and made good time but this ride stopped after only about a half-hour to drop me at a particularly barren exit ramp. I remember the location of this exit because several years later I would be managing theatres in this town and would find out the exit where I had been dropped was the worst possible location as it was a mile short of a main highway crossroads east-west/south-north with a steady stream of vehicles.

I stood with my thumb out for 8-hours that day while the weather turned to sleet and blowing snow. I had a six-inch snowdrift on my boots when I finally got a ride around dusk from a long-haired dude that was returning from Marti Gras in New Orleans. He was talking a mile-a-minute and, after a few minutes confessed to being “…fried from the 3 hits of Sunshine I did this morning.” Sunshine was a type of particularly pure but very potent LSD. I volunteered to drive which he eventually took me up on after several miles of convincing, during which time I weighted my safety between an ice storm, that had grown progressively worse, and a buzzed out-of-his-skull acid–freak. He was headed for Milwaukee but he volunteered to go several miles out-of-his-way to deliver me in front of Robin’s house where I would stay for the next week-and-a-half. He was mind-blasted and rambling but seemed essentially a good guy that had indulged himself way too much. As he was completely concerned with my welfare and the weather I hope he arrived at his destination safely.

After a week with Rob and, Nancy, his absolutely miserable wife who was less than pleasant to either him or me, Rob helped me find a job driving a cab in North Chicago and I moved to a room downtown Waukegan upstairs from the Genesee Theatre and several blocks from work. I ran into Kevin during this period and we bonded as closely as we had been before either of us had joined the service. In high school we had played in a garage-band in high school. After several months we broke the band up…of course…over a girl. It was good to have my old friend back. Kevin, a couple of roadies, Ray and David, and I moved in together and we played rock ’n roll evenings and weekends the rest of that year and on into the new year with John and Donnie.

After 2-months of driving a cab I switched jobs to Nursing Aide at Downey Hospital on advice from Rory a high-school friend and acquaintance. I served in a capacity of a Nursing Aide for 9-months through the winter and left this position as soon as it looked like winter was over and the snow was gone. I wanted to move back to San Diego. After all: I was destined to become the next rock n’ roll star. I gave notice hoping to leave almost immediately but found I had a 6-week wait for my retirement account check. I was very anxious to leave this weather behind and head back to warmer climes but counted on the retirement account from the hospital to finance my trip to the west coast. While awaiting my last check I worked as a School Bus Driver for the 6-weeks for various Waukegan schools including Jack Benny Junior High, the roughest kids on the route. Upon arrival of the retirement account check arrival I hit the road despite predicted bad weather. Rent had run out and although the guys in the band did not want me to go, I was determined. The other guys or their families, all of whom were going to move with me originally, one by one had changed their minds and were staying behind. Their concerns turned out to be well founded as I found out years later this move broke up what was on it’s way to becoming a successful Illinois band and sent the remaining members on a completely different musical path. Contemporary Illinois groups at time were Styx & REO Speedwagon neither yet past small recording contracts and mostly local-area sales. Their big gigs were still on the horizon. They stayed together. We didn’t. Sorry, guys.

Although there was a seasonably late snowstorm starting I was confident in my ability to get through the snow to my first stop in Iowa City at mom’s where I had planned to spend the rest of the week. My second day there I was very pleasantly surprised when Kevin, Smitty, Tina, Mary, Marilyn and Ken showed up so I could spend my last week in the Midwest with my closest friends. On Thursday we were going to watch the Wizard of Oz which was still an annual TV event. That evening the storm took a turn for the worse and all highways and freeways out of Iowa City were closed. We were snowed in for the next 2-days. On Sunday morning we all got hugs and kisses and struck out for our destinations, they leaving for Illinois and me for California.

Later that same day I heard that the storm had re-buried Iowa City and all roads in or out were re-closed by 10 AM. That was fine with me but this felt a bit like the Midwest had me by the collar and the belt and was throwing me bodily out of the area. “And stay out!” rang in my head. I drove straight through with only a couple of stops for an hour or so at a rest-stop or two and crossed into California through Yuma early dawn on Tuesday, the third day. It was a beautiful clear winter day in Yuma with Santa Anna winds was warming the morning air comfortably. I was in heaven! After leaving the Midwest with such a kick-in-the-seat this was a perfect welcome to California that could barely be improved upon…or so I thought.

The windows were wide open and Pink Floyd’s Meddle was playing at top volume on the 8-track as the sun rose over the horizon behind me. Absolutely no traffic was on the highway at that hour and I was enjoying the new day and my seclusion. I was enjoying the new day when I noticed the sunspots in my rearview mirror. I had, of course, heard of sunspots but had never noticed one before so as I drove I kept glancing back at the view. After just a few seconds I noticed there was more than 1 spot…in fact the longer I looked the more it appeared the there were 5 sunspots and they were even arranged in a V-formation. As I glanced back trying to drive while trying to pick up more detail on these spots they suddenly grew in size and zoomed over my head. Immediately in front of my van the five jets, in an obviously closely rehearsed move hit red, white and blue smoke and shot straight up into the sky. It all happened so fast I had no opportunity to even react before they were gone and I was through the smoke, the only evidence of their passing being the 3 clouds of multicolored smoke drifting slowly in my wake. I drove on automatic…surprised, doubting my own sanity and wondering if it was all real. After a minute or so I saw a brilliant blue jet coming straight at me flying fast and low over the desert floor fairly skimming the tops of the cactus. It quickly became apparent it would pass directly in front of me perhaps a hundred feet or so off my nose. Following the flight with growing expectation of an impressive sight I was again surprised when, just before reaching the freeway it flipped on its side the pilot’s helmet clearly visible in the cockpit. I fairly jumped out of my skin when the other jet which I hadn’t even suspected to be in the area, and traveling in the opposite direction, crossed simultaneously with the other directly in front of me. It, too, was turned on its side so the bottom side of the jet was all I glimpsed before they both disappeared from sight. Now scanning the desert I saw the remaining jets flying a high formation with gaps in the formation appeared to be headed on a path that would take them directly overhead when the other 2 jets joined the formation. Upon the re-join the formation immediately heeled over into a high-speed dive toward the desert floor appearing to plan to impact the surface of the highway a 1/4-mile ahead when, just before impact they all turned in concert and headed out from the center all spouting smoke and red fire from the afterburners. One of their numbers passed directly over my head causing the van to shake and vibrate with the buffing of the sound and sudden windy draft from its high-speed passing. This show continued for about the next 15-minutes after which they disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. I drove on in a daze.

I arrived in San Diego a couple of hours later and proceeded directly to a friends house who greeted me with “Hey, How’re‘yadoin’doyouwannajoinaband?” This, being the main reason for my return to San Diego was the perfect ending to the perfect day. I related the events of my trip to eyes that showed some doubt when I spoke of my greeting that morning at the wings of the Blue Angels. His doubt was just fine with me as I knew what I had experienced.

Several months later I was reading a Sunset Magazine when I came across an article about the Blue Angles who wintered in Yuma and often practiced early in the morning or in the early evening as the air is calmer during those times and allows them to better practice their maneuvers with very little interference from wind or heat. They stated in the article that on some mornings when it is particularly still and there is only one lonely car on the road they would hold station ahead of that car and run through their practice using the car as a reference point. I kept that article for years in my wallet so I could prove the likelihood of my story eventually throwing it away when it was too worn to read anymore. Over the years I’ve seen doubt in more than one pair of eyes which in the long run barely matters to me anymore as I’ll never forget my greeting on that warm December day.

