Hangin' out with the guys....

I've never been known to be the kind of guy to just hang out with other guys. Even as a kid, I quickly realized that whenever you get a bunch of males together, the machismo level goes through the roof. As each guy feeds off of all of the other's bravado, it seems as if it almost always turns into trouble.

In the few times that I have decided to throw caution to the wind and to meet-up with a bunch of other guys - it has almost always come back to bite me in the butt. Case in point, I was stationed at a U.S. Coast Guard training center in Petaluma, California back in the late 1970's. A couple of times a week, I would thumb my way into town (the base was about 10 miles away), and walk around town and explore it. In all of the times that I visited Petaluma, I was not harassed, insulted, or anything like that.

So, on one particular Saturday afternoon, while just hanging around the barracks on base, a friend of mine asked me if I wanted to join him and some other "Coasties" as they went into town for a few hours. On weekends, the base had a shuttle bus that made trips back and forth between the base and town. The plan was, that we would ride into town, do some shopping, catch a movie, eat some dinner and then catch the shuttle back to the base. I was told that the guys I'd be with were "cool".

After a few minutes of contemplation, I finally gave in and told my friend that I'd go along. The trip into town and the first couple of hours was pretty uneventful. Things started to unravel though as we arrived back at the bus stop to await the base shuttle bus. As the four of us guys stood a waited, a car drove slowly past us, it was filled with at least six young men. Some of the guys started yelling obscenities at us and then drove off. As a couple of the guys in my group started to yell back, I told them to keep quiet. I tried to explain to them that we should just let it pass because we had no idea whom we were dealing with.

Of course, my solo voice of reason was totally ignored. As the same car began to pass by us once again a few minutes later, at least three of my fellow Coasties immediately started yelling obscenities at the occupants. One of my shipmates even offered to kick the butts of anyone that wanted to fight him. I immediately told him just how stupid he was. His response was "Hey, I know karate, I can even take care of all of them by myself!".

Yep, there was the bravado and the machismo!

After hearing the tirade of insults and challenges from my military buddies, the occupants of the car suddenly had no intention of just driving off again. The driver of the car found a place to park about a half a block up the street and he and the occupants all poured out of the car. I was right, there men - all very large. Those six men were also carrying some very interesting items in their hands. Items such as heavy chains, tire-irons, baseball bats, you name it. It wasn't a very pretty sight. I can clearly remember turning and asking the karate expert if he was trained to fight against those kinds of items. He did not appreciate my sarcastic question and he actually looked more nervous than any of the other guys.

As my mind reeled and I tried to decide which guy I was going to personally take on myself, I was startled by the sound of police sirens - lots of them. Because it was about 9 pm at night, we all could see the flashing lights pretty far off. And in a flash, the guys with the weapons had quickly turned and ran back to their car and they peeled off down the street before the police showed up. Me and the rest of the guys, just stood there nervously as the cops began asking us questions about the incident.

One officer informed us that a passing taxi cab driver had seen the men exiting their vehicle and had immediately called his dispatch to notify the police. We were all very thankful. As one of the guys in our group tried to explain how the occupants in the car had initiated the confrontation, the policeman told us that he knew the reason why there was so much hostility toward us.

"All of the young guys in this town think that you military guys have lots of money, and that you just blow into town, steal their women, and then leave."

All of us Coasties started laughing. None of us had ever thought of ourselves as a threat to a community. As far has being "rich" - that was also very funny. I mean, none of us could even afford a old car! I also asked the other guys when was the last time anyone of them had dated a local girl. Of course, none of us ever had.

No Money + No Car = NO DATES

Anyway, it was a very long time before I would hang-out with a group of guys again. And wouldn't you know it - it could have turned out REAL bad that time also.

I'll tell that story another time.

Crime Drama - Incident #2

I've recently been writing about my exploits as an 8th grader during the early 1970's in Goldsboro, NC. If you think that incident #1 was exciting, sit back and enjoy my memories of incident #2.

It occurred just a few weeks after we had a "peeping tom" at our house. I had finally started relaxing a little bit in the evenings when wouldn't you know it, strangers in an unfamiliar vehicle, started driving up and down our street in front of our house in the evenings. They would drive very slowly, and every time they reached the point that was right in front of our house, they would come almost to a complete stop. That went on for about four days. I called the police on the second evening that it occurred, but by the time they arrived, they could not find the suspect vehicle.

As the Friday evening of that week arrived, I remember walking through the living room and noticing that the same strangers and vehicle were at a complete stop right in front of our house. I opened the front door and yelled out to them, asking them what they wanted. The car quickly accelerated and peeled off down the street. For the next few hours, I kept looking out the window. Around 10 pm I heard the now familiar sound of the vehicle and when I looked out the window, it was again sitting in the middle of the road in front of our house. I remained at the window and didn't try to confront the strangers that time.

After a few seconds, the driver drove the car about a half a block down the street and parked along the curb. The engine was then turned off but the two men remained in the vehicle. My gut told me that something was about to happen. I then did something that I never thought I would do, I quickly located the key to my father's gun cabinet and grabbed his double-barrel shotgun from amongst the several rifles and guns that he had locked up within it.

As I grabbed the shotgun, I looked out through the living room window and noticed that the two strangers were walking slowly down the street and right toward our house. My father was very safety oriented, and so that meant he kept his guns and his ammunition locked up separately. I quickly realized that I would not have time to retrieve the shotgun shells from the other locked compartment in the gun cabine. So I improvised. I opened the shotgun up by pulling the barrel down, I then swung the front door of our home open wide and stepped out onto the porch. The two men were startled by my appearance. They were even more startled when they observed what they thought was me loading the shells into the shotgun and flipping the barrel back into place with a very loud "CLICK". I had simply pretended to load shells into the gun since I didn't have access to the real ones.

My pantomime routine actually worked. As I stood there with the shotgun pointed in their direction, the two men did an immediate about face and quickly walked back to their car. The driver started the engine and again peeled off down the road. That time though, was the last time I ever saw that vehicle.

I was very glad, and very relieved.

The Man of the House....

Prior to departing for southeast Asia for yet another tour, my father spent a few weeks giving me instructions on how to take care of things around the house while he was gone. He drilled into me, that from the moment he left, until he returned a year later, that I would be the "Man of the house".

It's a tough position for an 8th grader, and it was my second hitch! The first time I was "the man" was when I was in the 5th grade, back when my father had gone to southeast Asia for his second time. I tried to absorb everything he told me and to take my upcoming responsibilities seriously. I would have much rather preferred it if he would have suddenly told me that his orders had been cancelled, and that I could just resume being a kid for a few more years. Alas, that didn't happen.

I've already written about my hellish adventures in the public school system of Goldsboro, NC back in the early '70's. And I did mention the little suburb that I once lived in there. Up until the few months, prior to my father's return, I had always thought we lived in a pretty safe and secure neighborhood. Over a course of about three weeks though, my opinion on the matter changed dramatically.

It was late one Friday night, it was fall, and the temperatures were starting to drop at night. My mom, most unusually, had decided to keep some of the windows open overnight to allow the cool fresh air to enter the house. As usual on Friday nights, my mother would allow me to stay up late and watch old horror and science-fiction movies on television. My younger brothers and sister had gone to bed hours earlier. My mother, who had tried watching a movie with me, had fallen asleep soundly on the couch in the living room. Me, I was mister big stuff, sitting in my father's big orange colored, imitation leather rocker. The rocker was situated right in front of a window that faced the street in front of our house.

I can remember very clearly, watching television and suddenly feeling as if someone was watching me. I started feeling creepy all over. I knew it wasn't the movie I was watching, for I had watched that sucker probably a hundred times by then. I tried to ignore the feelings, but they kept getting stronger and stronger. I quickly decided that I would nonchalantly get up out of the rocker and pretend to be going to the kitchen. After getting out of the chair, and as I walked through the living room, I quickly stopped and peaked out of the window that also faced the street in front of the house.

Can you imagine how I felt, when I realized that a stranger was standing in front of the livingroom window and peering through it into the house. They had been looking right over my shoulder as I sat in my dad's rocker. I could not actually see the person, but I could clearly see their shadow. I could easily detect that they had their hands on their hips and that they were leaning forward just little to see through the window. As I watched the shadow, I observed the person reach up and scratch their head.

I tried not to panic. I told myself to stay calm. I left the dining room window and headed into the kitchen. I then picked up the telephone and tried to dial zero for the operator it as quietly as I could. This was well before "911" existed and when most telephones were still the noisy rotary dial type. Anyway, my mother must have heard me in the kitchen and started demanding to know why I was on the telephone. Of course, the stranger at the window heard her clearly. If he didn't, he heard me tell her that I was calling the police. That woke my mother up real good. As she came into the kitchen, I simultaneously tried to keep her calm and to explain the situation. Surprisingly, she did not get near as nervous as I would have predicted.

