Two Physical Altercations'

I've had two physical altercations -- OK, fights -- in my life, and both ended badly. I'm not proud of either, and I don't go around bragging about them, although, technically, I "won" one. Fighting was not my idea, nor my intent in either of them, and any blows I struck were in my defense, only.
In the first "fight," I saw my assailant, very blurried from his blind-sided punch to the back of my head, as I was falling. Phil Zeman, all "blah-blah-blah" about something, in what seemed to be some form of Klingon, right before I blacked-out. I don't know how long I was out, but Phil was gone, and the world had this "tingly" look to it. As it happened on school property, I reported the incident to the Office, who assured me that it "could not have been Phil Zeman..." I left without further discussion.
The second had a lot to do with my association with one Dexter Lee Holmes, out of LA. We were attending a computer operations school in Albany (alBAny), GA, and lived down the hall from each other in the barracks. Dexter had never spent any time out of LA, admitting this was his first time away from a metropolitan city. We'd play pool, get pretty wasted, and end up somewhere where the draconian lighting, on-base, gave us a generous view of the stars on clear nights. "I've never seen this many stars..." That always amazed me.
To say, merely, that Dexter played pool well would insult the man's genius with a cue-stick. He was like a wizard, waving a cue for a wand, making the numbered balls succumb to his will. In my life, I've only seen one better, Ray Tague, but that's a different story, Dexter was really good. We used to play, he'd teach me, and I became a formitable player, as a solo; an even better doubles-partner, which led to all of the trouble later. We used to "own" the tables at the Enlisted Club, and could go there and be the "Champs" of both tables; Dex on one, me on the other, night after night. Every once in a while, someone would bring in a civilian "buddy," or two, and we played some hotly contested matches, winning a little money on the side. I was good, Dex was better, and together... well, as we used to say, "Don't miss."
All of this leads to a night off-base, where both of us learned that racial prejudice was alive and well, and living in southern Georgia. All we wanted to do was shoot some doubles, somewhere, and the club had become boring. In some places, Dex (oh, did I mention Dex is African-American?) wasn't wanted, in others, it was me. We walked a long way, that night, and finally found this roadhouse, where everyone was welcomed. I can't remember the name of the place, nor could I ever find it again, should it ever be necessary, but it had an eclectic selection on the juke box, and pitchers of beer came in a stainless-steel pitcher.
We were goofing around, not betting, not even for drinks. It never got "serious," we each respected the other's game too much for that, and we missed a lot of shots, doing poor impressions of people we'd seen on-base for each other's amusement. I hadn't seen the two "rednecks" come in, I just knew that other people were playing next to us. As we were drinking beer, and playing around, I heard comments coming from the other table about how we were playing. Nothing rude, crude, or socially unacceptable; "Shoulda made that one," and "How'd he miss that?" Stuff like that.
Dex was hearing it too, and intentionally missed a shot he'd normally make nine-out-of-ten times while sleeping. The older guy says to his partner, "Maybe we could teach 'em how to play this game, eh?" Dex calmly laid his cue on the table, and looked at me. I was scratching my chin, and figured, "What the hey..." and gave Dex the "I'm in" look. We had a game. Doubles 8-Ball, no "slop," for a pitcher of beer.
Come to find out, these guys were father-and-son, armed with a lot of luck, but little skill. We played a few games, they bought, we bought, and the older guy says "Let's play for $5 a-head." Both Dexter and I took a jolt on that one. We decided to keep it to $5, and to keep our heads-up to see if we were being hustled. We weren't. If anything, the opposite was true, as we ended up beating them out of $600 each. In the last game, the one for $600, we were down to the 8-Ball, and they still had three or four balls left, it was my turn. We were in the bottom half of the table, the Cue-Ball was near the side pocket, 8-Ball across center, but their ball was blocking the bottom corner pocket, the others limiting my choices in other places.
The shot just appeared to me, drunk as I was, and I called it, "8-Ball, two rails, top-left pocket." I knew it was perfect, the moment I hit it. The 8-Ball hit the two rails, angling across the table directly into the top-left pocket, but it was slowing down quickly, and creeped into the pocket. I had gotten down behind the pocket, to watch the ball roll in, when I stood-up, I was smacked in the face with the business-end of a pool cue, 1/2-inch below my left eye. I went backwards, and over a table, smacking my head on the floor. Again, don't know how long I was out, but when I got up, I had a stainless=steel beer pitcher in my hand, and two jerks were manhandling my friend. I waded in, swinging the pitcher, connecting solidly against the older man's head. I'll never forget the sound, "BONG!" it made, subsequent blows never made the same noise.
When it was over, Dex had the son down, and I was holding a stainless=steel mass that was no longer recognizable as a pitcher. Dad was down, and wouldn't get up until after the cops arrived. I thought to myself, "Well Steve, here you are, in a redneck bar, with a black friend, and the two of us have just beat the crap out of two, probably "regulars," white guys. You are going to jail. You are going to JAIL!" I glanced at Dex, he had entertained similar thoughts, and he smiled weakly. When the Sheriff arrived, Dex says "Here we go, brother." I was thinking of how to explain this to the Navy, and nothing was working.
The Sheriff quickly assessed the situation, and assumed that the two guys still standing started it. The bartender was really great, he saw what the Sheriff was going on, and said "Hold on there, Deputy. I know how this looks, but it ain't them boy's fault. It's all Jake and his son, met a couple of boys they couldn't beat playin' pool."
The reaction of the Deputy to the name gave me a bit of hope. "Hmmph!" the Deputy grunted. "How much this time?" He turned to me, still bleeding from a facial laceration, "How much?"
"Six hundred dollars, Sir."
The Deputy looked at Dexter, who nodded, "Each?"
Dex said, "Yes Sir, each, Sir."
"You husslin' pool, Boy?"
"No Sir, we tried to get them to pay-up at $150, but they doubled, twice."
The Deputy looked at the bartender, "I heard 'em, tried to talk 'em out of it, but Jake wouldn't hear of it." The bartender confirmed.
"You boys military?" The Deputy had noted our haircuts.
"Yes, Sir." We answered simultaneously. "Navy," I added, "at school on the base."
From that point on, we were treated as Victims, who had defended themselves admirably. The father and son were brought around, and told to pony-up $600, each. They complied, at which time the Deputy arrested them for Assault and Battery, and led them off. A cheer sounded, apparantly at justice having been served, and the bartender bought us both a beer. I looked at Dex, and he looked back, then hung his head. "Don't know why we ain't in that cop car, man." To be honest, neither did I. We took a taxi back to the base.
That's it. My two fights. I like to think that fighting doesn't do anything but create hatred, and if one has to resort to it, one's already lost the argument. I know it sounds funny, coming from a retired military guy, I just have problems understanding violence at any level. One of the reasons I chose to persue a degree in English is a belief that words can solve anything, on any scale.