“Welcome to California!!”

1974 - It's A Wonderful Life

OK, in everyones life, hopefully, there are good times. There are times of adventure and, sometimes, events that have unfortunate results or demonstrate the callow foolishness of youth or ignorance. There have been many good times and I am now in a wonderful place in my life but the path was not always smooth. Sometimes in the middle of the greatest adventures one can find an equally frightening or threatening event. As an honest autobiography contains the good times as well as the less-than-good some of these are written...but not posted...until now. Some of these are arriving in the near future. They are hardly complimentary...but they are what they are. These aren't necessarily for kids.

1974 - Its A Wonderful Life

I was ready to blow my brains out.

I thought of the gun upstairs in Leo’s room. It was tempting but simply sounded like too much work to walk upstairs to get it. But if someone had walked into the room right then with the gun in-hand it would have been tempting to end to my personal torture. “Just go to bed,” I told myself, “everything will be ok in the morning.”

I looked at my “bedroom.” The dirt on the outside of the basement window was so thick lights were required at noon to navigate the room that looked out on a barren hillside. A shallow trench bordered the concrete wall. It contained about ½ an inch of an odiferous scum that used to be water. Three walls of concrete and one of wood with exposed 2 x 4’s and the back side of the paneling that lined the connecting room. There was no sound or heating insulation. A plastic window into the next room revealed the chaotic mess of guitars, amplifiers, drums and assorted cord, pedals, strings, drumheads and such. A sound board took up about a quarter of the room and my pillow and extra bedding was shelved underneath as storage room was severely limited. My unheated waterbed took up most of the rest of the room. I had a carpet beneath the sheets to insulate me from the cold water. It was 2 AM and the rehearsal/recording that had been going on until 20 minutes ago was wrapped up and I could contemplate sleep.

I couldn’t have cared less.

I was living in the basement of the studio/house owned by the sound company for whom I worked. My bedroom was also the sound booth. I had called dad that day for the forth time in the last two weeks. It was the forth time he wasn’t home for me. My depression was palatable. I was sure my neglect of calling and my lifestyle had caused dad to give up on me. I was sure I was “disowned.” I was stuck with a job that did not include a salary or paycheck. It only paid room and board. I begged for meals from whoever showed up with food. The main meal in the house was speed – crystal meth. I was a cautious participant, as I always have been with drugs of any kind, legal or illegal, but as a member of the household and the group of guys with whom I had made friends, the use was expected if not mandatory. In this environment my paranoia regarding my familial standing would be rationalized by imagination and less-than-clear thinking.

Needless to say, due to the drug, there was a surplus of extra energy in the house 24-hours-a-day although nothing was ever cleaned, fixed, straightened or maintained in any way. People were too busy playing their instruments, explaining some vague poorly-formed idea or obsessing on personal fantasies of stardom. Usually I rose well before the rest of the house who would all eventually appear around the crack of noon.

This was an upgrade from living in my car.

After arriving in San Diego for my “new career” in music the next few months were a hand-to-mouth existence with poor jobs, few gigs and little cash. Bill and I moved from place to place until we found this “great gig” doing sound and moving equipment for a locally well-known sound company just as they felt they were about to reach a “new plateau” of professionalism.” They were getting bigger and bigger gigs and making more money than ever before. We had worked for the Eagles as well as Boz Skaggs, Chambers Brothers, Kool and the Gang, Average White Band and other names of the day including big-time local groups like Boone’s Farm and Azteca. I had met every one of the Beatles, except Paul, at one time or another and the latest gig for Yoko Ono, Papa John Creech, Jimmy Smith and various other groups at a stadium festival was the gig that would take us “over the top.” Visions of fame, fortune and brushing shoulders with rock n’ roll greats was in Dennis’ head as he made big plans for his company. Unfortunately, he had developed a liking for acid, cocaine & meth sometime before and now was able to afford all he could consume.

I had recently sat in a meeting in the Jack Murphy Stadium offices, as Dennis’ assistant, with the general manager of the stadium, the concert promoter and the general manager of the sponsoring radio station when Dennis went off. The LSD kicked in. No huge outward displays of anger, or insanity except his sudden rambling dissertation about how he “met Yoko last night as we both flew through the universe.” He took off remarking on how during this trip Yoko had assured him the upcoming concert would unite blacks and whites, straights and freaks, and very possibly end the war in Viet Nam. Unfortunately as the war was already over the looks that resulted from his remarks were not very understanding or kind. I was sitting in a room with 3 millionaires and 1-goofball – my boss. The three suits began discussing the advisability of going forward with the concert as the meeting had been called to firm up any questions regarding sound and lighting and the guy responsible was clearly incapable of even thinking straight. They looked askance at Dennis clearly critiquing his ability to pull off his part of the event. Dennis was oblivious to the conversation. I spoke up reassuring the group that we had acquired additional sound equipment as well as scaffolding and forklifts. I assured them that, as of the previous day, all contracts were signed and committed to the planned upon date. I excused my self and Dennis as I escorted him out of the room and to a break area where he could drink coffee and watch the grounds-keepers maintain the interior of the stadium. Dennis accepted that we had all taken a temporary break – patently untrue but it satisfied him. I returned alone and in the next hour firmed up plans and took the final contracts to Dennis for his signature. I don’t believe they trusted us at all. I certainly didn’t blame them.

The concert came off like clockwork.

Yoko was the headliner and, unknown to many there, the drummer for a couple of songs was a disguised Ringo Starr who had been in LA visiting mutual friends when she invited him to play. John had been there early in the day but was not introduced as this was a period when he & Yoko were separated and they were arguing. He was only there for about 15 minutes before taking off looking somewhere between heartbroken and pissed. The echo in the stadium was terrible but the majority of the people were happy with the event as the music was plentiful and loud if not clear. Very few people were even aware 2 of 4 Beatles were in town. John left 2-hours before Ringo showed up so there was no crossing of souls that day anyway. Yoko screeched her heart out. Papa John Creech was next with the ancient Papa John wailing away on his violin backed by a group of young rockers. They were well accepted by the crowd but the next act was the surprise of the day: Jimmy Smith and his jazz organ. I was familiar with Jimmy from my parent’s record collection so I expected roller-skating music…I couldn’t have been more incorrect. Jimmy started playing but only got about 3 or 4 bars into the first number when his head cocked and he held up a clenched fist. The band, a drummer and a bass player, stopped. Jimmy ripped off a 10-note line and stopped. His head turned toward the rear of the stadium as the echo returned. He played the line again and, this time, when the echo returned he began tapping his foot to the bounce-back and played a similar line on top of his echo. His foot continued to tap to the beat of the echo as he turned to the band and counted, his fingers snapping in rhythm to his voice, “One…Two…Three.” On the unvoiced “Four” his head tipped forward as a signal and the band restarted the song playing harmonies over their own echo. It was a truly amazing performance. The crowd applauded and screamed their appreciation.

A week later we did a gig with The Marshall Tucker Band after which we invited them to our house to jam. They accepted. We found this country-rock group to be a group of consummate musicians with varied backgrounds and musical interests. Toy Caldwell played a very tasty jazz guitar. We partied and jammed for hours.

