Day 23 "The Last Ride" 02-23-2021 I do not recall the reasons for joining my brother, Ron, in cleaning out a house of someone he knew, in Turlock, California, but as often the case, it turned into a memorable adventure. My first lesson of the day was to discover turkey farms do not smell like Thanksgiving dinner. We were out in the flat lands of California. Part of the agricultural meccas of the state. It was an old house that included a couple of old out buildings, and they were full of stuff. I assume Ron, had not included me because he needed some quality time with his annoying little sibling, but rather a desire for cheap or free labor. He warned me as we were moving a rather hefty old organ, that if it started slipping in any way, to "just let go of it and get out of the way!". No arguments from me. The organ made it safely into the truck. After moving stuff for a couple of hours, we decided to take a break and I went off to explore the out buildings. The first thing I found was a Sunbeam Tiger. I didn't know much about cars yet, except I recognized what I thought was cool. I began dreaming about the people who own the car wanting to get rid of it and it becoming my first automobile, when I would begin to drive in a couple years. As many dreams go, it didn't materialize. There was a bunch of cool stuff to be found, as I poked around the dusty piles. Out of the corner of my eye it appeared. Was it a motorcycle? No, not quite. It was a moped, but not the European scooter style. It was more like a cross between a small motorcycle and a bicycle. I had it outside the building in a flash and was asking my brother about it. He explained that it was a moped that you started by peddling it like a bicycle and once it was running, you just drove it like a motorcycle. "Can I try it?", I begged. Ron, not wanting me to be disappointed, pointed out that the bike had been sitting for some time in that building and the possibility of it running was non-existent, but if I wanted to waste my time, go ahead. For the next few moments, I peddled that thing for all I was worth. A split-second before I was about to give up, the little motor came to life and before my brother could stop me, I was down the country road in front of the house, unlicensed and wearing the biggest smile of my life, up until that point. I whipped a u-turn and headed back toward the house, waving at Ron, who was now yelling something I couldn't make out. A few more times up and back and I returned to the house, where Ron anxiously waited and exclaimed, "Let me try it!". No sooner had I relinquished the handle bars to him, the engine sputtered to a halt. It was at least twice as long as I had peddled to get it started the first time, before Ron finally gave up in frustration. We brought it home with us, and as far as I know, it never ran again.
Day 22 02-16-2021 Art and air. Numerically, both words have 3 letters. Both words start with "A" and have an "r" in common. For me, both words describe what is desperately required in my life in regular doses! My physical self needs to breathe air to exist for more than a few fleeting seconds on this planet, and my soul needs to create art to carry on in this life and beyond. It seems ironic that the struggle for air was a major factor in the development of my art. For most people, breathing is an involuntary process, initiated by a slap on the backside from your mom's caring physician. I started this process that same way, but being forgetful by nature, I struggled to perfect the process. They call it asthma, and mine must have been adorable, because they labeled it acute. My parents were both from the generation of "smoking is cool" and had fallen victim to its addictive nature, until our family doctor informed them that if they continued to smoke, it would most likely void the warranty of their youngest son. Not to brag, but I probably extended their life right there, not that they didn't do their part by immediately giving up a habit deeply entrenched and years strong in their history. I spent the next several years fighting against the nerd/geek stereotype I had become, with my dark rimed glasses and inhaler, reminding me to breath every time that I forgot. I realize now that perhaps I should have embraced this persona, as I have seen the other nerds around me grow up and rule the world. I chose another path, or the path chose me. Art! The oxygen of my soul. Unlike air, I don't require a constant flow to survive. It is better described as the breathing of a whale. Spending time below the surface, doing what has to be done, and eventually coming up for air as needed. For as long as I remember, I have dreamt of doing art for a living. It has occurred to me lately, that maybe what I am dreaming of is becoming a beached whale. All the oxygen I want, but nothing else. It is a delicate balance to take the thing that feeds the life of your soul and exchange it for things that feed your body, without it losing its potency. My art is more than "what I do", it is "who I am", so for now I guess I will just keep swimming.
02-01-2021 My dad always told me that I would out grow some of my childhood preferences, but the only one I can put my finger on at the moment, is I no longer love just plain milk. Every meal, gallon after gallon, and when no one was looking, guzzling direct from the carton standing in front of the open fridge, is now reduced to putting some on my cereal (another thing I still love) in the morning. I still love toys, hot rods, sci fi, comic books, cartoons, and monsters. I clearly remember looking at a Famous Monsters of Filmland Magazine and my dad walked by and stated, "I understand that seems important to you now, but someday when you are older, you won't even care about that stuff". My dad was right about so many things, but this one was a big swing and a miss. Something my dad couldn't see was what was going on my head. While I looked at what most might say appeared gross, I saw a graphic and iconic beauty. I saw an image of Frankenstien's Monster and thought, cool! The Creature from the Black Lagoon was my favorite monster, but the movies didn't live up to the amazing visual image of the Fish Man. When I begin to think back on these classic monster movies, a pattern begins to emerge. The monsters I liked the most were not evil in nature. They were victims of their persona. The monster of Dr. Frankenstien was a misunderstood creation, who never asked to be brought to life and his search for acceptance was met with rejection, fear, and violence. The Creature from the Black Lagoon had his habitat invaded by pesky humans, who didn't take his hints to get lost. The Wolfman was cursed by being bitten and had no control over his nocturnal actions during a full moon. The only classic monster that comes to mind, as being inherently evil is Dracula, and he is in fact my least favorite and the least visually appealing as well. This love of classic monsters developed over time and became an affection and appreciation for many things weird. In response to the squeaky clean image of Disney's Mickey Mouse, custom car builder and artist, Ed Roth, gave us Rat Fink. Bloodshot bulging eyeballs, sharp teeth, dirty, sweaty, surrounded by flies, and a slightly rebellious nature. As the story goes, Roth created the little monster to lift up the plight of the less popular kids in school. The misunderstood and excluded. Those who were more likely to get a job in a service station, than to receive a scholarship to college. So call me weird if you like, but I bet there is something you think is so cool, that I would consider weird. It is cool though, because the word weird has lost most of its negative connotation for me.