My Spouse, Mary Christine (Gardner) Martin

What can I say about Mary that I haven't already said, many times? After almost 37 years of marriage, I've used about every superlative (and, honestly, a few derogatives) in the English Language. That's how one stays married for 37 years, by thinking and speaking well about each other all (most) of the time. We've known each other for more than 40 years, going back to high school, we even dated for a few months. She was, as I have often avered, my best friend, and has remained so, through it all.
Mary doesn't remember the first time I ever saw her, but I can still recall it very clearly. It was the day after Labor Day, 1966. I was a sophomore, she was a freshman, but we shared the same Homeroom, 9th and 10th grade, G through M. I was already in the room, pouring over my schedule, when she walked in with a friend who had helped her find her Homeroom. She hates her yearbook photos, because her mom had her wearing a page-boy haircut, black-rimmed "granny glasses," and a skirt that hung well below her knees. I don't know, and have never known, why she became a "person of interest" (as they say) to me. To be honest, she wasn't a "real looker," pleasant looking, modestly dressed (in a day when teachers checked hemlines by making the girls kneel), with the hair and glasses, she still caught my interest. Being 15, and handicapped by a deathly dread of rejection, I kept my distance, but I found out a great deal about her before we ever "met".
I knew her dad, though I didn't realize it for quite a while. He had been in a bowling league with my dad, different teams. I used to keep score, and earn $2 a night for my efforts, plus tips. My dad introduced us when I was a freshman, and Jack was an interesting, slightly odd, and intelligent man, so I kind of liked him. Although, in my mind, I wasn't interesting, I was a little odd myself, and a lot more intelligent than I look. We spoke many times, and one night, after I had seen her in Homeroom, he brought Mary to the bowling alley. DING!
It would be an entire year, after that night, until we were actually introduced. That happened when I joined a nine-person folk-music group called "A Small Cyrcle of Friends". I saw quite a bit of her at rehersals and performances, and got to know her as a person. The group dissolved, due to the difficulties of getting nine people to rehersals, but Mary, a petite red-head named Nina, the Chief of Police's son, George, and I formed a group to perform at a Quartet Festival held at the Napa LDS Stake Center. Mary and Nina were LDS, George was Catholic, and I a lapsed-Lutheran, so we called the group "The Ecumenical Council". Mary was, and is, a very pleasant Alto, Nina was a Soprano, George a Tenor, and I did the bottom. George played a Martin six-string; I played a twelve-string, and we did a lot of Peter, Paul, & Mary stuff, and improvised a fourth-part harmony. We sounded really good.
We had rehearsed Where Have All the Flowers Gone?, and (Stick of)Bamboo for the competition, and had our harmony crisp and polished. We were scheduled late in the program, so we sat together (I sat next to Mary), and listened to group-after-group perform songs in perfect unison. One group, a couple of groups before us, even did the same songs we were doing, but in unison. I got the idea about the same time George did, and we exchanged glances, and hustled the girls into a corner to discuss a slight change to our performance. No one had expected to listen to unisonic performances all night, but no one had shown an inkling of harmony. We decided to sing Where..., but we would sing the first verse in unison, and break into four-part in the second. The impact was amazing.
As we began, the girls were singing to the audience, George and I watched the Judges lean back, bored as all get-out. As we finished the first verse, George and I exchanged smiles, completing the chord-riffs between verses, and broke into a perfectly pitched, four-part harmony. As in most amateur competitions, there was a good deal of background "hubbub," people talking, babies crying, but as soon as we broke, the room went absolutely still. The only thing being heard in that Cultural Hall was a couple of mediocre guitarist, and four young people singing a song as it should be. Some time, during the second verse, George and I exchanged much broader smiles. The girls noticed it, too, and we finished the night confidently, reveling in the rapt attention of our audience. We took First Place.
I have to tell that story, because it was Mary's and my First Date. I had asked her mom if we could attend a Moby Grape concert at the Fairgrounds, it was on the way home, and I would have her home by 12:30 am. Mom said "No." Knowing that Christine had said no, the opportunity to "celebrate our victory" was too great of a temptation, even for Mary, who agreed to go "for a while". We claimed "car trouble" for the delay, but it was a weak excuse, and Mom saw right through it. I hated to start-off with parents by lying, I always tried, and was mostly successful at currying parental favor, but I really wanted to see Moby Grape, and hang out with Mary, and hold hands. I don't think we even kissed that night, but I knew I was in love.
Mom -- I've earned the right to call Chris Gardner that -- didn't like me, didn't trust me (for obvious reasons), and only consented to a second "First Date," after Jack stood up for me, and I agreed to "observe all the rules." That meant coming to the door, greeting the family, posing for pictures, the whole nine-yards. I always thought of the experience as my introduction to Southern culture. Besides, the Mormon-lifestyle had intriqued me, even at 16. Even at our wedding, I don't think Mom trusted me, or even liked me much, but I wasn't marrying her, I was marrying the best friend I've ever had.
We did the normal-teenager-dating-thing, for the late-'60's, movies, dances, parties, I even through a Sweet Sixteen party in Mary's honor. That was the night I told her I loved her, and she started "planning our future together." Remember, I was 16 myself, and had gained enough insight to know I didn't know anything, and the woman I loved was sitting with my head in her lap, talking about marriage, and jobs, and all the crap I was trying to avoid thinking about at the time. I didn't know what to think, after that night, but we made it last until the Fall of '68.
Call it youthful restlessness, or a big-breasted blonde freshman, but I mentioned to a "friend" that I was liking this new girl on the bus. Don't know how he did it, but by the end of the class period, it got back to Mary. I'm walking down the main hall, and Mary's friend, Diane, gets right in my face, and tells me, "Mary doesn't want to see you again." BOOM! Huh? What? Right out of the blue.
I respected Mary's wishes, except for rehersals, and they were always tense. I went out with the blonde. Broke up with the blonde. Hung out, smoked a lot of pot, dated sproratically, dropped out of college, hung out some more. As my father's patience began to wear thin, I surprized him by joining the Navy in 1971. Went to boot camp, A-School, got transferred to an aircraft carrier already in the Med, pub-crawled Europe, came back, was in the middle of a major ship's overhaul, and thoughts of suicide were becoming viable options to my lonliness. An observant Leading Petty Officer, a guy named Gibson, or "Gibby," started some paperwork, and I found myself with ten days-off for Christmas and New Years, '72 - '73. Gibby said he didn't care how I got there, but to go home. A phone call later, I had Space-A tickets, NOR-ATL-DFW-SFO.
Somewhere, from the apartment-to-the airport, et al, I caught a flu virus. Spent the first three, of my ten days, flat on my back, on my parents couch. When I got to feeling better, I started thinking of people to call, and got up to make a phone call, but not the one I dialed. It was Mary's home number, and her mom answered. I asked if Mary was home, and she asked, "Who's this?"
I said, "Don't tell her, but this is Steve Martin." I felt a sudden chill across the phone lines.
"Just a minute..."
Mary was delighted by my call, and asked when I could come over. I told her an hour; she said a half-hour; I agreed, she said, "OK, see you in fifteen minutes," and hung up. I stood there, phone in hand, listening to the dial tone, thinking, "That was strange." I actually made it in ten.
I will never forget the image of her opening the door that night. Her hair was long, the glasses more stylish, and she was dressed in a pants-blouse combination. She was every bit the BYU Co-ed, of 1972. In short, she was the most beautiful person I had ever beheld. The very instant I saw her, I knew. It was like a bell, or a gong, there was this ringing in my ears, my heart started pounding, and I started to feel very warm, almost sweaty. I knew I was looking at the woman I would marry. It was absolutely clear.
Over the years, I've only forgotten that image once, when facing one of the toughest tests a marriage can go through, and it lead to even more trying times. It was all my fault, but we came out of it stronger, in the sense that "Those thing that do not kill me..." We've faced it all; the good and bad, the joyous and horrific, even life and death, together.
I tell anyone who'll stand still long enough, that I married my best friend. No one gets through what we have without being friends, the fact that we still love each other has little-to-nothing to do with things. You love somebody because you have to, spouse, or child, or brother/sister, or parent; friendship is a choice. Sure, one may love a friend, but the choice comes first. Clearly, once in my life, I made a good one.

Another Rant About Schools

Every year, it's the same scene. Chester the Freshman is running down the main hall, which is difficult because he's carrying everything he owns in his backpack. CF is scared, obviously he has drawn the attention of one of the football players, and is fleeing for his life. Yep, momentarily, the entire varsity defensive line appears, in hot pursuit; another school year has begun in high school. Pick one; doesn't matter, you'll see the scene played out in every high school in America, every year.
Some call it "hazing," some call it "bullying," but it's all the fault of school districts from coast-to-coast. In a haste to teach math, science, and language to acceptable test standards, schools fail to teach children how to use math, science, and language in their lives, and about "working and playing well with others". By the time they get to high school, they should be used to being around people with all types of abilities, and disabilities, but they aren't. So they aren't prepared to "go to the next level," as the popular phrase goes.
There should be, in the year before a student attends high school, a semester-long class on transitioning to high school. It could be a big help towards surviving a freshman, or sophomore year. Kids need to know, in advance, that there are students, in high school, that have little-to-no regard for their welfare, modesty, or existence. Perhaps, instead, an extra week, in the freshman/sophomore year, so they know how to get around, and are less likely to stand out. Either way, they should learn what's in store for them.
And while I'm on this subject, would the teachers who drill into their middle school student's minds that "the best way to start an essay is with a question," please freaking stop. I have had to work, sometimes, years to get students to stop doing it. At least, for God's sake, if you have to hang with that philosophy, teach them what a rhetorical question is. If I had a nickle for every essay I've read that began with a "Yes or No" question, at least I'd have something to show for my efforts. Get a life. My standard response was "No," or the opposite of what the writer was getting at, with a note, "Rewrite opening paragraph. No questions, please." Time and time again, I should have had a rubber stamp made. Personally, I find a personal anecdote to be appropriate in almost all forms of writing, even professional/technical.
Any way, getting back to my original topic, a lot of the hazing/bullying in high school could be prevented if kids understood what was out there. Things like, "No student in middle school drives a car, half-to-two-thirds of high school students do." Simple enough, but I bet I could get an hour out of it, at least, possibly a whole unit. Lesson Objective: The student will understand that sixteen year-old drivers are dangerous, and survive to be one.
Looking back, I was lucky. I was new to the town, which already was "strike one," socially, but I made friends, somehow, with a senior, that year, who at 6'2", and 245 pounds, was the biggest kid in school. Because of his prowress at football, wrestling, and track -- he was a big "country boy," raised on a ranch -- he was given a great deal of respect. His friendship pretty much ended my days of "freshman orientation," but not the bullying altogether, after all, he was gone the next year.