The Eagles concert was a bit different as it was held at Terminal Island Prison which necessitated unloading equipment from truck to boat, from boat to hall and reversal upon completion. Although they were all nice guys and very professional and friendly there wasn’t much opportunity to party and, as they weren’t far from their homes in LA, they certainly weren’t going to go all the way to San Diego to party or jam – regardless – great guys.

We did sound for Boz Skaggs in El Centro where he filled a AAA-Baseball field with appreciative concert goers. Boz was a good guy – his road crew – not so much. My favorite group to work with was the Chambers Brothers who were all gentlemen and consummate professionals. We did their concert in LA at a club called the Golden Spike.

Not long after that we worked an “Oldies Concert” including The Penguins, Paul & Paula, Rosie and the Originals, among other 50’s & early 60’s groups. Paul Shaffer, David Letterman’s band leader and keyboard player, was the house drummer for all of the oldies groups. Paul told me he had just come from a studio gig where he played keyboards for The Carpenters’ latest album. He was a consummate professional with an unlimited future. Just before Paul & Paula went on Paul got punched out by Paula’s husband when he made a pass at her backstage. He performed with a Kleenex stuffed far enough up his nose to be invisible. The headliner was Flash Cadillac and the Continental Kids who had recorded and performed the original version of the Happy Days Theme Song for the TV show of the same name. The Kids drum solo was one of the best drum solos I’ve ever seen for lighting as, after hammering his drums, cymbals, his drum-stool and the high-hat stand a roadie held up a Rambler-Nash hubcap which he went to work on. That was followed up by a well-shaken can of Budweiser. As tiny pinholes began to appear in the can it began spraying beer in random directions which made an impressive display under the lights. Afterwards I had a date with Rosie who, as it turned out, lived down the block from the sound company.

Working the concerts and building the new studio was great fun…but the downtime in between took its toll on my psyche. I felt completely alone even when surrounded by thousands of people. Late nights, not enough sleep, too many drugs, too many women, too many dealers, hangers-on and weirdo’s made my life less than settling. Dad’s unavailability was the straw that broke this camel’s back. As it turned out dad had not been home any of the times I called but my drug-induced paranoia told me a story much worse. When I retired that early morning I just wanted it all to end and wasn’t sure how that would happen.

That’s when the angel appeared.

We discussed my life to this point and the path that got me to this juncture. Then we went on a trip…to my future. It was a short trip. After that we talked for what seemed like hours and hours discussing philosophy and world events and where I was in relation to it all. We discussed the direction of society and my place in it…we discussed who would really suffer if I continued this path. Before the angel left it revealed I would have no memory of the meeting but explained the purpose of our time together was to allow me to internalize some of the things we had discussed so I could make rational decisions about my life. The angel revealed that these discussions took place all of the time all over the world. The angel said “You know those times when you realize something in your life has to change? You have had an epiphany that causes you to self-examine yourself and reach a crossroads of change. You have had an angelic visitation. As all of this takes place in zero-time you will be unable to remember any of this but we have discussed the issue long enough for you to have changed the way you think about this. The decision and the rest of your life? All of that is up to you.” The angel vanished without a trace and I was awakening on the late-morning of the angel’s appearance.

With the rising sun came a new attitude. Upon waking I looked around at my surroundings and asked myself out loud “Well, is everything better?” My answer was “Hell, no. But if I made it through last night I can make it through anything.” A sunny day, Adieus Huxley’s Brave New World and new resolution changed my total outlook. I can’t say I never did another illegal drug and, in fact, I roamed the edge of that culture until I retired from music in ’79 but was never as involved as I had been and it all eventually simply faded from interest as maturity and removal from the environment also removed the temptation. My family has never seen this side of me. I am now fairly proud of having survived this part of my life as many friends and acquaintances did not. The lessons learned are a major part of who I am…but I don’t think I’ll be returning.

Oh…and I NEVER AGAIN contemplated suicide…

1976 - Denny

1976 – Denny

The first time I met Denny we hit it off. Denny had brought Chris to our house with him to visit my roommate, Wayne, whom I also knew as Colombo. Denny and Wayne had been high-school classmates and Denny was the cool kid as he owned his own house and welcomed his friends over anytime. As his marriage to Barbara had broken up he was pretty much free to party as he desired but he kept this to a personal minimum while enjoying the company of all who entered his home. As he was raising Chris with a minimum of help from Barb he was always aware of this responsibility even if his methods were not necessarily traditional.

The day we met Chris was bored as we had very little to play with that would interest an almost-2-year-old boy but he soon discovered a light switch that he could reach and entertained by the clicking. As the light was to the front door and it was daytime Chris didn’t notice the effect of the switch on the light but the noise alone was, evidently, more than enough to keep him involved. As he was entertaining himself Denny and I talked about interests and histories. We soon discovered a similar fascination with Science-Fiction (in those days “sci-fi” was a throwaway term used by non-fans) and writing in general. We discussed Kurt Vonnegut and Jack Vance as well as Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury. We were evidently fairly excited about our new found friendship because before he left Denny turned to me, shook my hand and said, “I really enjoyed myself. It was very nice to meet you.” I responded in kind with, “Yes, me too. I really enjoyed this. You are certainly welcome to stop by any time, with or without Colombo.”

The second time I met Denny was about a week later when he returned to visit Wayne who was not home at the time. Denny and I sat and talked for hours until the early evening sun was going down. Conversations as satisfying as the one that day and many of the conversations Denny and I have had since that day have rarely been as satisfying. As a bonus I also got to witness an amazing learning experience that day: As soon as Denny and Chris arrived Chris found the light switch and played “noise-maker” until he got bored and started playing with the only toys we did have which were a set of plastic panels that could be made into blocks or geometric shapes. As the day wore on and it got increasingly darker Chris’ interest would change from one area to another always eventually getting back to that light switch.

As dusk set-in Chris again became bored with whatever he was entertaining himself with and headed for the door and light switch. *Click* *Click* *ClickClickClick* *ClickityClick* *ClickityClickityClick* …pause… *Click* …pause… *Click* …a glance at the window… *Click* …another glance at the window… *Click* …his little brow furrowed and he took a single step toward the window which was about a foot wide but extended from the top of the door jamb to about a foot from the floor…he looked outside…one step back to the switch… *Click* …another step to the now darkened window…hand remaining on the switch… *Click* …a look of amazement crossed Chris’ face… *Click* …another look of amazement… *Click* *Click* *Click* …a look of absolute joy at his discovery… *Click* *Click* *Click* *ClickClickClick* *ClickityClick* *ClickityClickityClick* Chris looked back at me as I watched, a big smile plastered across his face. He ran to his dad and tugged him to his feet dragging him by force of will to the light switch which he demonstrated with boundless joy. He looked back at me flicking the switch off and on, each time pointing to the window and making happy sounds. After demonstrating his new-found discovery to his dad he ran over to me and grabbed my hand pulling me over to stand with his dad while he continued to demonstrate the light switch as though to say, “Look at what this can do! Isn’t this amazing! Are you as excited as me?”