01-29-2021 We have all heard the stories of how people who are credited with scientific break through and world changing inventions are often not the originators of such progress. Edison light bulb became excepted as the commercially practical standard and therefore, he is said to have invented it, but it was of course developed from the work of others. In that spirit of those who toil in garages and small corners, tinkering with ideas, I proclaim that I am almost sure, that I invented drifting! Not the form we see today, of cars dancing for scores, but the primordial form. The essence so to speak. It all began with failing my first driver's license road test by one single point! I was so ashamed and disappointed, because up until that moment, I had never wanted anything more than to see my smiling face on that little card, issued by the state of California, giving me the privilege and power to operate an internal combustion metal monster on wheels on every parking lot, road, street, boulevard, highway and freeway imaginable. If I had passed that first test, I likely would have been a model citizen driver, but something inside of me was unleashed by the denial of my prize. Some have referred to it as a speed demon, while other, less spiritual folks, declared it lead foot. Could it have been the influence of my older brother, the hot rod models, the car magazines, and steady exposure to the 1960's horse power battles between the auto industry companies that warped my sensible young driver brain into a creature that exist only to go fast and faster? By this point in history, we had fallen into a fast car dark age. Gas lines and warnings of running out of oil had morphed once proud gleaming machines, into wimpy, small, shallow shadows of themselves. On top of that, my dad, a lifetime, professional mechanic, wanted me to have nothing to do with any car that sported mag wheels or big engines. He didn't want to spend his time off from working on trucks and cars, working on trucks or cars. I have grown to appreciate his dilemma, but at the time, everything I wanted in a car was everything he didn't want me to have. The family Ford LTD bore the brunt of my disappointment. I soon discovered that although I couldn't make the tires spin form a standing start straight ahead, I could make that thing burn rubber by turning a corner at full acceleration. My uncle who was the pastor of the church next door to my high school parking lot had sold my dad the LTD and reported to me, with some admiration, the fishtail he had witnessed me preforming one day as he was out doing yard work. He never told my dad, as I discovered later, he was also a lead foot! Time passed, but my speed demon was very much alive. The details escape me, as to why I was driving my best friend Art's family station wagon. The car contained an assortment of my friends, who up until this day, often encouraged my driving style. We were several streets away from the next left hand turn we needed to make, and it was pointed out that the light there was still green. Someone other than Art shouted, "You can make it if you step on it!" Pedal to the metal, eyes focused on the light, I would not be denied! No one will ever convince me that you can flip a station wagon, because if it was possible, this station wagon would have flipped...several times. I am sure all kinds of traffic laws were shattered by this one incident, but the light was yellow going into the slide and to my surprise, every hubcap remained intact for the entire stunt. Not that it stopped me, but my friends were less enthusiastic following this journey into sideways, in egging me on. I admit, I have never used the term, "drifting" in reference to this story, but you can see where it technically fits!
01-27-2021 I inherited a number of things after my brother's untimely death. His guitar was one of those treasures, but it remained in its case for some time. I had always toyed with the idea of playing guitar, but it never went beyond the ten to twenty minute periodic fumbling of a frustrated ex-piano player. Ironically, it would be the guitar that brought me back to the piano a few years later. Long before that, the beautiful acoustic had laid peacefully in its velvet lined casket. One day, some small spark of inspiration in my brain of a divine nature revealed an important connection to me. My mom was the piano player for our small church, despite being completely self-taught. She had even gone so far as to type by hand, the church's chorus books, so everyone could follow along and sing during Sunday services. Her copy of this chorus book had small notations above the lyrics. One day it finally dawned on me that these were the chords for the song. Most often, chords are made up of three keys on the piano, providing the human voice enough information to carry the melody of the song. I now understand that this is very rudimentary to musical theory, but to me it was a startling revelation. If I could just learn to play a few chords well enough, many songs could be had! The movie, The Buddy Holly Story, had recently inspired an appreciation for the simplicity of early rock and roll in me, so I went about learning the chord progressions of his song, Peggy Sue. Beginning by strumming one chord at a time, while singing the corresponding lyrics. Practicing the next chord over and over, until I could find the correct strings without looking. Soon I was going through the entire song and hand writing the lyrics and chords down in a small notebook. It was slow at first, with large pauses in between chord changes, as my fingers fumbled in to place. The passionate desire to learn the song, transformed the tedious nature of this pursuit into motivational energy to overcome the next obstacle standing between me and my goal. Within a few days, my little notebook was starting to fill up with song lyrics and chords. If I still owned that guitar, I would gladly pay to have the broken bridge repaired, but I had ignorantly sold it at a garage sale for a price so low, a friend of the buyer came to the house to see if I had owned anymore guitars I wanted to sell, explaining that the one I sold his friend was worth a lot and could easily be repaired. It is a small comfort that I still possess the notebook, not worth much to anyone but me. I have owned a few guitars since then, and still own two. One was a gift from a dear friend. A twelve string, that when played clean, sounds incredible. The other was a cheap purchase to allow me to use it without concern of damage and sounds, just ok. It has become a display piece of sorts. Adorned with stickers I have acquired over the years. Every time I place a new sticker on it, I take a few moments and play. The driving force to regularly practice and improve is buried under the ruble of adulthood. A glowing ember waiting to be ignited by the possibility of being involved in a musical venture. Anyone want to start a band?