My Take on Language

Language has always facinated me. Not just English, although I am multi-lingual enough only to order a beer, or find a restroom (besides a few insults in Tagalog), but listening to the spoken language, it's a music all its own. Spoken language has a rhythm, a cadance if you will, a beat that can be altered to create emphasis, reveal emotion, or sound the alarm. I'm an eavesdropper, but not an ill-meaning one. I listen for the sounds of language, the background music of life.
OK, I'm rambling already, but have you ever noticed how smoothly conversations go in the Movies and TV, and realized how different that is from life? The difference is that actors reherse their parts of the conversation, for the most part, people in life do not. Plus, what makes it into the production is often the results of several "takes," and we only get one shot at getting it right. Even if we can, or do reherse what we want to say, we say it wrong, "putting the em-PHASIS on the wrong sy-LABLE" (see, that joke isn't funny in print, only mildly when you hear it), or say it at the wrong time, or we get an unexpected response, and life, once again, overcomes.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating rehersing conversations, but I believe that people should think about how they say things before they say them. I realize we live under the illusion of "instantanious" communication; you can probably get on the internet and see how I feel about anything much faster than asking me, and have me make a considered response. So, why think about it? Blurt out something like,"Great. You?"
I am still a fan of the late-George Carlin, who made millions of dollars on seven words. Carlin understood a fasination with the sounds that language made, and was always at his best when substituting words for those we use most commonly. The "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television" routine remains an all-time favorite, even among folks who don't routinely profane. It's his emphasis on the sounds of words, as in, "sounds like a snack," or "those regressive 'k' s." Those of you who are familiar with "Seven Words..." will understand the words referred to, but the best part of that routine is the "Words You Never Hear Together" bit towards the end. "Hand me that piano." "Please saw off my legs." These don't seem funny, here in text, the meaning is lost until you "hear" the words. I "got" Carlin in a big way.
Today, we use language like a hammer, and while still a "tool," not one I'm very fond of. Language is a tool, or, rather, a tool-box with a wide assortment. Each has an appropriate use, as in a language for expressing one's self appropriately. I mean, you don't want to yell "Hi Jack!" across the airport concorse, even if he is a friend. No, I haven't done that, nor do I suggest anyone try it, as the attention you would receive would not be a hug or a handshake, it would be handcuffs and hustled-off to a room with no door handles. We are constantly bombarded by other people's words, and some of them are scripted in a way to "hammer in a message," read by people hired for their ability to read copy, first take.
It was my great fortune to learn to visualize literature at a young age, and is the basis for my love of written language, particularly books. For me, a book had a secret, some piece of intelligence I had yet to aquire, which I could actually "see" (through the printed word) a picture of Tom Sawyer's cave, or Bilbo Baggins' dragon, to the point of "being there". Too often, I'll miss some deeper meaning, but I read to escape. I'm sorry to part with the Literary Experts (whoever they are), but I have to go with Freud, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." In looking for some deeper meaning, believing it to be essential in something being considered "literary," the LE's miss the author's ability to draw a reader into a story, to put a face on a character, to make the moments come alive.
I once told a group of students that I had "been to Mars..." I took the barage of what passes for humor among teenagers, and finished the thought, "...in my mind." That gave them a little to think about. In the end, I doubt if I taught anyone, my own kids included, how to make a character come alive, but they had to admit it was possible.

On the Occassion of My 60th Thanksgiving

This is my 60th Holiday Season. I'm still learning that the holidays are not about me. It's taken a long time, but I didn't realize it until 15 years ago. I spent a lot of holidays as an ingrate, always looking at what I thought I was missing. Funny how your thinking changes, once you're sober for a while.
Over the years, I've realized that I really do have much to be thankful for, and have started expressing my gratitude a lot more often. This Thanksgiving (2010), I will be spending some time with the some of the people I am grateful for the most. Not all, unfortunately, as my son's family will not be here, and I will miss them once again. Probably the biggest difference in my thinking is that, while I will miss them, their absense will not prevent me from enjoying the time with the rest of my family.
I am truly grateful for each member of my family, my children, my parents, my grandkids, and the conglomeration of "orphans" we have "adopted" along the way. That also goes out to my buddy, my "brother from another mother," and his folks. I could go on (and on, and on,) about people I am grateful to have crossed pathes with, so let me just say that if you've met me, I am thankful for the experience. I would like to convey my thanks, however, to some really special individuals, oddly enough, my wife, children, and grandkids.
To start, I am eternally grateful for my wife, my lover, and my friend, Mary. I'm sitting here, trying to think of where to begin, but words are failing me totally. How do you say thanks to someone who has been at my side, through all of the wonderful, and horrible, things that have happened in our time together? Mary promised to love me, and I know there were times she didn't like me, but her love has never been in question, not ever. For many years, now, I've told anyone who would listen that I married the nicest person I've ever met. I mean that with all my heart. But nobody wants to hear that.
At one command, I told horrible stories about her; intentionally leading people to think she was some kind of domineering ogress. When they met her, and found out what a wonderful person she is, we had some great conversations. Mary knew what I was up to, more than once she heard me say something like, "I would, but the old lady would wad me up in a ball, and kick me around the room." Or, "No, if I'm not home on time, she has the Shore Patrol out looking for me." After meeting her, many of my co-workers told me, "She's nothing like you said," or, "If that's how you actually see her, you're missing a lot." It was a great joke, and took a long time to set up. It was worth it, though.
Mary is the most honest person I know. She's the type that will take back any overage in change, and can't see how people could walk off with it. She's also the type who will answer any question honestly, so if you ask her a question, you have to take responsibility for the answer. Not that she's ever rude, or blunt; she's an expert at what I call "woman-code," or the way women convey non-verbal messages, and will show more than she actually says. It's all in behavior, and she's earned the respect of PhD's in Behavioral Science, because of her ability to deal with behavioral outbursts in developmentally disabled persons. I've learned some "woman-code" over the years, enough to detect levels of sarcasm that are too subtle for most men.
She is almost my total opposite. I'm right-handed, she's a south paw. I enjoy the heat of Summer, she enjoys the Wintery chill. I really like animated stuff; she could care less. One would think, with so many differences, we'd have divorced years ago. We almost did, once, it was all my fault. I had forgotten one of the most important things in our relationship, our ability to talk to each other in complete trust, and total honesty. We resolved it by using that ability. Instead of dividing us, our differences complete us.
Tyffany Christine (Martin) Wanberg, we've come a long way together. There is no way to measure the depths of my appreciation for you. You went through the dark times, and I am forever sorry for dragging you through all of that. It was a major learning time for all of us, but you have made the most of your experience. I see it in the way you are with Victor, and when you are conducting your foster parenting classes, there's genuine love and concern that is obvious to me, but still apparent to the Bug and your students. Thank you for being my first. You were a great kid, and I mean it.
Cory Steven Martin, I'm grateful that I didn't follow through on the numerous times I wanted to kill you, as you were growing up. I guess it's a "Father/Son" thing, as I know my dad often contemplated my demise. I could probably explain it (on cultural and philosophic terms), but it's more fun watching you go through the experience on your own. And guess what? It won't be too long before Gino asks to use your car. Oh, Dad Moment, I hope I'm there... I'm so proud of you, and, believe it or not, always backed you up. Even when... ah, whatever.
Jacklyn Denise Martin, I am grateful you have found a "place" in life. As a Dad, I worry about things, like my kids having gainful employment. I am grateful that you have such a generous employer, who knows a smart employee when he sees one. I'm grateful for Georgia, for putting up with you, and not strangling you in your sleep. I'm grateful that you have been blessed with an eye for "the arts," and particularly photography. I'm also grateful to know you'll have a say in which "home" I end up in, maybe it'll even have cable.
Peter Wanberg, and Angelica (Raza) Martin, I appreciate you, most of all. We're a strange and wonderful bunch, some of us are just strange, but most are pretty wonderful. To think of all of the families, out there, that you could have chosen to be a part of, you chose mine. Are you sure? Nobody threatened you or anything? Well, I'm darn proud to have you. You can see what I love about my kids, and your love for them is all I can ask. It ain't easy being part of this family, sometimes you really have to want it. It is not, I might add proudly, without its rewards.
Victor, my Bug. You have brought a good deal of joy to me. I've never been one to differentiate between things because of some prefix or another. Very soon, you will officially be my Adopted-Grandson, and the prefix will never be spoken by these lips. You will become my Grandson, the eldest of the new generation. My love for you is not dependent upon a piece of paper. It's reflected in your bright blue eyes.
Isa, my beautiful granddaughter, I am very grateful for you. I got the first news of you while I was burying my dad, and my sorrows were eased. Although you don't know me very well, I love you very much.
To everyone else, thank you for letting me ramble on.