This time when Denny left I distinctly remember telling him, “I’ve had such a good time, again. You know I think you could easily become my best friend.” Denny replied, “I feel the same way. I’ll definitely be back.” We shook hands and looked at each other and nodded to ourselves, both of us nodding heads slightly and smiling at each other. That day Denny became my best friend and has been ever since. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of him several times noting to myself when I see or experience something I think he would enjoy. This continues although he passed away recently.

Speaking to a mutual friend, Wayne, not long after Denny’s passing he said “Denny was like the touchstone for so many of us. He was the one that was always there. Someone we could always depend upon to be an honest and accepting friend. He was the one that so many of us had in common.” Wayne admitted that, even though it had been a couple of years since he’d seen Denny their relationship was typical of Denny, whom one would still know as a close friend despite any separation by time or space. His friends may have been separated by years and circumstances but all I have spoken to, without exception, echoed many of these sentiments.

Many, many years ago for a short time I lived with his ex-wife, Barbara, I was cautious about how he might feel about this and, in consideration for his feelings and, honestly, to avoid possible conflict, I tried to keep the fact away from him. Evidently he knew within a couple of days but didn’t let on…in consideration for my feelings and to avoid any conflict! According to him he loved us both and didn’t see a need to cause trouble where none was needed.

Denny was an artist or, rather, a cartoonist on occasion. Something I always believed he should have done more of. His Rob & Ron comics were well drawn in his own unique style and they were always funny (although neither Ron, his brother, nor Rob, a close friend, may have supported this opinion.) Denny met much of life with an artist’s outlook when it came to media including books, movies, etc. showing intellectual interest in the finer points of movie-making and publishing. He remained open to most advancement in technology and science welcoming the future with open eyes and optimism while somehow maintaining a skeptic’s attitude on the realistic predictions of technology and its uses.

He was a lover of animals – cats in particular – and Tigger was his cat. Tigger always had the run of the house but cats, in general, eventually became a problem. One evening after cleaning the cat-box for the newest kittens and putting food out for Tigger and the other 2 cat-visitors left behind by girlfriends he stepped out the back door to get a breath of fresh air. In front of him less than 10-feet away was a coyote with a kitten in its mouth. Now, Denny understood the ways of wildlife and had long suspected this had been the fate of kittens which would be born and slowly disappear over a period of weeks until he only had 1 or 2 left which were relatively easy to get rid of or care for. But seeing the apparent demise of one of the kittens he had cared for and with which he had just recently played was simply too much. That evening all of the cats became indoor cats – with all the problems attendant with this situation…cats no longer disappeared over a couple of months and getting rid of several was always more difficult than getting rid of 1 or 2. Eventually the cats got out-of-hand and took possession of the entire house except for the 2 back rooms which he kept clear of cats as his only sanctuary. My last count had been 27 cats – I suspect there may have been more as I could no longer enter the house due to the cat problem and accompanying smells, etc. The home that may have often been cluttered but never dirty began to go downhill and, having left his lifelong profession of elevator repair and maintenance, no longer had the finances to maintain the home in the manner he desired. Depression had him in its grip for the last few years although I’m not sure he saw his attitude as such. Frustration with his degrading finances and frustration at himself for so easily accepting this change ate at him constantly. I could see this happening in real-time and spoke to Denny about depression but he would not admit to this…he just didn’t want to work or socialize anymore. He felt this was a natural progression of life and he was withdrawing as normal. Personally I didn’t see this as normal but tried to be there for him. He rarely mentioned his problems or let on to anyone else. Denny, pretty much, kept his own council.

Denny was vitally interested in aircraft of all types, astronomy, science & technology, science-fiction, fantasy, mysteries and non-fiction. Unfortunately, Denny was not interested in personal health having a somewhat fatalistic attitude regarding health, life and living. As his finances got worse so went his health. The cats always got fed…I often wondered if he faired as well in caring for his own personal needs.

Denny began having physical problems a few years ago with his feet and legs. I was sure he was diabetic but no one was able to convince him he needed to see a doctor. He didn’t want to hear the news and he felt doctors were just trying to grub money from the misfortune of others. I believe he could see his future with the attendant problems including loss of extremities due to complications from diabetes. He preferred to live in personal ignorance regarding his own health…often have I wished it was different but we all live our own lives with our own priorities, joys and fears.

Personally, I loved Denny like a brother. He was loyal and honest. He gave me support when I needed it and kicked me in the ass when it was required. The only time we had an argument…was…well, I don’t believe we ever had cross words – or none I can recall.

There could be so much more to write but I must stop somewhere.

I really miss him.

The Best Friend Anyone Could Have: Dennis Stahl – April 6, 1951, Denver, CO – May 15, 2008, 7:10 AM, San Diego, CA

1969 - Ridin' Ridin' Ridin'

Of the hundreds of rides I've taken these are the only ones I remember as story-worthy. I admit they are probably not the only dangerious rides I've taken...the rest I've blocked from my memory. I caution anyone reading not to follow my example in this...but then I'm sure I could have mentioned this warning before. Well, Ok...as my friend Ron says when I leave his house: "Drive fast! Take chances!"

1969 - Ridin’ Ridin’ Ridin’

As I topped the ridge I glanced down at the motorcycle’s speedometer. It screamed 90 at me. I held the throttle full on as I started downhill. A short rise was in front of me after a trip downhill that, at this speed, threatened to leave me virtually weightless. I felt G-forces in my groin and in my stomach as I hit the low spot at the bottom of the hill and I headed up the next short hill with barely a drop in speed. The road ran between two sheer walls of hillside where a cut had been made in the hill. At the base of this last hill a heavy wind had been blowing from the northwest but blew at my back as the sheltered wall on my right and the canyon on my left conspired to change the winds aspect to blow at my back. This had helped get my speed up to the last plateau of speed. Many of the roads on the old US 395 cut through hills like this as they made the road less of a challenge to the types of vehicles that were traveling this road when it was first built. As I shot over the top of this little rise I glanced at the speedometer. It only went to 110 and was past that and against the peg. My legs fought to stay on the pedals as the big thumper engine on my 1965 BSA 441 Victor ran full bore and possibly faster than it had gone before. There was very little traffic on the US 395 as I headed back to San Diego from my weekend in San Bernardino. The light traffic and the hot weather started me running faster than traffic and a couple of high-speed passes had gotten me to a speed that was electrifying and challenging. Just how fast would this baby go? I kept the gas twisted full-on and charged on.

Looking up from the speedometer I saw a valley laid out before me with the highway running straight for about another half-mile. The road made a gentle curve to the right which then straightened back south after circling the little hill that sat at the bottom of the mountain from which I was now descending. There were no vehicles in front of me. The road was clear all the way to the beginning of the curve. I dove aggressively into the valley. The curve would necessitate a deep drop in the motorcycles aspect to the road as at this speed the curve would not be a gentle as it would at the posted 55 mph. I’d be laying on my side fairly deeply into the curve but I loved the feel of deep turns so looked forward to this as I shot out from between the walls of the cut hill.