Eventually, the cops showed up and did a quick search of the neighborhood, and of course, they didn't find anything. Our "snooper" was long gone. My mother and I decided that night that we would not tell my siblings about the incident, so that they would not be scared every night when they went to bed. From that night on, all of our windows were closed tight and locked every night. I also began to become much more vigilant about what went on outside of our home.

A heck of a way to spend youthful days and nights wouldn't you say?

That was incident #1. I'll tell you about incident #2 in another post.

A Rough Start

I was born in Miami, Florida on February 2, 1959 It was Groundhog Day. My birth was uncomplicated and went smoothly according to my mother. Unfortunately for me though, my life from that point on was not so simple and easy.

My father was in Korea with the military when I was born. We didn't get to connect until I was about six months old. He did get real nauseous and went out behind the barracks to throw up at the same time I was born though. By the way, that was without being notified of my pending birth first! I grew up in the shadow of a combination John Wayne and G.I. Joe. A career firefighter who was always rescuing someone from some thing. I tried for most of my life to emulate him, but found that I just couldn't do it.

By the time I was four years old, my family and I had already moved several times and had traveled well over 15,000 miles. By the time I was six and about to enter kindergarten, I was already taller and larger than most of the kids my age, it made me stick out like a sore thumb. It didn't help either that I talked with a serious lisp, was extremely pigeon-toed, and wore big thick glasses. I was also hypoglycemic, which made me very prone to experiencing cold sweats, the shakes, and blurry vision at a moments notice.

Standing out like I did, was basically the same thing as painting a very large bulls-eye on my forehead. For every bully in every school that I attended (around 20 or so) must have each felt personally responsible for trying to beat the crap out of me, and as often as possible. I got into a lot of fights while growing up. Sometimes I won, sometimes I lost, sometimes I didn't even bother to fight back. I never started one fight in my entire life though. In 6th grade alone, I received over 13 whacks with a big wooden paddle, all for defending myself.

By the time I was nine years old, we had moved another several times, traveled another 15,000 miles or so, and my father was once again headed to Southeast Asia for a remote tour. It was then that I the unfortunate experience of watching my mother suffer her first nervous breakdown and begin her slow and horrible slide into mental illness. It was around that same time that we were living with my grandparents, while my father was overseas, that my grandfather suffered a massive heart-attack and died.

A few years later, just as I had determined that life was starting to smooth out and take on a somewhat more normal form, my father was once again ordered back to Southeast Asia. I was caught totally off guard that time. At that point in my life, I was closer to my father than at any other point before then. Suddenly though, he was gone - again. I never told anyone, especially my parents, just how upset I was when he left.

I was even more upset that he moved us away from the small west Texas town in which we were living at the time. I loved that little town. Even though we were a military family and were considered outsiders, we had been lovingly accepted into that community. To make matters worse, I finally, after most of my life without one, had a best friend. That only lasted about 18 months though.

There were some consolations at that time though. For one, after some intense speech therapy lessons, I was freed from my lisp! Another, I found that with lots of focus and concentration over a year or so, I was finally able to walk without my toes being turned in. And finally, my parents were eventually able to afford to purchase for me, a modern day and stylish pair of eye-glasses. I was forever free from looking like an absolute dork wearing black military frame glasses.

My father, before leaving for overseas, moved us to Goldsboro, NC. He did so because his sister Gale, who's husband was already overseas, was living there. She had three kids around the same ages as myself and my siblings. My widowed grandmother was also living with my Aunt Gale at the time. My father's thinking was that my aunt and grandmother could assist my mother in taking care of us kids. His motives were sincere and good. Unfortunately for me though, Goldsboro turned out to be Hell.

Back in the early seventies, in towns all over the country, forced busing was a very big issue. It was somehow determined that the best thing for all students, was to make sure that there was a good mixture of black and white students at every school. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter was, when it was initiated, forced busing did far more harm to the kids involved (both black and white) and it really did nothing but drive up the number of kids attending private schools.

Because of forced busing, I was required to ride the bus for over an hour and half to get to school every morning and afternoon. I and my fellow classmates from my neighborhood, were bused out of our far flung suburb and taken to an old rundown smelly and very dirty school in downtown Goldsboro. There was no A/C, the water fountains seldom worked. The black kids at the school were so happy to see us, that every morning as our bus arrived, they would pelt the bus with rocks and empty soda bottles. As each of us got off the bus, we were forced to hand over either our bag lunches or our lunch money. If we would have refused to give in, we would have been given the privilege of leaving school in an ambulance.

The rest of the day wasn't any better. If you were white, you could forget using the restroom for the entire day. Whenever a white kid attempted to use the restroom, he'd come out of there with a broken nose or arm, if he was lucky that is. P.E. class was a real joke. What it really was, was a way for the black guys to pick on and beat up the whites without any fear of getting into trouble. That was the truth, plain and simple. Walking the hallways of school each day was like running the gauntlet.

By the end of the day, upon arriving home from school, I was absolutely mentally and physically exhausted. It did no good to fight back when confronted at school. One black kid would start a fight, the white kid would be stupid enough to try and fight back, and then he'd find another 5 or 6 black kids on his back. I never once saw a fair fight at that school. On the home front, my mother was in terrible mental shape. Her attitudes and actions were very hard on us kids, affecting each of us in different ways. Toward the end of our time in Goldsboro, we also had to deal with possible criminal activity - directed toward us twice. I'll write about them in a separate posting some other time.

Fortunately for me, I was only in Goldsboro for about a year and half. It felt more like 20 years to me at the time though. I remember when my father called from overseas to tell us that he had received orders for Florida, and that we would be moving there in a couple of months. I was so absolutely ecstatic that I ran around the entire neighborhood for the remainder of the day, telling anyone and everyone my good news. The next day I could hardly walk because my muscles were so sore.

When we reached Florida, I was in the last half of 9th grade. From that point on, life for me greatly improved. Although my mother still had serious issues and episodes, and we still moved a few more times, I was at least able to catch my breath for a little while before reaching adulthood.

Chapters of Life.....

I've just returned from my 30 year high school reunion in Niceville, Florida. It was a bittersweet experience. On one hand it was really great to see some of my former classmates. On the other hand though, I was very disappointed that many of my favorite people didn't come and I didn't get to spend time with them. I actually drove the farthest to attend the reunion (800 miles one way).

Another sample of bitter sweetness was in realizing just how many members of my small graduating class of 400, have already passed away. The number is around 14 confirmed, but I believe there are a few more that we just haven't been able to pend down. I know for a fact, a few more will probably pass on before the next reunion.

It's quite an experience to attend school with a number of friends and classmates and then not see or speak to them for 10 years at a time (or even 20 years if they skip a reunion). Each get-together revealed almost startling changes amongst each of us. Changes in weight, for some in height (there are a number of individuals that grew 3-6 inches AFTER high school), a change in marital status was a "biggy", as was the amount of hair on the men's heads and or the hair coloring (I saw lots of silver hair at this past event and that included my own whenever I looked into the mirror).

Here's an irony, I was talking to a former classmate and he was telling me about all of the exciting things he and his 15 year old son had been doing recently. When I told him that my "baby" was in her mid-twenties and that I had a 14 year old grandson, he just stood there and stared at me in disbelief. He was in no way ready to even think about being a grandfather yet, and here, I've been one for over a decade already.

Some of the folks looked dramatically different than they did when we graduated high school back in 1977. A really strange thing is though, some of the folks looked almost no different whatsoever! It was down right spooky. How did they do that? I've really enjoyed over the past three reunions, held 10 years apart, observing the differences and changes that take place amongst my classmates.

It was also pointed out to me, that for the first time since our high school years, there were no cliques! Even at the 20 year reunion, people grouped together like they had back in high school. We had lots of cliques, band members, jocks, "Boggy Boys", the straight A students, you name it. But at this last reunion, it just seemed like there were no borders. Everyone visited with everyone and had a good time doing it. I saw folks sharing with each other that I'm pretty darn sure they had probably never ever spoken to each other before that day. It was a great sight.

I was fascinated with the fact, that some of those who most of us thought would never really succeed in life - have succeeded big time. I was disappointed and heartbroken over hearing how some of those, who's lives looked very promising back in 1977, have been unable to rise above mediocrity though. I was able to measure myself and my current status in life by comparing how some of my friends have fared. I'm not doing too badly but I could be doing much better.

And that's what I thought about on the 800 mile drive home. I had a realization that I personally have a choice on how I want my life to be at the next reunion - the next chapter.