Moments of Silliness

I have recently made contact with an old "shipmate" from the INDEPENDENCE, a guy I used to run around Norfolk with. His name is Fran Ankenbrand, but we just used to call him "Ank," for short. If I'm not mistaken, we met when I rented a "room" in an apartment in Portsmouth, VA. The "room" was actually a bed, in a room, but we managed to work things out. It was a townhouse, with two bedrooms, one bathroom, a huge living room, and a full kitchen. There were, at any given time, between four and seven people living in the apartment.

I had an Opel Cadet, station wagon, that ran well, and took us out to Virginia Beach, on days we could afford the toll roads. On one particular, very pleasant, very sunny day, Ank, one of the roommates, and I took off for the Beach. We started in a bar that was on the Boardwalk, if you don't count the drugs we had taken before we left, and had a couple of beers. We decided to walk down the Boardwalk, for a while, and either stopping at another bar, or going swimming. When we passed the last bar on the Boardwalk, we sat down on the wall (actually a high curb), to decide whether we were going to the bar, or swimming. The illegal substances we had ingested earlier were starting to "kick in," I guess, that's the only reason I can think of for what happened next.

In retrospect, I really feel sorry for the two elderly ladies, who walked, unwittingly, into one of the most insane things I've ever (to this day, in fact) seen a person do. Ank was, as I remember, a thin, wiry kind of guy, who at the time was sporting a Van Dyke, kind of whispy, but fully noticable, and neatly trimmed. I knew Ank was a little crazy, we did some pretty harmless things that could have killed us, but I never expected this.

He was standing on the inner wall, and hopped down, right in front of the two elderly women, and started to sing the "Lolipop Guild" bit from the Wizard of Oz. He started doing the little dance, as he sang:

"Weee represent the Lolipop Guild,

The Lolipop Guild,

The Lolipop Guild.

An in behalf of the Lolipop Guild,

We present you with this lol-li-pop.

Here!"

At which time he stuck out an empty fist, austensibly holding the lolipop. I thought, although the whole thing lasted maybe two seconds, that the women were about to have heart attacks, or something, but they quickly squirted around Ank, and took off as fast as they could.

Now, remember, I'm watching this as I am collapsing on the Boardwalk, in gales of laughter from the "Weee..." It was instant recognition of what he was doing, coupled with the total outrageousness, and that it was thought up and executed in seconds, I laughed until it began to hurt. And the look on Ank's face as he did it; he somehow made himself look Munchkin-ish, it was hilarious.

There were other, weirdly fun things done in that apartment, from the all-night Dealer McDope games, to flash-gun tag, and chasing a stoned hamster who probably had too much LSD. We were sailors. We were on an extended overhaul, and in our Homeport for a year. We were trying to have fun, and generally succeeded.

Died, and Gone to "Guitar Heaven"

The first time I ever saw Carlos Santana play was in an audition for the Fillmore West, on a Sunday afternoon, while watching the "Bill Graham All-Stars" play pick-up basketball in the Carousell Ball room. Bill would listen while he played, and stop only long enough to signal an staffer to either get more info on the band, or to get them off the stage. Some of the bands were pretty good, some were pretty awful, but Bill would play, and listen to the music, giving bands a chance to play one song, at least.
Santana began their with the now-classic song "Jingo," the combination of percussion instruments setting down a very Latinesque beat. Greg Rollie was on the organ, and laid out a melody, but the guitar playing of Carlos brought Bill Graham to a halt, mid-dribble. He stopped, holding the ball under his arm (apparently a signal for "time out"), and listened to something new, Rock with a Latin rhythm. I thought it was pretty cool, and, apparently, so did Bill Graham. I never saw the signal, but I did see one of the staffers sprinting for the offices. Bill gave them a second song, and I think it was "Oy Ye Como Va," but I wouldnt bet on it.
I didn't know it, at the time, but I had wittnessed the launch of a great career. Carlos Santana would go on to produce great music for almost six decades, now, and continue to play guitar, becomming one of Rock's most identifiable icons. One doesn't watch Santana play without noticing how much Carlos puts into his performances, and how deftly he elicits sound from an electric guitar.
Needless to say, when I first heard about Guitar Heaven I was pretty excited. Without hearing a note, the concept of the CD seemed very interesting to this long-time fan. Subtitled The Greatest Guitar Classics of All Time, the concept was for Carlos to "cover" such Rock classics as "Whole Lot of Love," "Back In Black," "Riders on the Storm," among the twelve songs selected for the CD. That much I heard in the pre-release bulletins. It was to be Rock and Roll, served Carlos Santana-style. I bought it.
The cover is Carlos, guitar in hand, his head back, his back arched, and you can almost hear the wail of the note. Surprises are in store, when you turn the CD over, and see the list of Featured Performers, including Chris Daughtry, Jonny Lang, Joe Cocker, India.Arie, and Yo Yo Ma. Sure, the playlist is impressive, but a great deal of talent went into the making of Guitar Heaven. The music is great.
Personally, I believe that the "jewel" of the CD is the Mark Serletic/Carlos Santana arrangement of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," featuring Yo Yo Ma on cello, and the vocals of India.Arie. Backed by the Santana band, with fresh guitar riffs by Carlos himself, the song pays homage to the originals, while getting a breath of new life from Mr. Ma and the ladies. Certainly the biggest surprize was the Serletic/Santana arrangement of "Back In Black," which takes the AC/DC standards in a new direction as a Rap Song. OK, I see the AC/DC diehards beginning to bristle, but let me put it this way: it works. In fact, if more Rap artists performed with real, honest-to-Betsy musicians, instead of "beats" created by scratching records, or however, I might even learn to like it. Then again, there's all the profanity in Rap, so maybe not.
I believe that Guitar Heaven is an instant classic, in and of itself. It is some of Rocks greatest songs, and the guitar work is vintage Carlos. Young people will find some old songs, made fresh by one of the Master's of Guitar. Definitely a candidate for Album of the Year.

My Daughter, Jackly Denise Martin

Jacklyn, who prefers to be called "Jacki" (and I'll honor that), is the last of my children, so it's only right to start off with her. She will be 27 in January, yet it seems like only a few months ago I was changing her diapers (sorry, Jacki).

I remeber everything about the day she was born, January 17, 1984. I was, at the time, the Leading Petty Officer for the ADP Division. It was five months before I was sent to the Navy Alcohol Rehabilitation Facility, so I was still drinking. Mom and Dad were in town, to help out after the "new" baby, so I wasn't particularly worried about Mary. Mom and Dad could handle getting her to the hospital, if need be, so I was following my usual routine. For some reason, I hadn't had a drink, either at lunch, or after I got to the bowling alley for league night. I had a locker in a different bowl, and had my ball, but had left my shoes. No prob, I'd rent a pair, and was in the process of doing just that when I caught part of a phone conversation.

The Counterman at the bowl was doing a great job of multi-tasking (something the job really requires), and was answering the phone as he got my shoes. What I heard was, "Which one?" I knew right away, that the call was for me, because there was another Steve Martin in a different league. I told the Counterman, "It's for me," knowing it was probably about Mary going into labor.

I took the phone, and it was my mom. "Steven, your wife has gone into labor, and we're going to take her to Balboa." I pushed the shoes back, ran to my lane assignment, packed my bag, and was out the door.

I was riding a Suzuki GS-900, so it took a minute to get the bag strapped on, and my helmet and gloves on. I was off the lot, pretty quickly, and managed to get through the fairly light traffic in good time. Good enough, that I beat my mom and Mary by a couple of minutes, so I was on the floor when they came up on the elevator. This being the fourth time, I'd had my share of near-delivery experience, but when the elevator doors opened, I still wasn't prepared for what I saw.

Mom was holding Mary up; Mary was doubled over, groaning loudly. When she saw me, she said, "I have to lay down, now." I turned around, looking for someone to help, and saw a nurse on the phone in the "prep" room. She was a LTjg, and was talking on the phone. I admit, it was rude of me to try and interrupt her phone call, but she waved me off with a "Don't bother me" gesture that pissed me off.