I immediately dropped toward the ground as the wind buffeted my relatively small motorcycle from the side. The sudden change from having the wind at my back to having it blowing from the side was an eventuality for which I had not planned. I jumped on the binders trying to slow the vehicle as much as possible when I realized the speed coupled with the wind was going to make this curve a much more challenging event than I had originally thought. As the old BSA motorcycle only had 3-gears I was going way to fast to downshift. An exploding transmission would not help the situation. I had no time to look at the speedometer this time as the curve rushed toward me like a charging bear. I leaned further toward the road feeling my Levis flapping against the pavement. I picked my foot up a couple of inches and the foot-peg began to spark with sparks shooting immediately behind me. I noticed this in my rearview mirror as the sparks caught my eye. The bike shook for a full second as the exhaust pipe touched the road. I could feel this bleed just a tiny bit of speed off and it definitely helped but this was not how I wanted to slow my pace. I could feel the road at my shoulder as I fought the tendency of the motorcycle to throw me off and straighten its path into a straight line that would be disastrous for both me and the bike. The road began to straighten again before setting up for the next curve. My speed would be well under control by that time. The road began to fall away from its uncomfortably close association with my shoulder. I took my first breath in quite a few seconds.

Now, I don’t recommend that anyone follow my lead in motorcycle riding…in fact staying off of motorcycles the last few years and always having cars with cruise control is probably part of the reason I am still here to write about this.

The BSA 441 Victor was a fairly light motorcycle for its power and capabilities. Light bikes had been the bane of my existence since my first rental in 1966 and, here in 1969, I could feel that the lightness of the bike was one of the reasons it fought so hard against the direction I wanted it to go. A heaver bike would have stuck so much better to the road as I had witnessed just a couple of weeks before when I had borrowed a buddy’s Honda 450 and taken it for a spin on the 5. I’d been moving at typical freeway speeds as I came off the freeway on 17th street with a green light at the bottom of the exit. With no other traffic at the intersection I blew through hardly decreasing my speed certain I had 2 blocks to go until my turn onto B Street. I downshifted as I spied the B Street sign just as I arrived at the intersection…1-block shorter than expected. I threw the bike into the turn realizing at the last second I was still moving at a pace that would have put my little 441 into an immediate sideways skid that would probably turn quickly into a tumble. There was no way I would make the turn. Luckily the 450 was not my little 441 and it was quite a bit heaver. It dropped on its side, both tires straining to hold the pavement as they skipped twice in the direction it wanted so badly to continue. I glanced down toward my feet and in the direction the bike was trying to skid. The white panel of an automobile approached as I gripped the handlebars and jerked them to the right muscling the motorcycle back under my control. The heavy Honda shook itself once and stood straight up. A second shimmy and I was headed back down 17th, clearly missing the turn but back under control at high speed. The light on the roof of the white-paneled vehicle came on as I slipped right around the next corner and accelerated down the block making another immediate turn to my right circling back, now on B Street. As I passed calmly through the same intersection I noticed the police car sitting at the corner a block up from where I had originally seen it. The light was still on but the vehicle was not moving and the officers were clearly having an animated conversation.

Over the extent of my life I’ve owned several motorcycles. In the beginning they were fairly light vehicles but as my comfort level rose so did my abilities and longing for something bigger. My trip from San Bernardo to San Diego demonstrated this lesson clearly and I, soon thereafter, traded my BSA in on a “rice-burner.” The Suzuki 500 was heaver and was the only thing I could really afford with the trade-in. The day it reached break-in it managed to pass Bill in his TR-7 on his way to work. He told me he was going 130 mph at the time. I was not looking at the speedometer. This was not so smart, I admit, but I believe this is the fastest I have ever traveled this close to the ground. Despite the price being right on the new Suzuki and the bike being considerable heaver than the BSA its brand and the sound of its engine often reminded me of my very first ride on a rented Suzuki 120 in Waukegan.

Robin and I had our drivers licenses and had talked many times about owning or riding a motorcycle. Jack’s Harley 250 Sprint was famous in my crowd after we watched Jack struggle through the snow one winter day when he was, evidently, absolutely determined to ride his bike to school. From the school bus we observed his feet were on the ground like training wheels as he slipped and slid down the road. We laughed long and loud at the thought of training wheels on Jacks bike. No one wanted to admit it but we were all jealous of his independence and how cool it was that he owned a motorcycle.

The first bike I bought was a piece-of-crap Harley Sprint that I simply had to have because, after Jack’s bike, it had to be just about the coolest motorcycle ever. It broke down permanently after 3-days. On to the BSA. This was another fairly light vehicle with a shortened lightweight racing frame that caused the front wheel to skip off the ground at every stoplight despite my light touch on the accelerator. The 441 was just a bit too light for my tastes and, with its tendency to skip lightly down the road it felt way to much like the lightness of that first rental. As I mentioned, lightweight motorcycles had not served me well starting out with that first rented Suzuki.

Immediately after renting these “toys” in Waukegan we went over to our girlfriend’s houses to show off. We stopped first at Debbie’s house where she was in the back yard washing the AMC Pacer that would soon be hers. Her mom, looking at my tiny little motorcycle was adamant that her little girl wasn’t going to have anything to do with “that thing” so we headed to Rob’s girlfriend Marilyn’s house.

We pulled into the driveway. I was cool as a cucumber trying as much as possible to be Lee Marvin from the Wild Ones. “Yeah,” I said, “I’ve gotten pretty good at this in the hour or so I’ve had it.” Her dad admired the little bikes and even rode around the block on Robin’s. “Let’s go for a ride.” I said looking at Marilyn. She, like Debbie’s mom, had an uncertain opinion of my ability to adequately control the vehicle. “No problem.” I said as I dropped it into gear, intending to take a little spin around her yard to demonstrate my superior riding ability. I gently let go of the clutch and the bike jumped forward a foot or so…and stalled. I kicked. I kicked again and it wound up. A-ring-a-ding-ding-ding-rattle-rattle-rattle. The engine caused the loose chain of this ill-maintained rental to sound off against the chain guard as it idled in place hanging loose against the teeth as it came off of the sprocket. The two sounds of the ring-ding-ding motorcycle and the rattle of the chain sang together with a less-than-pleasing cacophony of sound. I depressed the brake as I prepared to put it back into gear. Wham! Wrong side! The brake was actually first gear! The motorcycle leapt forward with me barely hanging on as it shot across Marilyn’s yard. Luckily I accidentally found a barren spot as I went through the 6-foot high hedge bordering her parent’s house and the nearest neighbor’s yard. To avoid the toy-strewn lawn and the stroller on the front sidewalk I made a sharp turn onto the road and headed straight across and through the cross-neighbors little 2-½ foot hedge. I was a mere passenger as the bike began circling around in a tight circle to avoid the front porch. I ran once more through the neighbors hedge and headed back across the street barely turning enough to enter the property near the driveway. Unfortunately it was not near enough to the driveway as the front wheel met the curb and bounced skyward. A heaver vehicle would have stopped but not this little monster! It continued over the patch of lawn and down the driveway toward Robin and Marilyn, both of whom were frozen in-place watching my performance. I slid to a top immediately in front of Marilyn and put my foot down skipping once arresting my forward momentum. The handlebar slipped out of my grip and the bike crashed to the ground at her feet. Robin fell to the ground holding his stomach tightly. Marilyn gave me a barely disguised look of pity and turned toward Robin who continued to writhe on the ground caught in the ecstasy of uncontrollable laughter.

Of course that time the lightness of the bike probably saved me from more damage but the toy-like lightness of the bike also made me more casual about its capabilities. Like when I destroyed my brother’s Suzuki – another 120.