01-26-2021 The Dark Ages, otherwise known as Junior High, was looming on the horizon and students were ask for the first time to have multiple teachers and classes during each day. When picking your schedule, there were classes called electives. Often considered the fun classes, you didn't want to waste that choice on something you couldn't get excited about. For me that meant I would be retiring early from my school band career. I believe it was a mixture of the structure of an organized band and my lack of control over being able to quit piano lessons that fueled this decision. Partial freedom was better than nothing, I convinced myself. I was now, a free agent drummer! Hours and hours spent in my studio (bedroom) practicing to my favorite rock music blaring in my headphones. This introvert was becoming even more reclusive, but in an unusual casual conversation, some kid I didn't really know, asked if I would be interested in playing percussion for his garage band. Visions of Ringo Starr flashed through my head. This was the big break I didn't even realize I was waiting for. The garage was actually a small room, and they already had a drum kit, which was set up between the two stadium sized amplifier speakers. I recall only one song, which was Jumpin' Jack Flash by the Stones, but we played many more with enthusiasm. It has been said, "If you can't play good, play loud" and we did. The candle of my fame burned hot and quick! That was my one and my only practice, not because I didn't play well, or that it wasn't fun, but the ringing in my ears didn't stop for three days. I was content to practice by myself, with my headphones set at a reasonable level, in my studio (bedroom). Complete freedom came entering high school, as my mom finally relented and allowed me to drop my piano lessons. Ironically, I was so bored and unmotivated with classes in high school, my senior year I chose piano as one of my electives. It was one of the rare times that I had any advantage over other schoolmates in a class. Most of them were beginners, but I had survived a recent four years of piano combat training in private lessons! Rick, my friend, like a brother, also took the class. He was a beginner, but did very well actually. All I had to do was practice one piece for the end of the term recital. The easiest A that I ever got besides PE and Art class. Rick and I had determined that the teacher, Mr. K, was involved in extra-curricular pain killing inhalations. We adored his fuzzy approach to class discipline and general mellow demeanor. Our admiration grew so much for him over time, that we decided he deserved a grand send off as we prepared for gradation. He was alone in the class room as Rick and I approached with the gifts we had prepared for him. He was so moved by what he saw, that he backed himself into one of the large closets and pleaded with us humbly, that he was not worthy of receiving this honor. The two giant water balloons splashed down simultaneously upon his head and chest. A resounding crescendo in the final measure of our high school opus!
01-22-2021 It seems so easy to remember that first drum kit coming into my life, but I don't recall how it departed. It was definitely a beginner's set and I was no longer a beginner. All evidence pointed to the fact that I had progressed. My Dr. Jeckle/Mr. Hyde music teacher saw so much potential in me, he pulled my aside one day and asked why I hadn't signed up for band camp yet. I explained my family couldn't afford it, although that probably wasn't entirely true. He then offered to sponsor me and I got excited by his enthusiasm, only to chicken out of going, even after receiving the required updated vaccines to attend. I still loved being a drummer, but the school band was losing its luster, not that it ever had much. Sometime later, my mom asked me if I wanted to begin taking private piano lessons. It was her childhood dream, which I suppose she wanted to pass on to me. I thought it would be fun to expand my musical base, so I agreed. Mom was always about quality and excellence despite our middle class lifestyle, so I was enrolled with one of the highest ranked piano teachers in the state of California. She was a cross between General Patton and the Legendary Nuns of Catholic Schools! Of course, she built up to that, not wanting to frighten her young prodigies away. She made learning music seem like learning math, and although I was adequate at math in those days, it wasn't fun. The first time she rapped my knuckles for dropping my wrist down while playing, was the beginning of the end for me. I was sick to my stomach every time lesson day rolled around, and I won't even talk about recitals. I wanted out, but my mom insisted I continue. The best cartoon I ever drew, according to my dad, was one of me taking an axe to a piano. This went on for 4 years. Somewhere along this journey, my first set of drums disappeared and I desired to replace them with a more "professional" kit. My mom, never one to let lack of finances get in the way, had discovered my brother's friend had a set for sale. Mom owned a mink stole that she had spent a lot of time and effort saving up for. She was able to sell it for $200, the price of the Pearl drum kit that would live in my room until I left for college and in my heart forever.