I slammed the cradle down, and shouted, "Phone call's over. There's a woman coming out of the elevator who needs to lie down NOW!" The JayGee blinked a couple of times, and was about to ask who I thought I was, when she looked towards the elevator, and saw my mom and wife. "Oh! I didn't... I'll get her a spot right now."
At the moment, an Ensign was lying on the Prep Room table, resting comfortably. The nurse chased her out of the room, and quickly reset the table; the Ensign glared at me on her way out.
It took only a couple of minutes, and Mary was lying down, and obviously in deep labor. I headed for the waiting room with my mom, to get out of the way. The Prep Room quickly became a beehive of activity, and I figured they would look for me in the waiting room, if they needed me. I didn't see it, but Mary didn't spend much time in Prep, she was wheeled into Delivery within five minutes.
When Mom and I entered the waiting room, the Ensign -- now sitting with her Ensign husband -- continued to glare at me, and whisper things to her husband, who also glared at me. I was about to say "Hey, it's an emergency," when the nurse came in, and said, "If you want to be there for the delivery, you better get into scrubs, and get over there."
The glares softened a bit, and I dashed off to change. In something like a minute and a half, I was in the Delivery Room. Mary was in serious labor, I could tell, and the doc informed me that due to circumstances, there wasn't time to give her any pain medication. "This one is going to be au natural."
From my previous experiences with childbirth, I knew it was my job to help her focus on something, and to fight the pain through controlled breathing. We started "puffing," and the usual La Maz stuff, and she laid her head back on the pillow. She was beaded in sweat, and not trying to mask the pain, "There isn't time for this," she said, "this baby is coming now!"
"She ain't lyin'." The doc had a panicked look on his face for a second. "I see the top of the head now."
Seconds later, the doc took a step back, holding my daughter in his hands. She was already crying, and the doc observed, "This one's in a hurry to get living. A real 'zest for life'". He didn't know it, but he had spoken quite prophetically.
To say that Jacki has a zest for life is like calling the Grand Canyon a divot. As a child, she was fearless, rushing headlong into life. She would walk up to strangers and say, "My name is 'Jackwyn.'" It was easy to tell when she was determined to do something; she'd stand up, and set off on a quick pace, her left arm held out in front of her, as if to barge through any oposition.
Once, on a field trip with her 5/6 grade class, Jacki was on of the first kids to brave the cold creekwater, and get wet. When we got to the end of the trail, there was a rock, maybe 20 - 25 ft above the creek, that was used for jumping into a deep pool. Jacki was one of, if not the first to brave the jump. When I saw what she was doing, I had that moment of "parental horror," but she was determined to do it.
When she came up after, she ran to me, "Dad, you really have to try it!" I had just gotten my breathing under control, after she came up out of the water, screaming, and said something like, "Nah, not today."
She grabbed my arms, facing me, and looking me in the eye. "No. Dad, you REALLY need to try it!" It was the look of determination in her eyes. I mean, really, who am I? I'm just her dad, and would have done just about anything for her. I relented.
Standing at the top of the rock, I noticed that all of the other adults were dry, so I would be the first "big person" to take the plunge. I've never been one for heights -- at least without a railing -- so looking down was pretty upsetting, and I had a few "second thoughts". The teacher, a woman who was at least 10 years older than me, saw me struggling, and said, "I'll go." I decided that being the first adult would be "cool" to the kids, and said, "Nah, I got it," and jumped.
Somewhere on the way down, I wondered how I was going to hit the water, and the thought of "can opener" went through my head. I extended my left leg, hooked my right foot under my left knee, gripped my hands together around my right knee, and reclined my upper body. I knew it was a near-perfect "splash dive," by the "BOOM" of the water rushing in to fill the void as I cut into the water, and took a second underwater to enjoy it. I came up 20 yards down stream, and looked back at the teacher, who had moved to the jump point, and sporting the success of my "can opener". When I climbed up out of the creek, Jacki ran to me, a look of sheer pride and joy on her face, "Dad, that was so cool. The water came up way above the rock. How did you do that?" I had made my daughter happy, it just doesn't get any better than that.
You see, I kind of owe it to both of "my girls," for the many, many times they've made me happy. For those crappy days at work, coming home to my girls running to meet me, and greet me with hugs, what crappy day at work? Particularly to my little "Care Bear," who has always seemed to love me, even when I was acting like a jerk.
She has always cared enough to ask me what was bothering me, and even though I haven't always been honest with her, I know that I can talk to her. I think we bonded differently than I did with Tyff and Cory. Maybe it's the fact that we were both "babies" in the family hyerarchy. Everyone thinks we're spoiled, we both know the flaws in that line of thought.
Today, that zest for life has led her to do something she has always wanted to do, work around lots of animals. It is very apparent in her "hobby," photography. Her portraits seem practically alive, her landscapes have energy, and candid shots capture more than just the look of the moment. Her ability to think logically (she gets that from me), and problem solving abilities (which she also gets from me), has garnered her a reputation as a "subject matter expert" with regards to computers, and she applies these skills as a bookkeeper at Animal Care Center here in Vacaville.
I am very proud of my daughter, Jacki.

My Gripe With Unions

I don't like unions. I believe, like many institutions, they have served a necessary purpose, but they have outlived their necessity. I believe that unions are divisive, by nature, and have made the designation "Made in the USA" a joke, if not extremely rare. But my dislike, distrust, and distain for unions comes from a more personal standpoint. To understand, you need to have the whole story...

In the summer of 1999, I was working as a mechanic in a bowling center. I had completed my BA in English, and had spent much of the previous year substitute teaching, during the day, and being a mechanic at night. As a "sub," I made $90 for five classes. At the bowl, I was earning $7.50 an hour. I wanted to teach, but lacked the "fifth-year studies" required to become a credentialed teacher, so I subbed. I was moving into a new home, and a friend, who happened to be the Summer School Principal for that year, asked me if I would consider teaching a couple of 9th grade English classes over the summer. It meant a lot, as I was able to procure an "emergency" credential, which meant I was legal for a year. I made about $4,000 for the summer, plus my bowling alley job.

I was in the Personnel Office, one afternoon, visiting with a friend, who said I should talk to a guy at Vacaville High (my alma mater), about a 60% teaching position for the fall. Emergency credential in-hand, I talked to the guy, and got the job. Face it, even 3/5 of a teacher's salary was better than being a grease-monkey, and I gave my notice to the bowling alley.
It was a strange year, but a good year. I started with three 9th grade classes, but ended up with two 11th grade, and one 9th. I was back at my old school as a teacher, with a novel approach to "Back-to-School Night." Most other teachers would have only a handful of parents stop by for their 10 minute "Meet the Teacher" sessions; my room was packed every period. My colleagues all wanted to know how I managed it, it was simple. Being back in Vacaville, there were many last names the same as some of my former schoolmates. In fact, more often than not, they were children of my former schoolmates. I told my classes to tell their parents that their English teacher said that if they went to Vaca High between 1965 and 1972, and claimed to have never been in trouble, they were liars, and I had the pictures to prove it. Presto! One great parent event.
I coached both boy's and girl's golf the following year, in addition to teaching two 10th and three 11th grade classes. Heaven? Hell yes!! It's what I had always wanted to do, teach English and coach golf. The year after that, 2002 - 2003, I should have known things weren't going to last. I had been named Head Coach for the girl's golf team, and had a stroke 10 days before our first practice.
The girl's were great, plain and simply great. Some visited me in the hospital, but all of them helped me work through my physical problems, from the first practice to the last. We didn't do well, but everyone learned something, and had a great time playing golf along the way.
The Head Coach position opened-up that year for the boy's team, and I had been an Assistant for two years, the girl's Head Coach, and the recommendation of the previous Head Coach. I knew the drill, knew the boys, and knew all of the other teams. I didn't get the job. I won't get into the details, suffice to say that the Number 1 guy said, "He f-ed things up." I was too busy with other issues to sympathize.
The School District announced in March 2003, that they would be laying off teachers at the end of the year. The union demanded that a full accounting of seniority be made, and the District stripped me of my tenure (after 2000 - 2001), three years of seniority, and handed me a pink slip. I was furious, but sure the union would do something to help. Yeah, those three years were on an emergency credential, but I met all requirements necessary to renew it twice. Yeah, it probably isn't right to grant tenure to someone without a Preliminary, or Permanent credential, but I never asked for it, applied for it, or even thought of it. I was the most surprised person of all, opening that letter in my box. But I did it all. No matter what was asked of me. My class sizes always exceeded the norm, others would have 30, I'd have 38. I even performed the twice-yearly slave labor ("supervising" two events per year on my time) without a great deal of complaining. I did it for my school, and my students. Now I was being screwed.
The union didn't want to talk to me, and a lawyer frankly told me that.
I don't like unions.