We were camping in upper Wisconsin as a family. I home on leave from the Navy when I borrowed his “toy” bike. I had owned my Suzuki 500 for some time and had become a lot more familiar with the workings of a heaver bike…to my misfortune. As I returned from the short run I’d made around the lake I stopped at the corner awaiting cross traffic. I dropped the little bike into gear and accelerated quickly winding the engine out to its red line before shifting. Coming into the first curve I prepared to drop a bit into the curve to keep my speed up when I noticed the sand spread across the road from some apparently recent roadwork. There was no time to slow the motorcycle. As I headed into the turn I felt the wheels slip on the sand patch which I was just entering. There was no way to make the curve while I was in a slide so I did the next best thing. This was a dirt bike. It was made for off-road abuse. I straightened the handlebars and prepared for the 10 foot jump into the shallow swamp on the inside of the curve. This was a better choice than the lake immediately on the other side of the road. This part of the lake had a steep drop-off that would be the last I would see of Steve’s bike if I went that way…no, the swamp was a better choice. These thoughts raced through my mind as time slowed and a goosed the engine to raise the front end high into the air. I was sailing smoothly toward a 2-wheel landing when the front fork caught on a passing tree. The bike started tipping forward and I decided it was time for the vehicle and me to part company – I pushed off to the side noticing at the same time the figure of a gentleman around 200’ away leaning against the corner of his house smoking his pipe and watching me. He had not, yet, had time to react I noticed impartially as my body hurled toward the ground. With my hands above my head to break my fall I thought “If I land like this it’ll break my arms.” I put them somewhere else – I’m not sure exactly where because almost immediately I landed on my head tipping immediately onto my stomach. I lay quietly thanking my lucky stars that I was still alive when I looked up to see the motorcycle arriving on the 12:47 and I was the arrival platform! The motorcycle landed flat pinning me to the ground. “Still alive!” I thought then almost as fast realized the transmission cover was on my helmet and my face was under the 6 inches or so of water that made up the liquid part of this little patch of cattails and stagnant water. My left arm was pinned under the rear wheel and I could feel the heat of the exhaust pipe through the water which told me how close it was. My right arm was pinned under the front wheel which would have been easier to lift if my sleeve had not been caught on the front hub. No amount of tugging was breaking it free. Realizing I would soon drown if I didn’t do something I gripped the rear spokes and the chain guard and lifted with my left hand. The motorcycle moved enough to free my left hand with which I dug at the mud surrounding my head and the engine enough to give me the required leverage to climb bodily under the front wheel and out to freedom. I thrust my head up for a breath as soon as it was free. I lay for a second then pulled the rest of me out from under the tortured piece of machinery. Both wheels were tangled in swamp-weeds and bent into unnatural positions that were like some disturbed persons’ idea of modern art. As I hauled myself to my feet I reached up to remove the helmet that had served me so well. It split into two halves as I exerted outward pressure to pull the helmet over my ears. Right down the middle. A little star decorated the side of the helmet where the transmission had tried to re-shape my head.

After righting the bike I kicked it couple of times and it surprisingly came to life. Handlebars wrenched out of shape and front wheel scraping the front forks I mounted the motorcycle for the 1-mile trip back to camp. It was a challenging mile. Handlebars twisted so one side was against my stomach and the other controlled by my hand that extended straight out in front of the bike where I could still twist the throttle. I drove into camp and dropped the kickstand down and fell in a heap next to the mass of mutilated metal and rubber.

“What happened!” Shouted Steve as he saw me lying prostrate beginning to curl into a ball of sympathy…or so I hoped. “My bike! My bike!” Steve shouted as he leapt over my still form and began to hug his gas tank while caressing the twisted front fender. I rose in disgust both for my uncaring brother and this lightweight toy of a motorized vehicle. In retrospect of course I can completely sympathize with his concerns, after all I had always survived any traumatic things I insisted on doing to myself but motorcycles cost MONEY to fix. And this one would take more of that than a high-school senior usually had. I’m sure my brother saved like crazy to fix that bike but…ya know…when I think about it…

…I’m not sure that one was ever ridden again.

1971 - Grandma At Sea

1971 – Grandma At Sea

I stood in the dark gazing down at the radar repeater. We were 1-day from arrival in San Diego and I was in CIC navigating by taking radar fixes off of mountain tops. I was returning from my 3rd and last tour to WestPac and was standing the mid-watch from midnight to 4 AM. There was very little sea traffic this far out so the atmosphere was casual with a skeleton crew in CIC with 4-hours-on & 8-hours-off instead of the condition we had been in until very recently: port & starboard or 4-on & 4-off, 24/7.

We had left the Asian theatre of action after spending 3-weeks in Hong Kong, a port I absolutely loved. I had spent the entire time off-duty except for a short stint with the Shore Patrol, playing music every night and sight-seeing or shopping every day with the girlfriend I had made during a previous stop. As this was to be our final WestPac port of consequence division parties had been planned and held starting our 2nd day in. As I was a member of the ship’s rock band we begged off duty for the first week to accommodate the several parties and, oops, someone forgot to put us back on duty. We failed to correct this oversight as we had a good excuse: we were sight-seeing and shopping. Who has time to stand watch?

Playing music was great fun as in between parties the club Playboy, no relation to the US clubs of the same name, hired us to play on the nights we didn’t have a ships-party gig. We were making a bit more cash and having fun at the same time. On those nights we were not playing for division parties we eventually gathered a following of locals which showed up throughout the evening with the greatest crowds appearing for our last two hours after midnight. After a few days we introduced ourselves to some of the locals who were late arrivals every night. These 5 guys showed up every night and sat at a table that was front center stage. They introduced themselves as local band who had been working the Hilton club for 3-years from 6-midnight. We asked why they came back every night to this off-the-beaten-track bar. They explained that they had never heard our type of music before.

Our band consisted of a lead-singer, a guitarist, a bass player (me), a drummer, a timbale player and a conga player. With three percussionists there was a lot of rhythm. We played Santana, Chicago, The Who, Black Sabbath, the Beatles and Jimmy Hendrix with both more volume and a more aggressive style than Hong Kong had previously experienced.

Their lead musician played keyboards and occasionally played flute or trumpet. Their guitar was a rhythm instrument and played very few leads. Up to that point the only western rock-n’-roll they had heard live was the Bee Gees and a limited amount of mainstream 50’s style rock and early acid rock which was in no way related to the energetic rock we were playing.

We blew ‘em away.

That was very cool and we became fast acquaintances if not friends with these fellows and toured Kowloon Island with 3 of them one day managing to see sights of which only locals were aware. Two days before we left we were visited by a local businessman who made us an offer that some of us thought hard to turn-down. The problem was it required we jump-ship and desert the Navy. He guaranteed us a paying gig in Kowloon for the next 2-years, a paycheck the multiplied our Navy pay by 500% and a paid apartment among other inducements. Although 2 of our members were advocating taking the gentleman up on this I quickly talked them out of it citing the legal problems of re-entering the US after this, possibly never seeing their families again, possibly being labeled a traitor and, even more important to me, I was getting out of the Navy upon arrival in San Diego. When I mentioned Communist China would be taking over Hong Kong in a few years, they all changed their minds.

We left Hong Kong with a head full of memories and improved stereos. This was where I picked up my Gibson EBO bass which, to this day stands guard by my bed. I upgraded my amplification as well as buying a full set of china and custom-made clothes which were out of style within the year.