01-21-2021 With the exception of my dad, we were a musical family. My dad could sing well and loved to participate in music, but I never saw him pick up any instrument and play. My mom had always wanted to play the piano, but growing up in a lower economic family with 6 sisters eliminated the possibility of private lessons, so she taught herself to play. She also did the same thing with the accordion, harpsichord and the guitar (pronounced "gee-tar" because of her Arkansas heritage). My brother played saxophone in the school band and along the way, picked up the guitar as well. Fresh from early elementary Tonette mastery, my class was asked to think about what instrument they wanted to play in the school band the following year. This was one of the easiest life decisions I have ever had to make. I want to be in the percussion section! Drums are the one instrument that doesn't just blend into the music of the band. They are the closest thing to rock and roll available in the school band and that settled it for me. After all, I was the one who did the Little Drummer Boy solo every year for the church Christmas program! Later, as I grew into a bigger boy, my mom would have to bribe me to do it, along with my permanent role as one of the Three Kings. At least as the little drummer boy, I could have my trusty snare drum to stand behind. So what seemed like forever, I practiced my paradiddles faithfully on a chunk of hardwood with a leather pad attached to it. During band class, I could actually beat an authentic drum, but you rotated between a big bass drum, cymbals, triangle, snare drum, and a variety of other noise-makers. Our band even had a gong. During one of our concerts, a fellow drummer was given the honor of striking the gong at the crescendo of a song. Exactly on cue, he swung and hit the gong directly in the center. After the gong came crashing to the floor, so did the entire percussion section, as we laughed uncontrollably for the next several moments. The audience awkwardly began to applaud, until my high-strung, red-faced music teacher shouted for them to stop! He went on to instruct the congregation that we did not deserve any applause or encouragement for the musical disaster that had just taken place. I really wanted to share with him within that moment, that accidents happen and sometimes they are hilarious, but the radiation of his anger would not allow me to get any closer to the conductor's stand. My parents would play a game with my brother and me every Christmas and birthday. They would ask us, what we wanted as gifts and we would always have an answer, that we assumed was beyond our budget and any reasonable request. That year for Christmas, I wanted a drum kit. A floor base, a snare, a tom tom, a high hat cymbal, and a crash cymbal. The rudimentary rock/jazz setup. My mom told me not to be disappointed if I didn't get that. She always got my to buy that line. I never expected to get the thing I really wanted, even though I did almost every year. My brother and I were sent on a random errand or something designed to get us out of the house on Christmas Eve. There is an old photo hiding in a box somewhere, of me returning from said errand to find my drum kit sitting in the living room. My brother didn't make it into the photo, but his guitar amplifier, as tall as me was sitting there too! My facial expression proved once again, my mom had fooled me.
01-20-2021 People who live in other places besides the Pacific Northwest sometimes ask me how can I stand living in such a rainy location? I have sometimes wondered that myself, but today a comparison occurred to me. Nice weather is like happiness. It isn't within your control. Circumstances determine temperatures and pressure. Patterns and currents flow and change things, sometimes over seasons and sometimes in seconds. You wake up tomorrow and the sun is bright and beautiful and the next day you wonder if it even exists behind the gray blanket in the sky. Weather, like many things in our life, should not determine our joy. You can have circumstances that melt away your happiness, but joy is a gift, like a seed that has been planted in you to grow and develop, despite all the negative winds that blow into your life. Your responses to things out of your control are what feed the seed! My dad taught me to learn to be content with where I am and what is happening if there was no way in my power to change those things. This is by no means a new idea, but a reminder is always helpful. So the joy plant is rigorous and strong. Nothing can defeat it except neglect. I feel awkward using plant metaphors, as my thumb is registered as a lethal weapon in the garden, but it seems to me that joy is the roots, trunk, and branches of the plant, so perhaps happiness is the flowers, that bloom only when the right conditions are present. I love sunny days, and where I live we don't take them for granted, but I recall a trip with my surfing partner Jon. We set out for the coast on a partly cloudy day and by the time we arrived the clouds had disappeared, however the day was halfway over and we decided to spend the remainder sight-seeing and would look forward to trying to surf the next day. We woke up to sideways rain and 40-50 mph winds. We pretty much had the beach to ourselves. Jon and I are by no means expert level surfers. Our greatest accomplishments include me standing up on my board for maybe 3 seconds and Jon getting caught in a riptide for almost twenty minutes until he was finally pushed to shore by a "Hand of God" wave. On this trip however, we accomplished absolutely nothing except to have a blast as always. There are people riding Pipeline on the North Shore that don't have as much fun as we do. So I do my best never to complain about the weather here, but my record is not without blemish. So change your shoes, change your tires, change your pants, change your oil, change your water filter, change your hair color, change the channel, change your mind, but when something is beyond your ability to change, give it to someone who can change anything. When you do this, you get joy in exchange!