Computer Nostalgia

I was just thinking about computers. We're having a few problems with our desktop, and have ordered another, which will arrive soon. It's been pretty frustrating, "blue screens" all the time, and we've taken off as much of our personal stuff as would fit on 12 GB flash drives, but it's made me think of how far computers have come in my lifetime.
Thirty years ago, I was working at one of the largest computer facilities owned by the Navy. We had an IBM Systems 360, and it filled a large room, and took five people to operate. We were tied, by dedicated land-line, to the IBM 370 at NAVPERS. I was about to transfer to a submarine tender, and work with a system designated as the AN/UYK-5, and the actual computer was a water-cooled, 3 x 3 x 6 foot box that had a memory capacity of 16,000 bits (not bytes). Three years later, I was transfered to Monterey, CA, and worked on a computer system that filled a building. It was actually about six different systems, each feeding a "super" computer, which could handle the massive amounts of data, and process 700,000 instructions per second.
We used to store data on "punch cards," and magnetic tape. Then came the invention of a disk. The first I saw was eight "platters" (disks in a stack), that measured about 24" across, and about a foot high. Disks could be removed using a cover, which aided in unscrewing the platters, which could then be lifted out of the drive (a "drawer," actually, one of four in a 6 x 6 x 3 foot cabinet), and placed on a plastic bottom. Each disk-pack weighed about eight pounds, and could store over 300,000 bits (again, not bytes) of information.
Updating information was a tedious process, that took hours to accomplish, and the only output, other than tapes, cards, or disk files, were listings, usually multi-part, that took a full box of 8.5 x 14 inch paper to make.
I remember when the first "home" computers hit the scene. The first I ever saw was a Radio Shack TRS-80 ("Trash" 80). The guy who owned it, was the first "computer geek" I ever met, Joe Wolf. He wanted to get a look at the source code for the Supply System, because he could do it better and faster on his "micro" computer. I laughed, then, but he probably owns part of Microsoft, or something, now, so who was naieve?
I write this bit of nostalgia, because I have just ordered a home computer that has 4 gigabytes of memory, and 1 terabyte of storage. Back then, we got the information we needed, but it was a series of processes, consuming great quantities of time. Now, as fast as you can push a button, you get whatever you want. Unless your computer screws up. Then, you can simply buy another. Who'd of thunk that?

Home Port

That was my dad's idea, a very old Navy tradition where fleets are berthed. That's your "Home Port". All most all sailors enjoy an extended stay in the ship's homeport. Yes, there are two spellings, there's a difference. "Home Port" emphasizes the "Home". Again, my dad's idea, but I understand it totally, which scares me some... Am I really that much like my dad? But it's cool; I get it.
Non-military families have "home towns". For a military family, home town is a difficult concept to grasp. One tends to get a little jaded by the constant moving. I used to get a little anxious when people spoke of home towns; I never really had one. "Where ya from?" "Uh, how much time you got?"
The worst of it was early in life. By the time I entered Hunter's Point Elementary for Kindergarten, I had moved from my birthplace, been in Stubenville, Ohio; with three trips to San Diego, two to Pearl Harbor, and one to San Francisco. Kind of a whirlwind tour, huh? Well, it didn't quite stop there, as I was in three separate Kindergartens, and two first grade classes. It slowed down a lot after that. I was at Pennycook, in Vallejo, from grades 1 - 6, and Springstown Junior High for 7 and 8. My sister attended Hogan High from 7 - 12, as it became a Senior High School at the beginning of her sophomore year. We used to joke about her taking six years to graduate from Hogan.
Then one evening, my parents informed us we would be moving in July (1965), once again. We were moving from East Vallejo, to an apartment in Vacaville, until construction of a new home was completed in February 1966. At the time, Vallejo had a population of 65,000; Vacaville, 16,500. Well, actually 16,504, as of July 1065. Vallejoans thought of Vacaville as "the sticks". I was all against it, but really had no choice. Besides, while all my friends would be "Nineth Graders" at a "junior" high, I would be a "freshman," at Vaca High. Vallejo would just be another homeport.
As a small, rural town, with generational roots, Vacaville turned out to be a little suspicious of newcomers, and as a "new kid," didn't fit in with the Native Vacavillian very well. We were, pretty much, lumped into one of three categories: Military, Inmate Family, or Transient. We were largely ignored by the "lifers," as some referred to the Natives. We were the old, proverbial "out-crowd". Being forced to seek out non-lifer friendships, we became a sub-culture around Vaca High, we became "Hippie-esque," and tried our best to follow the examples being set in San Francisco. We dressed Hippie, let our hair grow some, and knew about sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, long before it became popular.
It wasn't a "revolution," or rejection of anything, it was mostly survival. We lost some, along the way, people whose entire history is just a name carved in a stone, as far as our lifer-classmates knew, or cared. The friendships forged during those times have long outlived any lingering effects of being ignored by half of your high school. Even the teachers wanted to know what brought us to Vacaville, and we were treated differently because we lacked a Vacaville pedigree. It was a shame, but it was true, with few exceptions.
Tom Zunino noticed that I had a talent for "shoe wrestling", and notified Larry Nelson, who came down, on his prep-period, to watch me go up against a guy, literally, twice my size. My strength was quickness, and a bullied-kids adept knowlege of escape. When my "match" was over (I had the shoe), Tom and Larry conferred for a minute, and Z tells me I'm going out for Wrestling. It was the best thing I had ever done (to that point). I was pretty good, and "lettered" as a sophomore. I was fortunate, because of Wrestling, I was able to break through the social barrier, and I started to think of Vacaville as my home town.
Throughout my Navy career, I called Vacaville my home town. I came back often, whenever I could get the time off. I've watched it grow into a City of 100,000. albeit at a distance. My last assignment was to a squadron at Moffett Field. We checked for rentals around the base, and could only afford a studio, which would not do for the five of us. My loving wife, whom I met at Vaca High, asked where we could live. "Vacaville" came out so quickly, both of us jerked. We knew it was home, a place where we both had some roots.
Moved a couple more times, over the years, but we keep coming back. It's home.

What's Next for Me?

I've been asking that question quite often. It turns out that the Voc-Rehab is connected to the GI Bill, and I would only have a year, at best, of any educational assistance, so the MA is out, as would be any training to do any drug/alcohol counselling (another idea). So, the question remains, "What's next for me?"
It was odd, in a way, in which an idea, one I'd long considered, got brought to the forefront. I was in an orientation for Voc-Rehab, and the guy next to me asked what I used to teach. I told him, and he asked, "Ever consider 'freelance writing'?" Ding!
I enjoy writing, and do it fairly well, why not? I have some personal writing, a series of vignettes, and stuff on the blog, so I have writing samples available, but what to write about? Sports? Hmmm, how would that go? "The Oakland Raiders continued in their 'Commitment to Obsurity' in a 77-3 pasting by the Institute for the Blind..." Nah, too honest.
Maybe politics... "The Attorney General refused to answer questions about his failure to defend the voters of the State, and how that would effect his 'Voter-Approved Tax Hikes'..." Hmm, maybe a little blunt, but it's a good question.
Society? Yeah, right.
Well, knowing me, I'll think of something, or not.

Life Without Alcohol

I'm an alcoholic. On my own, I would probably go back to hiding in an alcohol-fueled fog. It's a lot easier that way; I could continue my slow suicide, and no one would care. Fortunately, I'm not on my own, and there are quite a few people who care. I have been living sober for a long time, going back to the 20th Century (sounds kind of impressive, huh?), but it all comes down to choosing not to drink on a daily basis. Not that it's much of a choice anymore, but that isn't my doing, to be honest.


I am a fortunate man. I have a family that was willing to forgive the times I lied, missed games, or missed a performance, due to my addiction. I have gone to each of them, acknowledged my wrongdoings, and have received their love and appreciation in return. Materialistically, our needs are met, and we live fairly comfortably, but I am not a materialistically-wealthy man by any means. In other ways, emotionally, physically, spiritually, I am a very rich man. I would not exchange my riches for any material wealth.


Anymore, my thoughts rarely wander into a bar, but I get the occassional "Wouldn't an ice-cold beer be great right now?" I usually just laugh it off, because it happens at odd times. I've even had someone ask me that, on a hot Northern California afternoon. "Yeah, it would." I answered, acknowledging that it would, but knowing it wasn't going to happen.


It's not a choice, so much, anymore. If you could see, through my eyes, all that has changed since I became sober, the choice has become automatic. It's like the old joke about playing a Country song backwards, I got my wife back, my kids back, my life back, and much, much more.


When I went, kicking and screaming, to the Navy Alcohol Rehab Center, I couldn't imagine a life without drinking. When I left, I had a plan, but life overcame, and I began to drink again. Few, in real life, ever realize that moment of absolute clarity, and come to know that their lives have been in the Hands of God, and that there is something I need to accomplish in this life. I have, and have told the story before.