As we left Hong Kong for a day in Taiwan and then and got underway for the Philippines for a day of re-supply and re-fueling. From there we preceded on to Guam for an afternoon of re-fueling and bringing on-board the gallon of liquor we were allowed to bring back duty-free. The gallon was packaged in fifths so most of us who took advantage of this by obtaining a range of different alcoholic beverages. These were stored under lock and key somewhere below decks. Next stop Hawaii.

We spent one uneventful day in Hawaii. Mostly uneventful because there was enough work to keep everyone busy most of the day with working parties loading supplies and wash-downs of exposed areas to rid the ship of crusted sea-salt. We left late in the day for San Diego which was where we were now headed and why I now found myself navigating off mountains and looking forward to arrival. I was located in a remote part of CIC which despite its small size still included areas that were rarely used. We were, like most American military ships of the time outfitted for air support as well as surface and subsurface warfare. As we specialized in submarine warfare and surface fleet protection we rarely used the air-side of CIC except during training exercises and times like this. We took advantage of the long-range ability to look over the horizon long distances which enabled us to paint the tops of the tallest mountains on the radar screen.

As I stood before the radar-repeater I felt a tap on my shoulder as if someone was quietly trying to get my attention.

Turning to see who had tapped me I didn’t see anyone apparent. I looked inside the Electronic-Warfare/Electronic-Countermeasures room which was not really more than a closet with electronic equipment attached to the bulkheads. With no one apparent I wrote it off as my imagination and went back to navigating. Almost immediately I again felt the tap. Whipping around to catch the offending party I, again, found no one. I immediately began a search for the joker who was playing with me. As we were all in a casual, joking mood I assumed this was some bored sailor’s idea of fun. I searched the ECM room again searching spots where no one could possibly fit. I looked behind all of the equipment figuring someone with an extended car-antenna was hidden somewhere in the area.

I eventually went back to my navigation, senses alert for any horseplay or trickery. After perhaps a couple of minutes I put my concerns aside and went back to work being unsuccessful in my effort to catch the prankster. I was completely engrossed when I felt the tap. I didn’t turn. I didn’t jump. I didn’t react at all as I instantly knew the origin of the tap. I was calmed and philosophical. I was certain in my conclusion.

The next day we had progressed far enough to enable a radio-telephone link to San Francisco from which we could make telephone calls home to let our loved ones know our schedule.

I called mom.

“I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news.” She said. “Which one do you want first?”

“You may as well give me the good news.” I said. “I already know the bad news.”

“No, Honey.” She replied. “You don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” I replied, “Grandma died yesterday around 7:00 AM.”

Silence.

“Who have you been talking to?” She asked.

“No one…Grandma told me.” More silence. “She came to me last night and said goodbye and told me she loved me. That was just after 7:00 your time.”

I don’t actually remember much of the rest of the conversation except to comment that I am not much of a letter writer. In fact although during my time in the service I had written mom and dad only a few letters as I had relied mostly on the telephone for my main form of communication. I had only written my grandma one letter in all that time.

This and a picture of me were the only things in her hand when she died, having asked for them a few minutes before she lapsed into final unconsciousness.

Now I am one of those people who don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in spirits or demons. I don’t believe in fairies or brownies. I don’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny. Consequently…I really can’t explain this story. But it is true.

Some stories I can’t explain – some I can only tell.

1986 - Reading With Adults

1986 – Reading With Adults

I knocked. The door opened. There stood a middle-aged, 6-foot tall, broad-shouldered very black man with a huge grin on his face. He was my age but for a month separating our births. “I can read now.” Said Duane, beaming.

“Alright! Let’s read!” I replied with a big smile.

I met Duane several months before after volunteering to tutor non-reading adults for Project Read which was affiliated with the California Public Libraries. After a couple of weeks of training I had taken on Duane as my first student. We had spent the first few weeks going over and over (and over and over) the list of 1-letter, 2-letter & 3-letter words and after several weeks of this graduated to the 4-letter word list. This exercise was again repeated for several weeks before Duane “got it.”

Soon after we began, as advised in class, Duane and I took a walk and had lunch together. As we walked, ordered and ate we discussed the world as he saw it. The pains he went through to hide his lack of reading skills had caused him to develop some habits and behaviors that served to offer the general public the face of a typical reading adult. This was mostly smoke and mirrors as his ability to read was at the level of a 2nd-grade reader…and much of his ability was not actually that advanced.

Duane had traveled to San Diego from Atlanta, Georgia on a 1-week vacation with friends. Somehow they had gotten separated and Duane was left in San Diego to fend for himself. Of course he saw this as a betrayal by ex-friends but the complete story was one of innocent separation coupled with the inability to figure out where he was and where he had to go to find his friends. After giving it 2 extra days of searching they left without him. I learned quickly that when a non-reading person is lost and too embarrassed by their lack of skills to inquire assistance they are, quite literally, dropped into a survival situation.

Duane eventually found work but was unable to make enough to keep a roof over his head, eat and save for a return home. He had been promoted on 2-different jobs in the last 2-years and, both times quit the position and his increase in salary when he realized he would have to know how to read to follow written instructions, and write employee reviews among lots of other demands. In order to hide his lack of reading skills he made up an excuse and quit…twice.

I pointed out the street sign and he read part of it “Uhh, 40-something.”

“Street…40th Street,” I said supplying the rest of the answer. “The second word starts with an S which sounds just like the sound of the letter. Also, the S is a letter that kind of curls around like a snake which, of course, makes a hissing sound like Sssss. That’s a clue to remember about figuring out how to pronounce a word that has an S.” We proceeded on past a store with windows full of advertisements in big blue painted letters. He couldn’t identify any of the words.

“I just kinda treat them like decorations and ignore most of the words…sometimes they have pictures.”

“Hmmm. Here’s another street sign. What does this one say?” I was confident he would remember the lesson on the word “street.”

“Uhh, 41-something.” He replied.

“Ok, let’s look at the second word. It starts with that S letter, right?”

“Sssss...?”

Not a clue... Weeks later when we had advanced a bit we took a similar walk at which time Duane revealed that he had felt so uncertain during our first walk because he assumed EVERY WORD WAS DIFFERENT. In other words he was under the impression that readers simply figure out how to pronounce the word by looking at the LETTERS of the word every time a word is read and readers then, with instant recall, figure out the correct pronunciation, meaning and context. This is kind of the way a reader processes but his concept of this process was much more labor intensive then reality. This, he thought, applied to EVERY word…including one just read a minute ago as it might have a different pronunciation or meaning. This was a HUGE mental obstacle. He didn’t want to offer the word “street” because he hadn’t figured out if it was the same word this time even though it looked identical to the last. It took quite a while to change his mind-set on this issue.

…Back to our first, initial, walk…

After struggling with a few blocks of street and store signs we arrived at the restaurant, were seated and given menus. Duane studied his with great intent. I was ready to make my selection when the waitress appeared. “Ready, Hon?” She asked.

“Just a minute longer.” Duane replied. I wondered at this as his reading skills were so lacking on the street but here he seemed to be perusing the menu carefully. I said nothing and simply observed Duane without being obvious. The waitress returned.

“I’d like a cheeseburger and a Coke he said.”

“Pepsi ok, Hon?”