01-18-2021 On my way into work that morning, I noticed the water from the corner downspout of the building where I worked had frozen, creating a small ice rink near my old truck's front passenger tire. I smiled, knowing I probably just avoided a gravitational catastrophe. It was toasty warm inside and it would be my fortress from the cold for the next eight hours. My primary job was to take a customer's concept and/or rough sketch and transform that into screen print ready t-shirt art. This means for several hours a day, my focus was on a computer monitor, creating detailed artwork. By the end of the day, my eyes were tired and my brain was a bit fuzzy. Home sounded so good, that the fact it wasn't much warmer outside now as when I arrived that morning was completely erased form my mind. My arms were full of art projects, my lunchbox, and various other things that all ended up under the truck after my prat fall that any clown would be proud of. I laid motionless for a quick inventory of system damages. As the traffic passed, I considered how many people were entertained by what they had witnessed? Before I got back to my feet, it would be necessary to retrieve my belongings from underneath my vehicle, as experience had already taught me that once you are down on the ground, you might as well take care of any business you find to accomplish while you're down there. One step after having risen, I was down again. This time I reflected on the level of stupidity it takes to slip in the same exact location twice in a matter of seconds. I had reached back a level of human adaptation. Instead of "Hunter/Gatherer" it was "Fallen/Gatherer". So the third time I slipped and fell, I made the executive decision that laying here flat on my back would now be my permanent state of existence. The icy ground was not only the cause of my pain, it was now acting as my relief for my wounded back. After a while the sun began to flirt with the horizon, so I considered giving the vertical life one more try. The ice age may have killed off all the dinosaurs, but this primate has learned to avoid the slippery killer!
01-17-2021 When you tell people you grew up in California, body surfing, they automatically visualize a sunny Southern California beach and warm ocean currents. The conversation always ends up in an explanation of how it was Half Moon Bay in Northern California and the water was the same temperature as the coast in Washington State, where I now reside. My friends and I had a favorite spot named Bean Hollow, which we soon translated to Empty Frijole. The Bean was not only empty, it was cold. I am very experienced in cold. I have stood in a snow melt fed river in Eastern Washington and baptized members of my family. While traveling to Philadelphia in winter to visit a friend, I jumped off the early morning train to his home at the wrong stop and had to stand outside waiting for the next train to arrive to continue my journey to warmth. When you are cold, it is uncomfortable. When you are extremely cold, it hurts. I have also realized air temperatures and fluid temperatures are not even close cousins. Spending and hour in 49 degrees outside might require a jacket. Spending an hour in 49 degree water might require resuscitation! The word crazy gets thrown around when it comes to my lifetime friends from high school and sometimes it is probably accurate. The nice thing about being crazy is the exclusivity it brings. We were always the only people beyond the point of dipping your feet in the water. Full immersion in life and in the ocean was our style. Shouts of "Cowabunga" rang throughout the sun soaked beach as we forged the incoming surf, demanding the ocean to release larger waves for our pleasure. Coldness was replaced by warm hearts within numbed young bodies. After a while, we would stumble out onto the sand and flop down upon our waiting beach towels, allowing the sun to transform our purple/blue skin back to a normal tone. This indicated it was time to do it all over again and again until exhaustion set in. If you were to ask me to do this today, I would...with my wet suit on!
01-14-2021 A ten speed Schwinn Varsity in a dark metallic green was my holy grail of bicycles. This seemed to be the reality for many young people my age, as my father searched store to store, phone call to phone call. Tracking down leads like a seasoned detective solving a homicide. I was the baby of the family and I had endured many health issues up until this point, so that if my mom and dad knew that I really wanted something, they would move heaven and earth to find it for me. I was spoiled and part of me knew it, but the other part of me just wanted that green Schwinn. My father had located a metallic brown one and I almost relented, but the green one called to me, like the ancient sirens of mythology sang the irresistible invitation to draw sailors to their death. The ten speed bikes back then, resembled the modern day racing bikes visually, but that is the only similarity. Technological progress often results in something becoming lighter and more efficient. If I compare my old road bike to a newer road bike, and then look at the trajectory of that weight loss over the next several years, I conclude that soon your bike will float above the surface of the planet. My Schwinn was heavy, which is why I still own it and with a few minor adjustments, it could be road worthy. Of course I involuntarily put this strength to the test on occasion. Most notable was the day I spent riding with my friend Eric. I don't recall where we went, but it was getting close to calling it a day. We had returned to where Eric lived and continued to ride around out in front of his house. In cartoons you see a small devil and a small angel standing on a character's shoulders whispering into his or her ears. A less theological version would be the "Hold my Beer" voice versus the "That's just Stupid" voice. After they argue back and forth for a while until I am convinced that it is a good idea to try riding my beloved bike while steering with my feet. After all, I had mastered the "riding down the street with no hands" move without much damage. This should be easy! It was for about 30 seconds. May I take a moment to point out that potentially landing on asphalt is preferable to landing on your bike, if given the choice. I was denied that choice and discovered after finally rising from my ashes, my rear tire would have chosen a different outcome as well. The rim was now a figure eight. "I crushed it" had a different connotation back then, as well as "bike helmet" which in those days, might as well been called "unicorn". Fortunately, my head only landed on the preferred asphalt. Pain is difficult to deal with, but self-inflicted pain is often deserved. When God created young people, He made them strong, flexible, and fast healing, because He knew their brains would take a while to develop. Also, gravity is the enemy of the unwise!