Breaking News...

I'll be on a brief hiatus for the next 10 days. After that, I will begin making regular postings once again. I appreciate your continued support, encouragement, and patronage!

The Clovis Chronicles Project

I'm working on my first fiction novel and I've started posting portions to the Internet. Click here to learn more. You're invited to make comments and suggestions.

The Day the Earth Crumbled....

When I was five years-old, my family and I lived in Fairbanks, Alaska. My father was an Air Force Fire Fighter there. All-in-all we spent three and a half years in Alaska and loved every minute of it. That is except for a brief period beginning around 5:30 pm, on March 27, 1964.

I can clearly recall that evening, although the event occurred 43 years ago. My father was on his 24 hour shift at the fire station that day and so was not going to be home that night. My mother had prepared dinner for the three of us (my mother, me, and my younger brother Tony). Just after my mother got up from the dinner table at the end of the meal and started to clean up around the kitchen, she turned to me and yelled across the room "Tommy, quit kicking that lamp!"

Now, I know that sounds weird and all, but I've got a perfectly good explanation. The 'lamp' was actually a table lamp that for some reason sat very close to the dining room table. My mother was always rearranging our furniture, and sometimes items were placed in very strange locations. But, getting back to my story, I looked over at the table-lamp and sure enough it was vibrating and shaking on the floor BUT I wasn't touching it. It was moving all on its own. That's exactly what I told my mother and for some reason she didn't believe me. After a few seconds, the table-lamp quit moving and I went back to finishing my dinner.

About two or three minutes later, that darn lamp started vibrating on its own again. I was really starting to get spooked. My mother, still in the kitchen, again detected the lamp moving and yelled at me once again. I called her over to the lamp and showed her that I was not touching it. I can remember the three of us starring at the thing trying to figure out what as going on when all of a sudden the whole apartment began vibrating. We had absolutely no idea what was going on. There was a deep rumbling sound under our feet for a few seconds and then everything settled down. No more vibration, no more rumbling. Suddenly we could hear lots of voices outside and so we all made for the front door.

When we stepped out on our front steps, we could see that almost everyone who lived in the apartment complex was also outside. People were looking around, some were looking up into the sky. Everyone was talking about what had just occurred but no one knew what it was. I noticed that a little girl about my age was riding her tricycle down the sidewalk toward us, suddenly she stopped and started pointing at the sidewalk and yelling. I ran down the steps to where she was and noticed many very large cracks that had appeared in the sidewalk. As I marvelled at the cracks, the little girl yelled out to everyone "It was an earthquake!".

Funny things is, she was right.

Most of the adults simply assumed that it was just a minor earthquake and therefore things would quickly get back to normal. Everyone slowly went back inside their apartments. A little bit later, my father called to check on us. That's when we found out that a major earthquake (9.2 magnitude) had struck the city of Anchorage which is located about 350 miles south of Fairbanks. The "Great Alaska Earthquake" devastated Anchorage. For days following the quake, my family and I would stare in awe at the television news footage that was broadcast.

We all also realized that the exact same type of devastation could have occurred in Fairbanks if the earthquake had struck in our area. I remember having trouble getting to sleep at night for a few weeks after that day in March of 1967. I had feared that another quake would strike and that time hit much closer to home. Thankfully, one never did.

Rescuing My Tormenter...

In previous posts I've written about my younger brother Tony and of his warped sense of humor. We didn't get along all that great up until we reached our teenage years. I either eventually got used to all of the practical jokes by then or realized that I'd soon be leaving home and my brother behind!

Little did I realize it though, that when I flew off to California the year after graduating high school, that Tony would show up two weeks later and go through Coast Guard boot camp alongside me!

Now I'm gettin' ahead of myself though.

I'm going to go back to the year that I was senior in high school. My brother and I were very active members of our church's youth group and so we pretty much were involved in all of its activities. Living in northwest Florida afforded all of us "kids" with lots of opportunities to enjoy the water, be it at the beach, creek, bayou, or a river. On one particular outing we decided to take canoes down the Blackwater River.

The river is very beautiful and it slowly winds itself through the Blackwater National Forest. The water is very clear and cold and there are white sand beaches located all up and down the river bank in frequent locations. Depending on the amount of rainfall, the river can either be very deep and move very fast or it can be shallow and slow. On the particular day that I'm writing about the former was true.

During the four hour trip I tried to distance myself from my brother Tony as much as I could. He just plain annoyed, almost all of the time. He also liked flirting with and teasing whichever girlfriend I had at the time. As the youth group took it's first break of the day at a very nice sandy beach area, my brother complained to me that he kept tipping over in the canoe. Apparently, he and whoever his canoe partner were at time, just couldn't handle the swift current very well.

I remember Tony telling me that he was going to take the rope that was tied to the bow of the canoe and tie it to his leg so that if they tipped over again, he'd be able to retrieve the partially sunken canoe more quickly. He was tired of having to hastily swim after it each time. I can clearly remember telling him that his idea was a very bad one and that he should not tie himself to the canoe! He appeared to agree with me at the time.

About an hour later and being in one of the first canoes to reach the next break area, I helped my girlfriend ashore and pulled our canoe up onto the sand bar. As I looked up to watch the other kids and canoes arrive, I noticed there was a partially sunken canoe floating quickly past the beach. After a few seconds, my brother's head popped up from the water and he was desperately gasping for air. I quickly realized that he had in fact tied himself to the canoe and it was dragging him under the swiftly moving current.

I yelled out to the others around me and asked if any of them had a knife on them, unfortunately none of them did. I quickly removed my glasses, handed them to my girlfriend and told her I'd be back in a few minutes. I ran for the water, dived in, and then swam after my brother as quickly as I could. After managing to catch up with him, I pulled him up toward the surface of the water and as I swam to keep up with the canoe, I kept his head above the surface.

My next task was to free him from the canoe. The only thing that I could think of was to try and force the canoe into a bunch of low hanging trees that were located along the bank of the river. After a minute or two, I figured how to do it and succeeded. As the canoe became wedged against the bank, I told my brother to hold onto a large tree root sticking out of the ground and to not let go of it. I then dove under the water and untied the knotted rope that was tied around my brother's ankle.

As I came back to the surface of the water, the rest of the youth group showed up. They made sure that my brother and I were okay and then they recovered the partially sunken canoe and took it back to the picnic area. As my brother and I were leaving the spot where the canoe had finally come to a stop and as he was thanking me for the rescue, it was then that we noticed several 'things' hanging in the branches right about our heads. Those 'things' turned out to be several large and very poisonous snakes.

The rest of that day went by uneventfully and for that I was very thankful!

The Special Box....

The other day, I was rooting around in the kitchen. I wanted to surprise my wife by having dinner fixed by the time she got home that evening. While looking though some of the kitchen drawers I came across a little metal box that had been painted red. The box had been manufactured with the intent of it's use to be that of a file for index cards.

Something right out of the 1960's.

As I held the box in my hand, a flood of memories entered my mind. Both from the 60's and from just a few years ago. I was suddenly inundated with recollections from two different era's simultaneously.

How strange is that? And all from the same seemingly insignificant little box.

My first encounter with the box which was painted an ugly green color originally, occurred while I was in the Cub Scouts in Nebraska, over 40 years ago. Each scout had been ask to bring a small metal file box with them to the next meeting, our Scout Master had a new project in mind for us.

I remember asking my folks to purchase the 'box' for me. In response though, my father rummaged through his belongings and found the very old and well worn box that he no longer utilized. I seem to recall that he had purchased it in Alaska when we lived there a few years earlier.

After taking the box with me to my next Cub Scout meeting, the Scout Master informed us that we would be taking those ordinary little metal boxes and dressing them up. We were then each to start using the boxes to store keepsakes and photographs in. They were to serve as memory boxes.

I remember that night well. I painted my little ugly green box a deep fire engine red, which was quite appropriate since my father was a firefighter at the time. I then took black felt, cut it down to size, and pasted it onto the bottom of the box. After the paint dried, I took the sharp point of a knife and etched my name and a simple little design onto the top of the box. The design was simply two lines above my name and two lines below it.

I was very proud of my little memory box and I cherished it for years and years after I created it. I dutifully filled it with various memorable trinkets and some of my favorite photographs. For some reason though, once I reached my late teen years, that box just didn't have the same appeal to me any longer. I remember coming across a large empty cigar box one day, and being impressed with its size and design, decided that it would be a much more suitable container for my memories.

How quickly we change allegiances isn't it?

After emptying the little red box I had intened on throwing it away. But my mother quickly relieved me of the box though. She needed something to file away recipes in and the box seemed perfect for that.