After that experience, I attended my obligatory AA meetings, and had a spiritual parting of the ways. AA is focused on "higher power," my higher power is the One God, and His Son, Jesus Christ. AA doesn't want to "go there," and I felt my spiritual progress was being hampered by an inability to get beyond the philosophical differences. Make no mistake, AA helped me a lot, but only to awaken my spiritual-self. The quest to build a personal relationship with my Heavenly Father was taken alone.

Once again, I began to think of life in real terms, not as opportunities to drink. I had a minor "slip" in January of '99, and decided to quit once and for all. Six months into my new sobriety, I bought a house, and was having friends help us move our stuff about a half mile. One friend happened to be the Principal for Summer School, and needed someone to teach either eighth- or ninth-grade English, for a stipend of $4,000. I took the ninth-grade class. We had about six weeks, two hours per-day, each, Monday through Friday. Somehow it satisfied some requirement, and students were credited with 90 hours of learning in 60 hours. If you think that doesn't make sense, try making lesson plans.

At the end of Summer School, I went back on the Sub List, and refused a job offered less than a week after my six week learning experience. I wasn't ready, at least, not then. As was my habit, the day after I refuse a job, I'd go in and talk to Mary, then Robin, who used to make the calls personally. Mary asked me if my degree was in English; I told her "Yes." She says, "Go to Vaca High, see Bob Johnson, they have a 60% position that needs to be filled." I went, Bob wasn't there. I ended up getting the job, and taught at my old high school for four years, total. I taught most of a calendar year, and taught Summer School 2000. I did it all sober. Lord knows I wanted a drink from time to time, but I didn't. That long school year may have been one of the factors in my stroke in 2001, it was 24 straight months, in a high stress job. Sober.
I survived a stroke, sober. I survived a whole lot of other things, too, sober. Some major life-changing decisions, all made sober. Perhaps the best decision, in terms of my spiritual well-being, was to move to Spokane, Wa.
I believe the decision to move to Spokane was part of a personal revelation; made possible by a few years of sobriety, and an desire to become active in my Mormon faith. I believe this because of the people I was to meet, and the opportunity to live in a community with a large Latter-day Saint population. Spokane, you see, is roughly a geographic, and population equal to the communities of Dixon, Vacaville, and Fairfield, Ca combined. There are Stakes in Vacaville, and Fairfield, as well as a Ward in Dixon. In Spokane, there are five Stakes, and a Temple. It's not like both of my neighbors were LDS, or anything, but members of Evergreen Ward were very close-by.
One of the most amazing things I learned in Spokane was that the LDS Church was developing an Addiction Recovery Program, using AA's Twelve Steps as a basis. It had been a "pilot program" in Vacaville, Mary was the Group Facilitator for a while, but it had, apparently, been picked-up Church-wide. I attended a few meetings in Spokane, but my "change of heart" came as a result of meeting a guy, the High Priest Group Leader in my Ward.
To say that Bob and I lived parallel lives would be most appropriate. Bob, however, had long ago accounted for his transgressions, and taught me a lot about repentance, and about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Living among the members of Evergreen Ward, I learned about Service, both as a recipient of, and as a provider of. I had a number of talks with Bob, and with our Bishop, and realized that the only thing standing in the way was me. After that, my "conversion" to my religion, after 35 years of being a member, happened pretty quickly.
Life is good, now. All of that baggage that I've lugged is gone. I am finally free to live in Today, only looking at Yesterday as a "benchmark" (as in, "Am I better Today than Yesterday?"), and preparing for Tomorrow (whatever that brings...). I am following another personal revelation, to take care of my family, first, and then my Priesthood responsibilities. I was promised that if I focused on those two things, "everything will work-out fine". Guess what?
Everything is just fine.

A Ramble

Lots of things going on in the world. Not much of it good, either. In my position, as a partially-disabled, unemployed American, I have lots of time on my hands, my mind begins to wander about, among the junk that lies in there, picks out a topic, and I spend some time thinking about it. Lately, it seems, I keep finding 2012.

Yeah, I know, end of the Mayan Calandar, yada, yada, yada. I'm not going to don my sandwich board, claiming the end is near, but it makes me wonder. There is conflict in the Middle East, and if Iran goes nuke, we're definitely looking at a major disaster brewing. 2012? Weird, huh?
I think the thing that scares me the most is that, left unchecked, the current administration and its progressive followers are bent on destroying the Constitution. With tentacles invading the banking, auto, and health-care industries, we are losing our rights to competition. Soon, if they keep having their way, we are looking at a nationalized system like Venezuela's. Hugo Chavez is almost idolized by Obama, where the hell are we going?
I've been watching the Tea Party Movement, and it seems to be growing. I have to admit, their basic ideal: "Taxed Enough Already," has my approval. The thought of "redistribution of wealth" through controlling the industries that provide the greatest portion is scary, scary, scary. Even the idea that Government knows what is best for me smacks of Orwell's Big Brother. Are we headed in that direction?
To say that I love my country is a great underestimation. I spent my youth in the Nation's service, and regret nothing. It's the time that I spent outside of the U.S. that has given me a chance to appreciate our Constitution, and the protections it provides. Many's the time I've stood at attention, while on deployments, and wiped tears from my eyes at the raising of our flag, and the playing of our National Anthem. Despite my training and education, I lack the ability to describe what it feels like, just knowing that Home is there.
Our nation, even after 234 years, has yet to find it's full potential, although we lead the world in innovation. Trust me, I've met many, many people across the world who would love to be here in the USA. I've also met those with the attitude of "American, phoey!" Most of them would love to live here, but would never admit it. I've never had problems communicating with any citizen of my host country. English is a required language, world-wide, and is taught to students at an early age. Even the ones who protest to not speaking English show a great deal of linguistic fluidity if approached appropriately.
I learned, phonetically, to be able to regurgitate phrases in Greek, Italian, French, Spanish, and Japanese. Stuff like "I do not speak [language]. Do you know someone who speaks English?" The results were amazing, well, at least to me... Suddenly, I was treated like someone who had taken the time to have good manners. Communication became easy. I was even able to make friends with a group of Russian sailors, one of whom spoke English fairly well. How much of that was vodka, I couldn't tell you...
I never understood why English was so important abroad, until I took a "History of the English Language" course at Chico State. Our Professor, Dr. Harriett Spiegel, PhD, asked if anyone knew what the most commonly spoken language was. Guesses were made, Spanish, English, Mandarin Chinese, and Dr. Spiegel wrote them down, in that order. Then she told us that we had three of the top five, and reordered them Mandarin, English, Spanish. English was the second-most common, behind the 6 billion Chinese speakers. She asked if we knew why this might be, and laid out the many things done in English, like air travel and technology. The list was long, and I realized why it was so easy to find English speaking people while abroad. It's also one of many reasons why people dislike us. I get it; got it a long time ago.
I admit to being somewhat of a chameleon, I seem to be able to blend in at just about any occassion, and with any group. I've been in, what at first may seem, awkward situations, getting aquainted with various groups of people, but find myself being accepted wherever I go.

Vocational Rehab for a PhD?

I have the form, typed the cover letter, and will shortly mail my request for Vocational Rehabilitation, now that I've been rated at 30%. If you've read any of my crap, you know I have a thing about being a teacher. You also know I have a bad back, and that picking up for public school kids was killing me. Some of my former coleagues tell me it's only getting worse.

And I thought, about two years ago, about getting my MA, or PhD, and teaching at community college. Two years ago, I wasn't in a position to do the studies, a PhD is not cheap, no matter where you go, or what you have for help. Now that I've broken the 20% level, and I have a new award letter, the question is: Will the VA pay for my PhD? At age 60?

Okay, okay... I'm not taking drugs, haven't drank in years, but if I can no longer manage the custodial chores of a public school classroom, doesn't the VA help me to get into a position to where I can still do the job I love doing?

Sorry, I know this is pretty self-serving, but I haven't worked in three years. I'd like to do it again, before I'm no longer able. I'd make a good college professor for a JC. I could work a couple of classes, two or three times a week. Not a whole lot of stress. Sounds to me like Heaven.
Doctor Martin... has a nice sound. Kinda flows off the tongue nicely. Yeah, I know it isn't like that, but when you can put PhD after your name, people tend to pay a little more attention.
Right now, it's a fantasy; tomorrow, who knows? I've heard of Voc Rehab doing other things, why not finance my graduate program? I mean, c'mon, give a brother a break, eh?
Oh well, guess we'll see...
Back on Planet Earth, had my back "shot" back in June. Usual response, but feeling a twinge at under 30 days. EZ told me, from Day 1, that the effects would not last forever, and sooner-or-later not work at all. aheu9pyqef8v Pardon, just got a chill thinking about that.
Ah, well, screw it! No one ever told me that aging was "fun," although the conveniently neglegted to mention that it began to hurt.