01-13-2021 It looked like the dragsters and hot rods of my time. The rear end was jacked-up in the air and the front was low. Big beefy tire and small tire set up to match the stance. 5 Speed manual, yellow gold to red fade paint job and I fell in love the moment I laid eyes on it. No, it wasn't my first car, it was my first cool bike. Sold by Sears, there were a series of bikes that were radically different from anything else available at the time. They are a highly desired collectable these days. I was hoping to find a photo with me on my new bike on Christmas day and include it here. If I run across it, perhaps I will add it later. Now it is summer, and I am with a friend riding our bikes around my hometown of Hayward, California. We were about 2 or 3 miles away from my house and turned right onto a street that was a long, somewhat steep downward grade, that had been recently constructed to go below the local transit tracks. Going fast has always been a vice of mine. From bikes, skateboards, skis, and automobiles. There is something joyfully exhilarating about speed for me. Therefore, I wasn't satisfied allowing gravity alone to determine my velocity down this hill. I pedaled until my legs couldn't keep up. I was flying! Up until that day, probably the fastest I had ever gone on my bike. Remember that small front tire? At the peak of my descent, there was a slight wobble. The wobble grew, it seemed, with every rotation of the tiny tire. In other words, in a split-second, I lost total control of the bike and was down on the asphalt. My friend helped me up, and I was surprisingly in one piece. We decided to go back home and I was able to ride my bike, although I noticed my arm just below my elbow felt quite cold, despite the warmth of the day. I stopped my bike to look at my arm. Some people call it road rash. It appeared that someone had taken a potato peeler and removed a couple layers of my skin, but I did not feel any pain. Another trip to the emergency room and I still had no pain, right up to the moment the doctor took a large rectangle gauze smothered with what looked like dark yellow mustard and gently placed it on my arm. Prior to my screams, I remember the doctor explaining that this dressing is less painful than other things that they formerly used on large open wounds. I decided I was glad I missed the former processes.
01-12-2021 My domain existed between my front yard, back yard, the stores behind our house, the park in the middle of our block, and the Safeway store across Sorenson Road. This, of course, all changed when my first bike appeared from the heavens above, and the angels sang freedom's song! My first bike seemed so cool, but I realized as proceeding bikes rolled in to my life, it was not so cool. It was similar to bikes you might see for rent today at the beach. Large soft tires, adult sized, stock handle bars, and built to endure a thermonuclear blast. Reliability and comfort would be the taglines advertising this type of bike. No gear shifting and braking was executed by pushing back on the pedals. This was pre-exposure to stingray bikes, banana seats, sissy bars, and ape hanger handlebars. I was just a kid who didn't know any better, so I proceeded to attempt to master riding this monstrosity! Weeks passed and I was feeling very confident in my abilities, despite my legs barely able to reach the pedals on the down stroke. I set out on my adventure around the block. It was a glorious day with the sun shining brightly and the cool breeze flowing over my face. There suddenly seemed no limits to life, I was going places and seeing things, all under my power. The world rejoiced with me. The birds were singing and I noticed one bird in particular, sitting on a telephone wire chirping away. Did you know that a bike tire can fit between the boards of a common picket fence? My first lesson in structural engineering occurred because I was distracted by a bird. Now the lady who owned the fence was coming out to teach me another lesson! It took both of us pulling to free my bike from its prison, and she was actually kind about the whole thing. Sometime later, I got my next lesson in E=mc2, when an object in motion (me on my bike) meets and immovable object (station wagon that pulled out from around the corner, while I looked back to say something to my friend). The man was also kind and was more concerned that I was ok than about his car. My last lesson (on this bike) was related to gravity, speed, mass, and pivot points. We had decided to go explore what would some years later, be the high school I would attend. Behind the school are drops of elevation, leading to the football field. These drops are connected top to bottom by hills of plant life and dirt. They vary in size, depending on the surrounding landscape, between 10 and 20 feet and the grade is fairly steep. There were various trails where people would walk down and my friend and I decided to ride our bike down one that was about 15 feet in length. My friend went first, on his kid sized bike and easily traversed the hill. I almost made it, but near the bottom, my front tire hit a bump and standing on my pedals presented a top-heavy situation that allowed me to flip safely over the tank like construction on my vehicle and land yards away from where my bike ended up. If I knew what it was, I may have considered a career as a stuntman in the movies, but as future adventures will demonstrate, I was destined to do my stunts pro bono!
01-11-2021 I understood to write a book centered upon the years of my high school experiences, I would probably need to have my yearbooks to refer to. I also understand that I am a gifted pack rat who has managed to fill every nook and cranny of the spaces I call mine with things from my past, present, and sad to say no room for the future. I had absolutely no clue to where these books ended up. A great upheaval had recently taken place, as I moved, re-organized, consolidated, disposed of, and stored most of my worldly possessions to make room for my vw bug project to fit into our tiny one car garage. For that car project, I also needed a airbrush my brother had given me over 40 years ago, that I had never used. Now there were actually two needles in the haystack. That should make it easier, right? It might not be impossible, but it did seem hopeless to accomplish within a responsible time frame. Yesterday, a miracle occurred. In the span of a couple of hours, I was not only looking through my high school year books, but my airbrush was sitting in my studio. I would love to take credit for this. That somehow I recalled exactly what box, in what closet, in what room these items were packed away or that I am so organized as to have recorded for future reference how to locate them. The truth is that I prayed. Did you know that God cares about what you care about? Did you also know that if you are submitted to His will and His plan for your life He will direct you? God knows I am not perfect and that I am working my hording issues, along with a lot of other shortcomings, but He looked past all that, and like any good father, saw His kid needed help. I went into my garage after moving the bug, thinking, "this is just a waste of time". Way back in the corner, on some metal shelves were various boxes. I knew that I had only put boxes of unimportant stuff back there, but began checking them anyway. Buried behind many of these boxes was a single, medium- sized box with the word "books" written on it. Not only did it contain my high school yearbooks, but my junior high yearbooks, and several other school memorabilia that will assist me in writing my book. After spending a little time looking through these personal treasures, I proceeded to the upstairs bedroom, that now doubles for my wife, Sandra's home office and started unpacking the closet. It never ceases to amaze me how many things that I can stuff into a small rectangular space. I am convinced that one of my superpowers is real life Tetris. Ten minutes later, I took the lid off a plastic bin containing my airbrush and a bunch of other stuff I hope to remember the location of when I need to someday.