Now, anyone who knew my mother would tell you that she did not like to cook. It's just a plain and simple fact. The fact is, my father cooked a lot of our meals when he wasn't working late, serving in Southeast Asia, or on a TDY somewhere. My mother did love us very much though and she knew how much my father and us kids loved deserts.

Deserts were a big thing in our house.

So, my mother really began focusing on desert recipes. Over the next 30 years, my mother filled that little box chock full of scrumptious recipes. Some of the recipes she wrote out in in long hand on little index cards. Others were either torn out of magazines or typed up and then taped or pasted to a index card.

And so, the other day, four years after having lost my mother to breast cancer, I stood there in the kitchen combing through that little box. There was something significant at seeing my mothers handwriting on those little cards and reading the little side notes that she had written alongside some of those recipes. With each and every recipe, I felt the love that my mother had for her family. In many ways, when she was alive, she had been unable to truly share verbally and from her heart exactly how she felt for us. But now, years after her death, I connected with my mother in a brand new way.

I miss you Mom.

Life's embarassing moments....

The really big ones started for me when I was in the first grade. I remember the first one like it was yesterday even though it's been over 40 years since that eventful day.

I was attending school in Alaska, on a military base. Back then "Fire Prevention Week" was a really big deal. My elementary school teacher had been reminding all of us students for days prior that we would be attending an assembly and that "Sparky the Fire Dog" would be on hand.

Now "Sparky", he was a really cool character and all of us students were really excited about his pending visit. Can you imagine how truly excited I got then, when I mistakenly thought that my very own father was going to be portraying Sparky? For you see, at the time, my father was an Air Force firefighter.

I do not know how I got it into my mind that my "Pop" was going to be Sparky, but into my mind it went. And so, on the morning of the big assembly, in front of my entire class I announced that my father was the man that was going to be dressed up like Sparky the Fire Dog.

The other kids starred at me in awe. They were truly impressed and I was ecstatic at my new found popularity. Just a few minutes later, we all filed into the gymnasium and found a place to sit and watch the fire prevention presentation. About half-way through the show, ol'Sparky made his appearance. All of the students stood and cheered and then eagerly waved to the character.

Me, I jumped up and down and tried as hard as I could to get my father's attention. But seeing that I was so far away from the place where he stood, I eventually conceded defeat.

The defeat at hand was much easier to take than the next embarrassing moment though.

Apparently, because it was so hot inside the gymnasium and inside the Sparky the Fire Dog costume, the man inside decided to lift off the large costume head and get some relief.

Can you imagine my surprise and the surprise of my fellow classmates when the man inside the suit was revealed to be man with black skin?

These days, that would not have been much of a surprise.

But let me tell you, back in 1966 - "surprise" doesn't even come close to describing the reaction.

Let's just say that the looks I received were not very nice. And then the additional reactions that I received when I tried to explain my mistake was even worse.

My temporary popularity had lasted less than an hour but the embarrassment of the event lasted for decades.

I was a karate kid...

No, not THE karate kid but a karate kid.

I grew up as a military brat which meant that my family and I moved every couple of years, even more than that sometimes. I was ALWAYS the new kid in school, somehow always showing up in the middle of a semester. Being bigger than most of the kids my age also made me stick out even more, especially to every school and neighborhood bully known to man.

At times I felt like I must have had an irremovable bull's eye painted on my forehead.

I remember the sixth grade especially. During that particular school year, I received over a dozen"licks" (whacks) - with a very hard wooden paddle, all of them for fighting. The not so funny things is though, I never started one single fight in my entire life.

I was always simply defending myself.

By the time I reached junior high school, I had had it with being bullied. Although I could fight back pretty good, I still got my butt kicked way too often. It was time to do something about it, so I signed up for a karate class at the local youth center.

Just prior to signing up, the martial arts legend Bruce Lee had become my hero. I was gonna' become an American Bruce Lee! I dedicated my life to karate. I never missed a practice which took place twice a week and was located a couple of miles from my home. I was so dedicated to the cause, that since I was unable to enlist a ride from anyone, I would jog to practice, practice for two hours, and then jog home.

I got into pretty good shape pretty darn fast. My self-confidence also grew at an amazing pace. I found that I could learn the forms and the moves very quickly and that I could advance from belt to belt easily. You should have seen me with the nunchucks, man was I fast. I could spin those "babies" so fast you couldn't hardly see them. I wasn't perfect at it though, several times I hit myself in the head by accident and nearly knocked myself out.

Things were going very well for me until two dramatic events occurred within close proximity of each other.

Number one, my hero Bruce Lee suddenly and unexplainedly died.

I was devasted. My world had been shattered.

Number two, my Sensei's (karate instructor) daughter took a sudden liking to me. That would have been okay with me if I had been attracted to her in a recipricol manner. Unfortunately I wasn't, in fact I found her very unattactive and even very annoying. Seeing that she was a fellow student in the class though, I could not avoid her.

The problem was, her mother (yes, my instructor was a female - a very tough female), had decided in her mind that I was the man (boy) for her daughter. Why, I don't know. But suddenly I found myself being constantly pressured to date a girl that I almost found repulsive - sad, but true. The more I resisted the relationship, the tougher things got for me at practice.

It seemed to me at the time, that I was always getting myself into very strange situations!

Anyway, I did the manly thing and without notice suddenly quit taking karate lessons. Unfortunately for me, there were no other dojos anywhere near where I lived and so karate got put on the back burner. In fact, I never took another "offcial" lesson again.

There were some positive twists though. First of all, I was never accosted by a bully again. Without doing or saying anything, somehow - miracously, the bull's eye had been removed from my forehead. Secondly, I was eventually elected president of the high school karate club thus making me feel more like a part of something instead of an outsider. Thirdly, my newly acquired self-confidence enabled me to particpate in future activties that requried some degree of daring and bravery. And finally, with what little martial arts skills that I had aquired in less than a year, I was able to defend myself or someone else effectively throughout the decades to follow.

The Whoopin' that wasn't...

When I was about 8 years old we were living in Nebraska 'cause my father was stationed there with the Air Force. We moved a lot back then, some places were nice and some weren't. It just so happens that the place that this event occurred was one of the nicest places we ever lived.

It was a great neighborhood, we lived in a nice big brick house with lots of space to run and explore. There were also a lot of interesting things to do in our neighborhood. The only negative side to living where we did was the serious lack of other kids to play with. I think that most of our neighbors were older folks whose kids had already left home and so that left me and my younger brother Tony without any other kids to play with - that is until the Smiths (name changed to protect the guilty) showed up.

The Smiths moved in to an old house down the street from us, about 4 houses worth. I remember how excited Tony and I had gotten when we saw a whole bunch of kids helping to unload a big flatbed truck that the family had used to move their belongings with. I also remember how my little brother and I ran home and told my parents about our new neighbors. We were both so excited. My folks suggested that Tony and I wait until the next day and then go down and introduce ourselves, we thought waiting 24 hours was preposterous, but we did it anyway.

Have you ever been in a situation where you were so deficient in friends that you'd hang out with just about anyone just to stave off the loneliness? Well, that's basically what Tony and I ended up doing. It hadn't taken us very long to realize that the Smith boys were a real wild bunch. They didn't just wrestle each other, they get into some really big "knock down drag out" fights! They'd break things around the house like windows, doors, brick walls, etc. It just seemed like they were always looking for trouble. Now Tony and I on the other hand were absolutely petrified of our father and so we avoided trouble at all costs!

One day my brother and I and the Smith boys were playing hide and go seek. We were allowed to hide anywhere in their house or yard. I remember grabbing Tony by the shoulder and telling him "lets go hide in the basement in one of those cubby-holes the boys have dug out of the wall" - Tony was quick to agree and so we headed down there.

It seemed like we were in the grimy grubby moldy hole for like an hour, it was probably more like 15 minutes though. Suddenly we heard the Smith boys calling our names and informing us that we were in really big trouble with their mother. Tony and I could not imagine anything that we had done that would have incurred the wrath of that extremely large and mean looking woman. In fact, we had spent most of our time avoiding her and her temper whenever we were at the Smith household.

By the way, the Smith boys were not allowed to play at our house. My mother equated them to "a pack of stampeding elephants" for which she was not going to clean up after.

Anyway, Tony and I remained hidden in the cubby-hole, we were both of the mind that the Smith boys were simply trying to trick us into revealing our location. It was only after hearing the loud booming voice of Mrs. Smith did we realize that something was truly amiss.

Tony and I hesitantly crawled out of the dirty hole and made our way to the backyard of the Smith house where Mrs. Smith and the boys had all conglomerated. A couple of the Smith boys immediately ran over to my brother and I and grabbed our arms and walked us over to Mrs. Smith. Suddenly I noticed that the scary looking woman had a very large leather strap in her right hand and that she was striking her left hand with it in anticipation of its use - on US!