“Sure.” I noticed the front of the menu advertised in bolded letters: “We proudly offer Pepsi products exclusively.” I was silent on this.

We ate in peace and although I broached the subject of his reading much as I had opened the subject on our walk to the restaurant. He was obviously uncomfortable discussing this in public so I quickly dropped the subject until we’d left.

On our walk back to his apartment he said this behavior was typical. He revealed that when he chose a restaurant it was always one that would have a burger or tacos. He had been living on Tacos and burgers for 2-years. He said he usually looked on the menu for pictures and looked at them until the waitress asked for his order…he always sent her away the first time while attempting to look like he was studying the menu. When she came back he would order a taco or burger. He said he had tried to order from the pictures in the past but then a wait-person would ask further questions about accompaniments, etc. Not already having an answer ready for these questions made him feel like his inability was obvious or he would have been prepared. Consequently, now he avoided ordering anything but his customary tacos or burger. For those of who do read we are used to having to make decisions regarding style of cooking and accompaniments at the last second…we are secure in our ability to read, we just forget sometimes to look at the details of the meal. To Duane this uncertainty was a sure sign he was unable to read so any question at all put him on the defensive. To avoid this he simply ordered only burgers or tacos. He knew the answers to all of the questions that might be asked about these items.

He remarked his microwave oven worked but it never cooked correctly. According to him it hardly cooked anything at all leaving the insides of frozen dinner’s cold. He said if he gave it extra time he said the microwave always overcooked everything. He had stopped using it for this reason as he said he tried to get used to undercooked food but he suspected that sometimes it made him sick so he stopped using the microwave at all. I took this as a sign that because he was unable to read he was unable to follow the directions. He said he kept peanut butter, jelly and bread at home and drank mostly tap-water as he could afford very little and kept PB & J on-hand in case he got hungry or was broke a couple of days before payday. Mostly he ate in restaurants so this also cut into his available cash. I usually brought a couple of Cokes along to share but learned early on not to leave the remainder of a six-pack behind for him as it would still be there the next week. He was adamant about not needing “hand-outs.” Even when the hand-out was a 6-pack of Coke. Duane was as honest as the day was long and I never heard a cross word, or curse-word. There’s no way I would call him a gentle-giant but he was always courteous to me and with those with whom I saw him interact.

Besides the lists of words we eventually graduated to reading stories as well. We had completed our first very short book and had moved on to a second book. This was his favorite so far and titled Jane The Trucker. I learned in classes that Readers Digest issues copies of their monthly magazine in different levels of reading skills so slow-reading or still-learning adults don’t have to read kid stories. This reinforces learning by keeping the subjects more interesting and not just Dick, Jane and Spot. This book was not a Reader’s Digest item but the intent was the same. These little books also very purposely used non-child-like subjects or story lines. When Duane met me at the door telling me he could read we had been working about a month on chapter 1.

We sat and Duane began to read. “This is Jane. This is a truck. This is Jane’s truck. Jane is a trucker.” We were through page one and two…perfectly. Duane read on flawlessly until page 4. At page 4 he read the entire page perfectly and then began reading the words on page 5…unfortunately he hadn’t yet turned to page 5. Busted! Duane admitted that his study partner, his next door neighbor who was helping him study, had helped him memorize the words which he associated with the picture on the page. This tactic was also typical of non-readers. I was a bit disappointed but tried to hide my frustration by laughing with him about the deception. He had been making good progress lately graduating to 5-letter words while still practicing some of those 4-letter words. We had graduated to a Jane The Trucker but hadn’t gotten very far. He was somewhat proud of his achievements thus far but knew he had a long way to go.

We left not much later for another meal. I noted with pleasure he actually read the menu asking me for advice on a couple of words. It was a San Diego Taco Shop and there were lots of Spanish words on the menu. His understanding had evolved to the point where these words were no longer complete mysteries as they had been in the past where any word of any language was equal to a word written in his native language. He now saw a difference even though he didn’t know why. He was making good progress but still had a ways to go. He had become so proud of his ability and everyone around him had reinforced his effort to a great extent. He was still a bit embarrassed by his reading skills but was even prouder of the bravery it took to admit his problem and the fact that he was doing something positive about it. I was fairly bursting with pride as he slowly gained a level of confidence I had not observed before. His neighbor had made similar observations.

The next week he was a no-show.

The following week he opened the door again to “Larry! I can read!” His excitement was palatable.

“Yeah, sure, Duane. I’ve heard this before.” I said with a smile.

We sat. Duane began to read. “This is Jane. This is a truck. This is Jane’s truck. Jane is a trucker.” Again, we were through page one and two…perfectly. Duane read on flawlessly completing the chapter with only a few pauses and questions. He was doing fantastic. He had obviously been practicing…or so I thought…now came the real test…”Alright, Duane, lets go on to the next chapter.”

A look of panic crossed his face. “But I didn’t practice the second chapter! I won’t know how to read all of the new words!”

“No problem, Duane. The words in the second chapter are exactly the same as the words in the first chapter; they’re just in different order. If you could read the first chapter you should be able to read the second.”

“But…” he protested. We proceeded. “Jane has a load. Jane will take the load to town. The town is not far.” He looked up, “I can read these words, too!” Now he was really excited! We finished the chapter with very few interruptions. Duane had made amazing progress in the last two–weeks. Very impressive. We went to dinner. I watched with pride as Duane picked up the menu and we began to discuss the selections. He had become very familiar with the words on the menu including some words that were multiple-syllabic. He was doing fantastically. When I left that day I felt like a proud papa.

The next week Duane opened the door with “I won’t need you anymore after this week.” I was a bit taken aback. We had made good progress but Duane was not even close to where he wanted to be.

“Whoa, Duane, we’re not done yet. This is no time to stop.” He held up a hand.

Big smile. “Last Wednesday I read the bus schedule and went downtown. You wouldn’t believe it,” he said, “I went to the Greyhound station and I was able to read the whole schedule.” He looked at me with tears at the corners of his eyes. “I have been able to save enough money in the past few weeks to buy a bus ticket back home.” His big smile couldn’t hide the single tear that dripped down his cheek. “I’m leaving next week. I called my mom a little while ago and told her. She was really happy.” I’m sure a tear had appeared in my eye because I now felt it trickle down my cheek. Duane looked uncertain, tentative while fairly vibrating in place. I took his hand in a grip of congratulations. Upon my touch he broke down and tears began flowing freely down his face. “I’m so grateful. You’ll never know how much I thank-you for all your help.” He hesitated…then as if a mutual message had passed between us we hugged each other self-consciously. It was an awkward hug between two unrelated men but our joy had required it of each of us. We talked and discussed his possibilities that day and I don’t believe we read anymore about Jane or reviewed any word lists. I took the borrowed books with me when I left although I left “Jane” on his kitchen table and paid the $5 for it the next week when I showed up at the library to obtain a new student.

I never saw or heard from Duane again. Just one of those people that pass through your life leaving no trace except a sense that something good has happened and the hope that his life continued on the upswing we had started. I’m sure he appreciated our efforts and my part in this effort…he probably has no idea how profoundly he also affected my life by simply opening me to wider and wider experiences through working together to overcome his self-imposed lack and he helped change my arrogance regarding those who do not read. My mind is a lot more open to endless possibilities where dedication and will-power can overcome huge barriers.

Where ever you are Duane – here’s to you. My very best.