01-10-2021 Somehow, I had convinced my mom to let me go to my team's next game, dressed in my uniform, a few days after being told I wasn't allowed to play and I honestly had no intention of playing. The sun was shining and the tingle of baseball was in the air. My coach understood that I was on injured reserve and tasked me to warm up the pitcher between innings and keep track of the batting order and the equipment. We only had nine players besides me and one of them had to leave early during the late innings of the game. "Are you sure you can't play?" the coach asked me. I was told not to and struggled with this great moral dilemma for what seemed a long time. How could I let my team down when they needed me? It is only for two innings? "We could put you out in right field and you probably wouldn't have to do anything" spoke the devil in my ear, who had appeared in the form of my coach! My only thought was, "I just have to make sure not to get my uniform dirty and my mom and dad will never know." My dad worked the swing-shift and for whatever reason my mom wasn't there. My first real little league experience would be something that I would have to keep a secret. My coach was right. Not one ball was ever hit in my direction out in right field. I got to play and I was going to be able to pull this deception off. My uniform was spotless. "Sanders, you're on deck!" It had not occurred to me that I would have to take a turn at bat, but what could happen? I really wasn't concerned, so I went out and took a few practice swings and before I knew what was happening, I was walking up to the plate. The crack of a wooden bat has a very satisfying feeling and remarkable sound. Right field, the sanctuary I felt safe in for two innings was now the location of my first ever official hit in organized baseball. As the ball traveled into the corner and I ran to first base, I could hear that devil's voice again shouting,"Go for two!". A double! My first hit was a double! I was so excited until I brushed the infield dirt from the leg of my baseball pants, revealing the blood from my knee that would almost certainly stain my white uniform and reveal my guilt to my parents. I remember asking my friend's mom not to tell my parents I had played, but I knew it would be futile with the evidence in plain sight. I don't think my mom and dad actually believed my story of how I soiled the knee of my uniform by warming up the pitcher between innings, but they never brought up the subject again. At the end of my two week medical leave from baseball, I was free to play and will forever remember walking up to the posted stats on the backstop to see my name at the top of the batting averages, with the number .1000 printed to the right.
01-08-2021 Most of the kids our age had already started little league. I don't really remember if Jerry was involved, but my mom wouldn't let me try out. She was overly protective, as I dealt with a lot of health issues and she also thought I wouldn't be able to handle a coach yelling at me (she was right). I was a wimp. For a while, Jerry and I continued our baseball relationship outside the organized league. Practice doesn't really make perfect, but muscle memory can make you look reasonably good at something. I don't recall what changed with my mom, but the day finally came when I was allowed to at least try out for a team. My nervous energy was in overdrive. The coaches all stood around scouting us and I sensed they were impressed with me, a kid they had never seen before, but seemed to have some skills. In reality, it was just years,days and hours of Jerry and I having fun together. You would have thought I had signed with the Yankees the first time I put on that uniform. One night during practice, my mom's greatest fear came to pass. My teammate Jose threw a high inside fastball that I mistook for a curve ball and snap! I remember the wind was blowing that night and now my right arm right below the wrist felt the cold of the breeze much greater than the rest of me. I had never had a broken bone before, so having no source of reference, I continued to practice. My coach had me try catching and my first throw back to the pitcher went about 6 feet before rolling to the ground. The remainder of practice was spent rolling the ball back to the pitcher. I didn't want to appear like a whimp! For two weeks I wore a grimace on my face and wondered how long it would take for my arm to feel better. I think my dad felt bad when I collapsed from his handshake. Explosive pain leaves a wrinkle in your brain that remains forever. At the emergency room, I overheard a nurse laughing because the other nurse had instructed me to disrobe completely to get an x-ray of my right arm. There I sat behind the curtain in my hospital smock trying to figure out how I was going to walk while holding the back of it closed. The x-ray showed the outside bone on my right arm was broken cleanly, all the way through. The doctor said that normally after waiting that long they would have to "re-set" the bone, but my arm was healing as if it was already in a cast, so I got a half cast for 2 more weeks and was told I would have to wait two more weeks before playing baseball again.