I was totally confused. I had no idea about what was going on. It was then that Mrs. Smith spoke to my brother and I and said "My boys tell me that you two are the ones that just ruined my garden. You boys are going to be very sorry for that."

Her garden? I looked behind and around her and sure enough her garden looked like a pack of wild animals and been let loose in it. Plants were uprooted, there were big holes where someone or something had kicked the dirt around, and an old dresser that had previously been sitting in the backyard, was now laying on its back - right smack dab in the middle of the garden.

I remember trying to take a big gulp and that my throat did not want to cooperate. I looked over at my little brother Tony and his eyes were as big as watermelons. We both knew that we had not done what we were being accused of - and it didn't take us but a few seconds to realize that we had been turned into scapegoats. One look at one of the Smith boys and we knew they had lied to their mother about us and had done the dastardly deed themselves.

"Now you boys bring the younger one to me first and after I get done with him I'll take care of the other one. You hold onto Tom's arms real good so he don't interfere none." said Mrs. Smith almost as if she was about to enjoy herself.

Not on my watch she wasn't!

I had quickly figured out that it would not have done any good for us to deny destroying her garden, she simply wouldn't have believed us.

So, I tried "Plan B".

"You know, my father is a REAL big man - he's a lot bigger than you Mrs. Smith."

I remember her boys all agreeing with me. And then I continued...

"My father is also very strong and has a real mean temper. As soon as he finds out that you've hit us - he will be down here at your house and will probably beat you up and tear your whole house down!"

Mrs. Smith laughed but you could see that she was thinking about what I had said.

Then one of her boys chirped in "Momma', I've seen Mr. D - he IS a real big man. He just might whoop all of us!"

Mrs. Smith continued to ponder my words.

I remember feeling like my heart was going pop out of my chest. But I also knew deep down inside, that IF Mrs. Smith did indeed lay a hand on us - there would be heck to pay on her part.

It seemed like we had stood there forever. Finally though, Mrs. Smith backed down.

"I'm still gonna' have to punish the two of you though." she said.

"I don't want either of you boys to ever come to my house again, you are a bad influence on my sons!"

I remember wanting to laugh out loud at what she said, but I succeeded in keeping my mouth shut and forbidding a smile to cross my face. I then quickly grabbed my brother's arm and pulled him along with me as I speedily departed the Smith backyard and headed for our house.

You know, neither one of us ever told my parents about what happened that day. We were both so afraid of any future encounters with the Smiths that we had promised each other to remain silent on the subject - that is, until just now.

I've never run out of gas since!

As a teenager and young adult, I had a really bad habit of driving my car(s) until they ran out of gas. It was a really stupid thing to do and I'm sure that there was probably some deep psychological issue that needed dealt with at the time but I didn't know what it was.

Anyway, around 1981, I was driving alone back from Mississippi to my in-law's home in Valparaiso, Florida. My wife (at the time) and I had just recently purchased a brand new Aries-K car and I had been under the impression that the gas tank held much more gas than it really did. Unfortunately, it was around 1:00 a.m. in the morning when I discovered that I had made a miscalculation.

I was driving south on Florida highway 20 and found myself located south of the city of Crestview. In that part of northwest Florida, highway 20 runs through Air Force property. Suddenly my new car began to sputter and lose speed - it didn't take me but a second to realize what was wrong. As I scanned the side of the highway for a good place to pull over, I noticed a forest ranger station just up ahead on the right. The station consisted of a high observation tower with a small home located at the base of the tower. I decided to park my car on the side of the highway near the station because it was well lit and it would be easy to relocate my car after getting gasoline for it.

Have you ever tried to hitchhike at 1:30 in the morning? It's really no fun. For some reason, no one wants to stop and pick up a stranger at that hour. I must have tried for an hour to no avail. As I was standing there on the side of the road, I just happened to look back at the house located at the base of the ranger tower. I quickly noticed that the lights were on and that someone was peeking out at me through the venetian blinds. I then decided to walk over to the house and try to get the residents to let me use their telephone - that was a very big mistake on my part.

As I approached the front door I noticed that no one was peeking at me anymore. I hesitantly knocked on the door but no one responded, inside there were at least two big dogs barking at me. I had a feeling though that "somebody" was standing on the other side of that door. I knocked again and then I told anyone who might be listening that I had run out of gas and needed to use a telephone to call for assistance. Still no response. I went on to talk to the door and to identify myself by giving my name and the fact that I was in the military and posed no threat to anyone.

Still no response.

As I turned to walk back to my car I noticed that a late 70's model Camaro was pulling into the driveway of the property. The driver of the vehicle jumped out and asked me what was wrong. After I explained my situation to the man he responded with "Hey no problem dude, you can come on in and use my telephone. I'm surprised my girlfriend didn't let you in."

As I was about to say something to the guy, we both suddenly heard police sirens - lots and lots of them. Can you imagine the surprise that both of us got when all of a sudden there were three military jeeps with lights blazing and sirens blaring, quickly pulling into the driveway? We just stood there in shock. As the jeeps came to a stop, two or three military policemen from each vehicle leaped to the ground and rushed us (this is way before 9/11 mind you!). Before we knew it, we had almost a dozen 45 automatic handguns pointing at us!

A small man, apparently the leader of the group, yelled toward us "Freeze! Put your hands in the air and do not move or you WILL BE shot!" - believe me, we didn't move.

"Now, I want the two of you to step forward and place your hands on the front of the closest jeep."

By then, me and the other guy were shaking in our shoes. Then as we both started to move forward, the military policeman shrieked at us "I told you guys not to move!".

Suddenly, I found myself in the twilight zone. The other and guy and I just looked at each other trying to make sense of what was going on. The thought quickly came to my mind that if one us sneezed, one or both of us would be shot. A few seconds later we found ourselves being thoroughly frisked by some of the other military personnel. I tried to explain my situation but was told to shut up and remain silent. I was so glad that they came across my military I.D. card when they did.

It didn't take the policemen long to verify that my I.D. was for real. All of a sudden the leader became receptive to my explanation of why I was there and then he had his men lower their weapons. I was relieved but my body still shook quite a bit. The other guy was in the same shape that I was and then he got real angry when he found out that his girlfriend had called the Air Force security police and told them that I was trying to break into his house.

"I'm sorry man, I don't know why she did that."

I forgave the guy, I felt sorry for him - and for us. He offered to let me into his house so that I could use the telephone. The military police offered to stay and keep an eye on me - for what reason I do not know. The forest ranger declined the offer though and sent them on their way, he and I were both very ready to see them leave. As we made our way to the front door it slowly opened. Standing just inside the doorway was the man's girlfriend.

She had a twelve inch butcher knife in her hand and two very large guard dogs standing behind her. "I'm sorry, I was scarred." she said.

I didn't know what so say in response to that. I just quickly used the telephone and called my then father-in-law. Later, as he pulled up to my car with a can filled with gasoline he was laughing very hard at me. I was still shaking though and in fact I shook all the way to his house that morning.

I've never run out of gas since that day.

Soaring with the Eagles....

The Niceville High School Eagles that is!

This summer in July, my high school senior class of 1977, will be holding a reunion in our hometown of Niceville, Florida. It will be our 30th year since graduating which I have a very hard time comprehending. I've starting working on a Web site for our class, you can visit it by clicking here.

Sometimes it feels as if it was just yesterday when I was walking the halls of NHS, trying to be a very cool student. I relished being a senior, it was my all time favorite year out of the thirteen that I had attended. Being a military brat meant that I went to a lot of schools, some good and some bad - unfortunately most of them were bad. I'm talking about schools with lots of racial violence, crime, drugs, and varying degrees of uninterested and uninteresting teachers. By the time I reached junior high school, I absolutely hated going to school.

Then we moved to northwest Florida during the last semester of ninth grade, which at that time in the mid-70's, was still considered junior high school. Lewis Junior High in Valparaiso (the "twin" city that sat right next to Niceville) was unlike any school I had ever attended. The school was practically brand new, and some of the teaching methods were also new. I immediately fell in love with the school and made lots of new friends and so my interest in attending school quickly improved!

The next year I found myself in high school and I liked it just as much as Lewis Junior High. By the time I reached the end of the first semester of 10th grade, my life had really improved and I felt that I was actually a part of something special - no more feelings of being an outsider and ALWAYS the "new guy". I made some good friends, got involved with some clubs (I was the president of the karate club), and I was really enjoying myself.

That is until my folks dropped a bomb on me.

We had been living in Air Force housing on nearby Eglin Air Force Base since our arrival in Florida. Suddenly my folks decided that they wanted to move off base into a civilian neighborhood. Unfortunately though, they wanted to move to Fort Walton Beach instead of Valparaiso or Niceville. I could not convince them to change their minds and so, again, just like 20 times before, I had to change schools.

I really tried my hardest to keep a stiff upper lip and to make the best of the situation. It didn't take me long to realize though that my new high school could never come close to replacing NHS. It was much, much larger and most of the kids came from a much higher financial class than I did. I was not welcomed with open arms as I had been in Valparaiso and Niceville - in fact, I was down right ignored and made to feel like a total outsider.

By the beginning of 11th grade, I was ready to drop out of school. I started suffering from depression and it took all I had to drag my carcass to school every day. At the time, I did not own a car but I did have a motorcycle, which I chose to drive to school even in bad weather, so as to not have to daily ride the school bus and listen to jokes made about where I lived. My neighborhood was a "dump" - at least that is what the "preppies" constantly called it. It wasn't really though, it was just lower middle-class.

Finally, I had had enough and I told my folks that I either needed to go back to Niceville High School or school was over for me. To my surprise, they took me serious. My dad immediately went down to the school board and got a waiver for me to change school districts. He then purchased a REAL inexpensive car for me to drive - it was a 1965 Ford Falcon with about a zillion miles on it! While handing me the car keys, my father explained to me that I would have to go get a part-time job in order to pay for the car insurance and for the fuel needed for making the 30 mile round trip to school every day.

I was estatic!

Within just a few short days I was back at Niceville High School where I was heartily welcomed. I was also working part-time in the early morning hours before school, and in the afternoons at a bank in Niceville. Eventually I secured a job delivering newspapers in Fort Walton Beach. Getting up at 3:30 a.m. every morning, 7 days a week and having the largest motor route in town. I made real good money but boy I was very tired all of the time!

To me the only negative thing about going back to NHS was having to graduate. I actually considered the idea of purposely failing the twelfth grade so that I could enjoy one more year at Niceville High School. I just was not ready to leave school. I had spent so many of my years just trying to "survive" school, that I had been unable to prepare myself for life beyond it. I had no idea what to do with my life. I was young, I was impetuous, I was frustrated about the future, and so, after a year of just bumbling around, I joined the U.S. Coast Guard - and that my friends, is a whole other bunch of stories.

Remembering 9/11

What a time to start working at a newspaper!

I'd only been at the Clovis News Journal a few days. Although hired as an editorial assistant, I found myself wearing many hats. I recall vividly listening to the radio in my car as I pulled up to the newspaper office parking lot that morning. The report I heard was that a small private plane had crashed into one of the World Trade towers. Seemed like significant news but nothing horrific though.

In just the few minutes that it took for me to get from my car to the newsroom though - the world had changed - forever. As I walked through the door, I noticed that the newsroom contained no activity which was very unusual for a Tuesday morning. All of my colleagues were huddled motionless around the small color television in the corner of the newsroom - watching and listening as the truly horrific events unfolded.

I joined their shock and dismay - my stomach got nauseated. Soon the telephones starting ringing off the hook - the citizens of Clovis were making sure that the newspaper knew what was going on. One of the telephone calls reported that traffic going into nearby Cannon Air Force Base was backed up for miles - they had closed the gate to the base as a result of the attack on America. The editor considered that newsworthy and thought a picture of the traffic would make good copy.

It was time for me to put on a new hat.

I got the order "go out to the base and take pictures - and make it quick!". My first photo shoot for a newspaper - I should have been thrilled but my mind and stomach were still churning. I had stood on the top of one of those World Trade Center towers back in the late 80's. I actually lived in the shadows of those towers for about six months while living on Governor's Island, right off the tip of Manhattan - I had been in the Coast Guard. I felt violated even though I was 2000 miles away from New York City.

As I arrived at the base the traffic had dropped down to just a few hundred yards from the main gate - not very photographic. I was determined to do my job though. After parking my car about a half a mile from the gate to the base, I walked quickly toward it carrying a very large and very expensive digital camera. It wasn't mine. As I started to take pictures of the traffic making it's way slowly toward the gate and of the Air Force Security Police personnel decked in full battle gear - the reality of what had happened began to sink in.

Then reality really hit me when all of a sudden I was descended upon by a half-dozen armed uniformed military policemen. It seems that I looked awful suspicious standing there taking pictures - I might be a terrorist. My heart raced and my nerves jumped as the questioning began and the thought of them confiscating a $3000 camera that did not belong to me made me even more nervous. Finally, after some dialogue I was allowed to leave the premises intact and with the camera.

I shook all the way back to town. My picture made it to the front page of the paper that day and the Associated Press picked it up and carried it nationally. Quite a feat for my first news photograph. The thrill though just wasn't there. What was there was a bag of very mixed emotions. Sadness, anger, frustration, to name a few. Looking back I remember thinking to myself while being accosted by those military policemen - freedom, ours - will now be challenged more than ever. And not just by the enemy.

A Very Small World...

Not long after getting got out of the U.S. Coast Guard in 1987, I went to work as a police dispatcher in Clovis, New Mexico. I had only been in Clovis for a few weeks and did not know anyone there except for my parents who had moved to town a few years earlier. While I was going through the training process for new dispatchers I met one of the full-time operators who had been there for several years. Over the next few weeks that I was undergoing training, Becky and I would exchange pleasantries and jokes and go about our business.

The strange thing was, that every time I saw or spoke to Becky, it was if I had met her before - long before ever arriving in Clovis.

Finally, I got up the nerve and asked Becky about her personal life, like where she was from, etc. We started exchanging information about our backgrounds and although she had no feelings of familiarity about me, she understood how convinced I was that we had met before. Sometime during our conversation one evening, I mentioned that I had been in the Coast Guard. Becky gave me a funny look and said "You know, my brother-in-law is in the Coast Guard."

I immediately asked Becky what her brother-in-law's name was - off course not expecting whatsoever to recognize the name, I mean - there are over 30,000 people in the Coast Guard, but I had to ask anyway.

Becky told me the man's name was Brian Davis (I've changed the names in this story for the sake of personal privacy for the others involved). I just sat there looking at Becky like a deer in the headlights. Becky asked me what was wrong.

"You are Brenda's sister aren't you?"

It was Becky's turn to stare at me with her mouth open.

Come to find out, I had once been stationed with Becky's brother-in-law and his wife for over four years at a Coast Guard facility in the mid-west. I had been to their home several times for dinner and had even house sat for them once. I hadn't seen or spoken to the couple in the two years since leaving that duty station and getting out of the service.

Becky and I just sat there in amazement. It was no wonder that Becky had seemed so familiar to me, she looked and sounded a great deal like her sister Brenda!

We called Brian and Brenda that night and excitedly explained what had happened. You know, for some reason, they just didn't seem all that excited about it. Maybe though, it had something to do with the fact that it was almost 2 a.m. their time when we called them.

Return to "Normal"....

Yeah right!

Anyway, I just returned from spring break (I'm a full-time college student right now) and was expecting Spring to be here! Instead, we've had snow and freezing rain for the past few days. Over the course of my mini-vacation I drove a total of 4,010 miles. Some people will see that number and think I'm crazy - others will be envious.

I love to get out on the open road and to explore new places. After driving out to Clovis, New Mexico where most of my seven kids and twelve grandchildren live - and visiting with them for awhile, Miss Susie and I headed up to the four corners area of New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, and Utah. Then we explored the western range of Colorado all the way up to Boulder.

Miss Susie was quite ready to depart Clovis when she did. She had gone out a few weeks before spring break and ended up right smack dab in the middle of a tornado disaster. Yep, a very large tornado skipped and hopped right through Clovis and caused some major damage. Over 500 homes and businesses were damaged and at least 150 homes were destroyed. In fact, the tornado touched down right across the street from my daughter Vicki's house causing serious damage to a senior citizen recreation center and uprooting several large trees on the property. Vicki only lost a portion of her privacy fence.

I was very impressed with the community spirit in Clovis, the spirit that has never died over the 100 years that it has been around. Folks of all races and social status pitched in together and helped each other out. A very large dairy was nearly completely destroyed and wouldn't you know it, personnel from some of the other competing dairies showed up on scene to help clear debris.

Nothing like a little disaster to pull people together, don't you wish that kind of spirit and camaraderie were just a normal everyday thing?

My Encounter with Bigfoot...

No, I'm not off my rocker - at least not completely.

Please bear with me as I relate the facts of my case:

It was the winter of 1983 and I was stationed with the U.S. Coast Guard in Owensboro, Kentucky. Yes, there are "Coasties" in Kentucky - the Coast Guard is responsible for the Ohio River that runs along the northern border of the state.