(To be continued)
01-07-2021 Can you recall a phone number that you memorized years ago? I can. It was the number of the house directly next to mine where I grew up. My friend's name was Jerry and he was a little younger than me. I suppose we were friends by proximity alone to begin with, but we flourished in our young relationship. I will never forget the hours of playing with Tonka toy construction vehicles in the dirt in his backyard. Reenacting scenes from the television shows Combat, Rat Patrol, and of course Batman. Jumping off the fence wearing home-made cardboard wings to see if we could fly. Spending all day building a gravity powered go cart out of scrap lumber, only to destroy it beyond repair on the first run down the hill. As we grew, Jerry started delivering the newspaper and he soon had acquired a large collection of Silver -aged Marvel and DC Comics. We even joined a local comic book club organized by adults. One day, without anyone knowing it, we made plans and got on a bus to Berkeley to attend the Comic Book Convention. Most of our remaining time as friends was centered upon baseball. We would play catch almost everyday. We eventually found ourselves sneaking onto the local catholic high school's baseball field and would pitch to one another, practicing infield and outfield drills and one day figured out how to sneak into the outdoor batting cage. Somehow we figured out how to get the machine working and for the next several hours, we were in baseball heaven. I will never know how we didn't get caught.
(To be continued)
01-06-2021 I had the house to myself. I was not much of a rebel, but I cherished the thought of having no one to tell me what to do or how to behave. I was comfortable with myself, by myself. I do not recall where my parents went that day, but until they returned, I would enjoy my alone time. I was 19 years old and was being held captive in the tension of being ready to strike out on my own and the absolute terror of adult responsibilities! The living room phone rang and I casually walked over to pick it up, hoping it might be a friend wanting to hang out. It was an old friend of my brother. Why would he be calling here, I thought, when he knew my brother no longer lived here? The next few moments were life-changing for me. I would immediately feel the brunt of adulthood landing upon my shoulders. My one and my only brother was gone. His friend was calling because the officials had found my brother's address book in his car and they had called him with the news that brother and his girlfriend and her 12 year old daughter were all drowned in the ocean by a sleeper wave. the reason my brother's address book did not contain our address or phone number, is because the FBI had been searching for him and he had successfully cut all ties that would lead to his location. My brother was a draft-dodger, but had somehow managed to ghost his existence and remain in the country. Now they would never catch him. I hung up the phone in shock. My very first thought was, "I am the person who has to tell my mom and dad that their son is dead!" It seemed like an eternity, but also felt like a single breath between that moment and hearing the car pull up in front of the house.
01-05-2021 I was an extremely shy and awkward adolescent. Although some would find this questionable, I remain an introvert in the deepest levels of my heart. I have overcome the fear of public speech and do find conversation with strangers easier, if not even pleasurable. I may lose my diploma for this disclosure, but I managed to skirt a state requirement to preform three classroom speeches before graduation. Despite this, a transformation began during these years. A dramatic change demonstrated by the fact that my two favorite classes in college were speech and pulpit speech. What were the factors of this change? All glory goes to God of course, but there were tools that He used to preform His work. The fact that I began to grow up and began to have a little more self-confidence played a factor, but as I look back, I can see what was going on behind the scenes with my friends. I believe we all had some feelings of inadequacy as young people. This is a normal aspect of growing up. Together however, there was a strength and an assurance that allowed us to overcome our individual weaknesses. I will speak just for me, the fact that I had this chosen family, friends that I could count on, gave me an ability to take chances and be vocal way beyond my wildest imaginations. I will always be grateful that God found my friends in His toolbox and put them to work on me!
01-04-2021 I have spent the entirety of my life in pursuit of a dream. There are so many books and movies related to following a dream. Dreamers worldwide seek to accomplish and create things that seem to others as impossible to achieve, or even foolish to waste time and effort on. The problem with dreaming is that often it remains a only dream. To become a reality, dreams must be put into action. it requires motivation, passion, experimentation, practice, development, time, resources, and a whole host of other difficult steps to breath life into an idea. So why would an artist suddenly set out on what seems to be an alternate path of becoming a writer? The truth is, all creative processes seem to be linked at the base. Limits are man made. Past failures, both personal and observed, have often deceived the dreamer into giving up the process before it even begins. I believe everyone has a story to tell, and that everyone has multiple methods available to them to tell it. I write this journal (hate the word "blog") to practice writing. I am building a dream. Go build your dream today.
01-02-2021 Stop for a moment and consider who your friends are. Why are they your friends? How did they become your friends? Do you think they would remain your friends if circumstances changed? Your friends have a major influence on who you are. You picked them because there was a connection, but you remain friends based on shared experiences. Over time you tell stories that may or may not be as humorous or as meaningful to people around you. In reality these memories and experiences are our creation. They are all we can really say we own. Every other possession you have could be taken away from you fairly quickly, but no one or nothing on this planet could ever take these treasures of relationship from you. I am not saying your friends can't leave you or you them, but within the realm of that relationship, no outside force can take it away from you. Sometimes we need to step back from all that is happening around us and see the things that truly have eternal value.
01-01-2021 Last New Years Day, I set out on a journey to read 50 books in the year of 2020. For me this was a lofty goal, as I am neither a speedy reader, nor great at comprehension, but a goal is a target to take shot at. We don't always hit the bulls eye (sorry if I offended any bulls out there), but the challenge is to try. I did end up reading several books that I wouldn't have otherwise and that "close but no cigar" event has led me to this year's goal (not a resolution) to finish writing the first rough draft of my book. You heard that right. My book! ... but in reality, it is not just "my book". Your story is your perspective of numerous stories of others, that have crossed your path and have momentarily or forever made an impression on your story. My story is about relationship, which honestly is what every story is about. It is what life is about. It is what everything is about!