Anyway, like I was saying. It was winter and we had been having some very heavy snowfalls that year. I was manning the radio room at the Coast Guard station and since it was night time, I was there all by myself. The rest of the station was manned during normal working hours only but the radio room had to be operated 24 hours a day.

Lucky me.

It was around 2 a.m., I was real tired and so had gotten up to walk around the room and to do some stretches. Falling asleep on watch was not an option for me, that is - unless I wanted to get carted off to a military prison!

Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement outside one of the windows and so I quickly turned my head to see what it was - but nothing was there. Whatever it was though, it stuck in my brain as being very, very large.

A few seconds later I heard the sound of someone or some thing beating on the door at the back of the building. I looked outside into the parking lot and could not see any other vehicles there but mine. The station was at the very end of a road, sat near the banks of the river, and the only other thing close by was a fuel depot across the street, but a quick glance in that direction told me that nothing was going on over there.

I left the radio room and headed for the back of the building. Just as I entered the break room (where the back door was located), I caught a glimpse of a very, very large figure moving away from the door. There was a window in the door and so it allowed me to see what was on the other side. Besides being quite large, I noticed quite nervously that it was covered with hair!

I remember just standing there in shock. Thoughts of Bigfoot immediately entered my mind - although up until that time, I had always thought Bigfoot was just a figment of crazy people's imaginations.

I turned and slowly headed back toward the radio room at the front of the building. As I made my way back, I'd stop and carefully peak out some of the windows but I could not detect any movement.

Then the thought crossed my mind as to whether or not I had remembered to lock the front door when I came in for duty. I figured right then that I'd better check that door. The front door also had a big glass window in it, so I cautiously peered through it to see if anyone or anything was around it before I got any closer to it. I saw no people and no monsters. I quickly moved for the door and out of instinct, instead of just making sure the deadbolt was engaged, I grabbed the doorknob, twisted it and gave a slight push to the front door.

What happened next was terrifying. In what seemed like instant, the big hairy creature came running for the door, grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door wide open. I backed up so fast that I almost fell over a desk that was just inside the front room. No scream left my mouth though - I was proud of myself for that.

Suddenly the hairy beast was apologizing to me profusely.

My mind was reeling, but slowly it dawned on me what was going on. The "beast" was in fact a very large man wearing a hooded parka - you know, the kind the Eskimos wear up in Alaska. He then explained to me that he was a fuel truck driver who's rig had gotten stuck in a snow bank a few blocks away. He had walked down to the fuel depot but nobody was there, and after seeing the lights on at the Coast Station, had decided to seek assistance there.

The man could tell that he had scared the crap out of me. He kept apologizing. I thanked him though. And for what you might ask? I thanked him for getting my adrenaline pumping to the point that I would not have to worry about trying to stay awake anymore that night.

He understood completely.

Before the Internet there was Citizen's Band Radio!

Currently, the Internet is THE thing man.

I mean you can't read a newspaper, or watch television, or listen to the radio without the Internet being mentioned. Well, back in the mid-1970's, that is how it was with CB Radio.

For $50 bucks, one could put a CB radio in their home or car and instantly be communicating with others in their community. And, just like the Internet, there was some degree of anonymity involved. People didn't use their real names over the radio, they used "handles". A handle was some catchy self-descriptive name that people gave themselves. Mine, well - it was "Beach Baron" - "Beach Bum" had long been taken (by several other guys) so I had to find something else. Having an interest in small airplanes such as the "Beech Baron" and a love for the beach, "Beach Baron" just seemed to fit just right.

I started out with a CB radio in my car but eventually talked my father into purchasing one for our house. Naturally after that, my father put a CB in his truck. We were a full blown CB family after that! I met a lot of very nice people over the CB. After talking to folks for a few months, we'd end up meeting face-to-face. I actually dated a couple of girls that I met on the CB and established a few really good friendships with other guys my age.

I joined the local CB club and met even more nice people. We'd have cook-outs, transmitter hunts, help look for lost children, etc.

There was one aspect of a CB radio that most folks never gave much thought to and that was the built in public address system contained in almost every radio on the market. All one had to do was mount a P.A. speaker under the hood of their car and then run a wire from it to the back of their CB radio (it simply plugged in). After that, it was simply a matter of flipping a switch on the front of the CB and you could blast out announcements and such from your car.

Do you remember Steve, the fella' I wrote about in the past? Well, Steve and I had hours and hours of enjoyment with our portable P.A. systems. The first practical joke that we played with our units was that whenever we'd come to a stop light - especially in the summer when most folks had their car windows down, one of us (according to who was riding in the car and not driving at the time) would grab the CB microphone and announce something along the lines of:

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. You are experiencing the world's first talking traffic light. This is a U.S. Government experiment and we would appreciate your cooperation. When the light turns green, you may proceed with caution through the intersection."

People would be freaking out. They'd be straining their necks trying to figure out where the talking voice was coming from. Some folks got out of their cars and looked around. Of course, if I was driving my car, Steve was laying on the back seat with the microphone in his hand an no one could see him. I'd be busy pretending to look around the area myself so that no none would get suspicious.

Steve and I must have played that joke on thousands of people all over Ft. Walton Beach, Destin, and Niceville, Florida.

Another joke that we liked to play on our fellow teenagers was that we would drive to a city park late at night, a park that had a small beach just below a sea wall. That location was a VERY popular location for teens to go and make-out. Steve and I would slowly drive one of our cars into the parking lot (the headlights would be off of course) and then one of us would yell over the P.A. speaker something like "I'm looking for my daughter and if I find the guy that is with her I'm gonna' kill him!"

You should have heard the screams and then seen the teenagers practically climbing over each other to get to their cars and out of that park!

I know, we were mean. It was harmless fun though. Steve and I didn't do drugs, smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol, or commit any crimes. We were only guilty of being practical jokers!

The flying car....

Back in the mid-70's when I was in high school, I had a best friend named Steve.

Steve was pretty wild and was always looking for some adrenaline pumping action. I on the other hand was very cautious and reserved. Somehow we successfully complimented each other.

I'd sometimes be able to convince him that something he was about to do was just too darn dangerous and at the last minute he'd not do that thing, and then he'd thank me later after realizing just how stupid that "thing" was he was going to do.


I benefited because Steve always encouraged me to step out of my safety zone and to try new things. He taught me how to fish for sharks, to water-ski, to ski down really tall sand dunes, and to drive cars and boats real fast.


I never had a difficult time getting dates while Steve and I were best friends. Steve was very tall and very handsome, the girls just feel at his feet. In fact, there were so many falling at his feet daily that I got to pick from the excess. A pretty girl would go out with an average looking guy like me just so she could be around Steve. I didn't care, I wasn't looking for "Mrs. Right" at the time anyway and the confidence building that it did for me was a real plus. It was also real cool when all the other average guys like me looked on in awe whenever they saw me with an extremely pretty girl on my arm.


One afternoon Steve called me and told me that he had arranged for the two of us to have dates that night. That we were taking three lovely girls bowling at the local Air Force Base, it was a nice alley and Steve and I were both military dependents at the time, so we had base I.D. cards.


A few hours later, I drove over to Steve's house, dropped off my car and off we went in his souped up 1973 Mustang Mach I. Steve's car was one of the coolest I'd ever been in or driven, I liked it just a little more than I did my 1969 Camaro. Anyway, Steve, with me in tow - drove around and picked up the three girls for our bowling date. Our few hours at the bowling alley were okay, but nothing special. I could detect that Steve was pretty bored and was anxious to do something crazy.


As he drove all of us across the base and headed toward town he suddenly took a quick turn and told me that he was going to take a shortcut. Immediately, I knew something fishy was up.


"Steve, doesn't this road lead to the flight line?"


"Yeah."


"So, why are we heading somewhere that's off limits?"


"So we can fly."


"Fly?" I asked nervously.


The girls in the back seat were very quiet.


"Don't you remember I told you about how the flight line is much higher in elevation than this road - and it's like going up a ramp as you reach the runway?"


"Well, sorta'."


"Well, I think if we go fast enough, I can launch Mustang in the air."


"Hmm, I don't know..."


"What about you girls, do you want to fly?"


I was taken by surprise, the girls all responded positively. I had expected (or hoped) that they would have talked Steve out of his crazy idea!


Steve suddenly pressed the accelerator to the floor. The Mustang's engine kicked in full and we were all thrown back in our seats. I could see the road raise slowly toward the runway. In a matter of seconds we were truly airborne. What seemed like minutes was probably a whole 2 or 3 seconds but no matter, we were gracefully in the air.


There was nothing about our landing that was graceful though.


Steve hadn't give much consideration to the extra weight of the three girls in the back seat. He had also forgotten about the 4 bowling balls in the trunk!


When we hit the ground, the air shocks in the back of Steve's car immediately blew out. When we came to a stop, the back of the Mustang was laying right on top of the back tires. Whenever Steve tried to drive the car forward it made a horrible noise and we could only imagine all of the rubber being scrapped off of the tires.


So there we were, five teenagers sitting in a busted car, on a military runway which was totally off limits. I was starting to get just a little worried. Steve just looked over and smiled at me like the "Chesser Cat".


"What?" I asked.


"I know what to do."


"Yeah, walk somewhere, borrow a telephone, and call base security."


"No way. I'm not having them call my dad - again!"


And you know. We did make it off the base that night without getting into any trouble. It was a miracle - but we did it.


Can you imagine the looks on the faces of the drivers of the few cars we encountered as we left the base that night and headed for Steve's house and my car. What they saw was Steve and I sitting on the front part of the hood of the Mustang and holding on for dear life. The three girls were sitting in the two front bucket seats with the blowling balls piled on the front passenger floor. By shifting all that weight toward the front of the car, we were able to lift the back of the car up just enough so as to not drag on the tires.


Fortunately for us, cellular telephones didn't exist back then and so nobody was able to call the police on us. Since Steve only lived a few miles from the base, we were able to get to his house quickly before being detected by law enforcement.


I have no idea what Steve told his dad about the car and the damage inflicted on it. I left him to deal with that issue so that I could take the girls home. Everyone seemed to have had a good time that night - except me. I had been afraid that we'd never see those girls again.

My fears were without merit.

Fast Company...

Fast Company magazine is all about business and technology. It covers breaking news, new trends, and also has articles about people using technology to overcome obstacles.

Every year, the magazine takes submissions from folks who feel that technology has greatly improved their lives. At the end of the submission process, 50 people are chosen as the "Fast 50" for that year.

In 2004, after being prodded to do so by some of my well meaning friends, I finally relinquished and made a half-hearted submission online. Of course, I never expected anything to ever come of it, I mean - there must of been thousands upon thousands of folks from all over the country making submissions at the same time right?

Needless to say, I didn't make it into the top 50 that year.

But I did make it as a runner up. That put me into the top 100 of all the other submissions that year. I was terrifically and pleasantly surprised. You can click here to visit the Fast 50 Web page that contains my submission.

Life Circling...

Have you visited Classmates.com recently?

They have added much more than just the ability to locate past classmates from high school. Now one can locate former college buddies, military members, and former co-workers. A while back, while typing in the information on my former U.S. Coast Guard duty stations, I was presented with a listing of names of individuals who were stationed at the Alameda (California) Recruit Training Center – otherwise known as “boot camp”- during the late 1970's.

One of the names that appeared on that list seemed to just jump right off of the page. The name was Terry Dowdy, he had been my Company Commander during the nine weeks I spent at Alameda. Being a Company Commander meant that Terry was in charge of all of the drill instructors in my company. He was the big cheese, when he walked into any area that we troops just happened to be located in – we all had to drop down and do 50 push-ups. I reckon’ we must have done about 500 of them suckers every day.

Terry was unlike most of the “D.I.s” under him though – he was quiet and calm, the instructors, well – let’s just say, they were like walking activated fire alarms - noisy, abrasive, and unrelenting. When I arrived at boot camp, I was involuntarily separated from my original company of recruits and placed into “Oscar” company. “Oscar” company was the official drill team, members marched in formation, and performed intricate routines with massively heavy rifles (M-1s from World War II) – and, they had big sharp bayonets on the end of them.

I had absolutely no desire whatsoever to be on the drill team, I wasn’t happy. My goal for boot camp, was to keep a low profile, not volunteer for anything, and to just survive. Because I was so unhappy about my assignment, I got up the nerve to approach Chief Dowdy – I couldn't believe it, he was actually approachable. He listened to my opinions, and without yelling and screaming at me, or demeaning me – he made me an offer. “You participate in the first gig, and if you don’t like it – you can go back to your original company, and you won’t be harassed about it”.

I thought that was a very fair offer.

Needless to say, the first performance was inside San Francisco City Hall, the taps on our shoes sounded awesome on those marble floors, and we impressed the heck out of the visiting Prime Minister of India, all the while having our performance broadcast on live television. Needless to say, I remained with “Oscar” company. We performed 21 times in my nine weeks of boot camp, winning first place in 19 of those competitions.

We traveled all up and down the west coast, performed in the Kingdome before a Seattle Mariners baseball came, performed in front of 50,000 people at Sea Fair in downtown Seattle, and got to perform on the streets of Vancouver British Columbia.

Most folks, when they think back to boot camp, have relatively bad memories of it. Me – it was one of the most exciting times in my entire life, and I have Terry Dowdy to thank for that. Occasionally, we have folks that come into our lives for just very brief periods of time, and then they are gone. Most of us, never consider the possibility of ever being able to articulate to them, our sincere appreciation.

Well, I succeeded in doing just that awhile back. I located Terry using Google, called him up, and expressed my thoughts to him. He’s now living in Fairbanks, Alaska – which is quite a coincidence, considering that is where my family and I lived when I was a child.

Sometimes life actually does come full-circle, we just have to notice it when it happens.

Chasing Wyatt Earp....

Yep, that's right. I attempted to chase down Wyatt Earp so that I could get his autograph but I failed at my mission. No, I did not attempt time travel nor am I certifiably insane.

Have I got your curiosity peaked yet?

Actually, what I had attempted to do was to meet the actor Kevin Costner. I just so happened to be living in Santa Fe, New Mexico back in the early 1990's when "Wyatt Earp" was being filmed. A lot of the film's interior scenes were shot on the sound stage at the College of Santa Fe where I just so happened to be a student.

Much to my envy, a friend and fellow student had been temporarily hired to work in the prop department for the film. He had been lucky enough on numerous occasions fortunate enough to get to speak with Mr. Costner. So after quite a bit of pestering, I finally convinced Kareem to try and get me into the area of the sound stage whenever he thought the actor might be there.

I'll have to give it to Kareem, he did his college (pun intended) best to make things happen for me. Unfortunately, it just never panned out. I did get to walk around on the set a few times and "play" with some of the props.

Still not quite like meeting Wyatt Earp - I mean Kevin Costner though.

Challenger Encounters...

January 28, 1986

I will never forget that date nor forget where I was and what I was doing at the exact moment the Shuttle Challenger exploded in mid-air.

I was in the U.S. Coast Guard on temporary assignment to an Air Station in Puerto Rico. That particular day I just happen to be on duty in the radio room. I was busy maintaining communications with several Coast Guard aircraft that were airborne that day. I remember a clearly a very young enlisted member beating on the radio room door. As I opened the door he began yelling for me to turn on the television because the Shuttle had just blown up.

I had encountered this particular young man before and I had assumed he was trying to play a joke on me until I saw the look in his eyes. I quickly walked over to the television and turned it on and much to my shock, there was the now famous footage of Challenger exploding. My stomach began to quickly get nauseous. I just couldn't believe what I was seeing.

The network kept playing the footage over and over. Every time it repeated I found myself hoping, wishing, that somehow I'd see the Challenger rising up out of the clouds and vapor and progress onward toward outer space but alas it never happened.

A few minutes later I was given an order to advise our airborne flight crews of the event and to recall our aircraft back to the base.

The mood was very somber that afternoon.

My brother Tony, who was also on active duty in the Coast Guard at the time had the unpleasant duty of participating in the recovery operations of the shuttle debris, it was a lengthy endeavor.

My "connection" to Shuttle Challenger was established way before it ever exploded. Just two years prior, my son Christopher and I were able to be within a very close proximity of the spaceship. Each time the Shuttle returned from space it would land out west somewhere and it would be piggybacked on top of a 747 jet and transported back to Cape Canaveral on the Atlantic side of Florida.

It just so happens that my family and I were staying with relatives right outside the gates of Eglin Air Force Base in northwest Florida when the 747 carrying the Challenger arrived for a brief pit stop. My father-in-law at the time was a photographer for the military and had easy access to the flight line on the base so that he could take some pictures. He graciously invited Chris and I to join him. I think I was just as excited as my little boy was that day!

I can remember watching in awe as the 747 made its approach to the runway and began to descend. It just didn't seem natural for a humongous aircraft like the Challenger to be sitting ON TOP of a 747 Jumbo Jet. I can remember thinking that the combination of the two aircraft looked like a big lumbering elephant to me.

I pretty much think everyone was a little nervous as the 747 landed heavily on the runway and I can tell you I think most folks there that day let out a deep sigh of relief as it finally came to a stop.