Some Needed Relief

On Thursday, June 24, I was able to receive my fourteenth epidural steroid injection (ESI), to treat a bulging disc at L5/S1. The treatment, thus far, has been a phenomenal success, my sciatic symptoms have abated to relatively zero, although the arthritis is causing some discomfort, now... Ah, life begins at 50... Yeah, it begins to hurt! Next year, I get to move into some new territory, the 60's.
I am totally indebted to Dr. David Gover, Major, USAF. He's the guy who told me about ESI, and it's the best thing anyone has ever done for me. I initially started my treatment with Dr. Ezell Askew performing the procedure, Dave has inherited the job, and has performed it well. On this occasion, Dave was assisted by a Dr. Edmonds, who happens to be a neighbor of my daughter, and is a friend of my son-in-law, Peter. Dave is trying to instill confidence in me, of Dr. Edmonds abilities, I'm quite sure, but Dave has already told me that he is capable, and that's good enough for me. It's quite nice to know your doctor beyond the hospital, so I know that Dr. Gover is a very conscientious guy, and would not give his recommendation lightly. I believe that Dave is trying to prepare me for a time when he is no longer there, and it really isn't necessary. I've been around military medicine my entire life; born in a military hospital, treated in military hospitals both as a dependent, and a sponsor, ever since. I've never been in a civilian hospital, well, a couple of ER's maybe.
I guess I just realize that Dave is an Air Force doctor, and won't be at David Grant forever. Lord, how many Primary Care physicians have I had? Nine, I think, since 2005 alone. You get used to being treated by different people. Some are great people, with great technical skill; some aren't, but both accomplish the same thing. My new Primary Care physician is Dr. Pettit, a Doogie Howser-esque young man, who has already endeared himself to me by apologizing for his youth. I told him "No problem. That just means you have the latest info on stuff." He smiled, and thanked me saying, "I wish everyone had that attitude..."
I just got through a physical with him, and my numbers were all very good. He knows about my back problems, and has talked with Dave about my treatment. He's very responsive when I call for pain meds, because he knows I don't abuse them.
Despite the almost constant changing-of-the-guard, I've been very pleased with the military health care I have received, and especially for the way my family has been treated. We've had everything from subluxations, to strokes, to sclerosis, to brain surgery, and have been treated with the utmost care throughout. When Mary had to have her brain surgery, I asked a friend, within the hospital, to quietly find the best person for the surgery. I was presented with several pages of information, and the best person turned out to be a Dr. William Henry Harrison, LCOL, USAF, currently assiged to David Grant Medical Center, and Mary's assigned surgeon.

I'm ba-a-ck...

Hi all. It's been a while. Lots of back problems, as we've gone through a weird Spring, aggravating my arthritis, and my last epidural only lasted about seven weeks. Got in for my 14th procedure yesterday. So, I'm back, and ready to pontificate of some new subjects...
I read, in the newspaper, that the government is now worried about a growing number of "home grown" terrorists, U.S. Muslims who go back to the "old country," to take up arms against the nation who helped raise their families from the squalor of some Third-World country. Unfortunately, it seems, we are raising a First-Generation children who have decided to bite the hand that, in essence, feeds them. When Arizona first passed it's now-imfamous immigration law, Hispanic students, shouting "Mexico," were all over the newspapers, and news shows. I'm an intellegent man, but I find this almost incomprehensible.
Let me state, again, as I always seem to have to, I totally get cultural diversity, I cherish the ability to celebrate one's heritage, and protected the right to do so, over a 20-year Navy career. I'm pretty well traveled, having set foot on every continent except Austrailia and Antarctica. I hope, one day, to visit Austrailia, but will pass on touching them all. Everywhere I've gone, I've tried to honor the ideal of "Ambassador of Good Will," honoring the laws of the host nations, and trying to make friends among the local population. I can tell you some great stories of encounters with folks from many countries, but suffice to say, I've seen and learned a lot.
I abhor any semblance of racism, whether intentional, or not. I was once told, "We're all pink inside," and while that came as a lusty response to a racist question, it struck a nerve. Racism is ignorance, pure and simple. As the character Atticus Finch, in Harper Lee's classic, To Kill a Mockingbird, "You never know a person until you consider things from his point of view -- until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." Once you get past the surface, we really are all pink inside.
Getting back to my original ramble, I have read the Arizona Immigration Law, and find absolutely no conflict. The Arizona law is merely the authorization to enforce existing law. It is against the law to fail to properly identify, or misidentify oneself when requested to do so by law enforcement personnel in the performance of their duties. Period. I see a potential for abuse in the Arizona Law, but believe that such cases will be resolved fairly in court.
It was the reaction of U.S.-born Hispanics that throws me. I live in a community founded by Mexican immigrants, and know many people who have immigrated from Mexico, both legally and illegally. I've taught their children in public schools. Most of the parents I've met, treasure being in the United States, having gotten an opportunity work towards their own goals, and be able to support their families, in a manner unthinkable in Mexico. Get beyond the tourist route in Mexico, and life is pretty hard. I remember "Cardboard City," a collection of shanties on the riverbed between Tijuana and San Diego, it was awful, but marginally better than what people live in outside of the major Mexican cities. My conundrum: I fully support every legal means to immigrate to the U.S., but do not feel responsible for those who cannot, or will not go through the process. Twelve million people, at last estimate, many taking advantage of the variety of social programs available, taking tax dollars from people who rightfully, legally deserve it, and straining our economy. OK, this is why I call it a "ramble".
The kids, though, I don't get at all. I know that many visit family in Mexico, and just can't believe they don't see what I've seen. To be proud of one's heritage is one thing, to protest against a perception of injustice is another, but to damage property is a criminal act, aimed at a system that tries to help them live in relative comfort. "Mexico! Mexico! Mexico!" and it's oppressive system, mixed with a government run by corrupt officials, is not such a great place to be.
Perhaps it's the "gang-thing," that attracts them. Perhaps, when shown video of illegal border crossings, they see the Coyotes as some kind of underground heroes, rather than the greedy, violent criminals they really are. Or is it the drug smuggling? Either way, I can't understand their devotion to a nation whose citizens are willing to commit crimes, and pay enormous fees to do so, in order to get out and have a chance to succeed.

A Dad Moment

Two days ago, May 18, 2010, I listened to a voice mail from my daughter Tyffany. I could tell by her voice that she was struggling with life, and not without reason. Peter (Tyff's husband, my son-in-law) is currently somewhere off the coast of South Korea, on a training cruise for the students at CSU-Maritime Acadamy, and is doing well... Meanwhile, Tyff is managing to hold up under increased pressure in her supervisory position, trying to catch up some work so she can take a two-week Family Medical Leave, as Victor (my soon-to-be grandson) starts living with her tonight, I could understand her troubles.
She asked me to give her a Father's Blessing, something I have done before, but a long time ago. How could I say "No"? This is the first time, in a long while, that she has the faith in my Priesthood Authority to bless her according to the Spirit. It was a truly spiritual evening, I do not remember what I said, exactly, but I know the blessing addressed all of her worries. She's going to be a great Mom. Victor is such a wonderful little boy. I can't wait to have him become a part of our family.
That's it.

Paying Homage to Spokane, WA

We lived in Spokane, Washington for about 18 months. When the Vacaville Unified School District recinded my tenure, stripped me of three years seniority, and handed me a pink-slip, in 2003, the VTA refused to represent me, or even hear my story, so I was "done" with Vacaville. During Spring Break, I attended a teacher's job fair in Tacoma, WA, and met a whole bunch of folks who were interested in hiring me, especially folks from Spokane.

We took a "leap of faith," sold our house in Vacaville, and moved to Spokane. I immediately started looking for work, and got hired in Coeur d'Alene, ID, right before the start of school. I was 52, had suffered a stroke a year before (which wasn't my first, I was told), and once again had "that feeling" that something was missing. We were hoping for a fresh start, in a new city, and were not disappointed. I found out why I was having "that feeling".

I was OK, I hadn't had a drink in a long while, although I was a bit "crushed" by the lack of support I had received in Vacaville. We had visited Spokane, and fell in love with the city moments after our fist view of it. We had a three-bedroom apartment, with very low (by California standards) rent in Spokane Valley, one of many, many suburban areas that surround the City proper. It was a nice, residential area, not far from Couer d'Alene, and close to just about everything.

Stll, something was missing. I was going to Church, more or less, and we were meeting some really great people, making friends, and enjoying the new environment. I was in the habit of getting up at 5 am, getting a paper, and going to a shady spot, and listen to the Bob and Tom Show on the radio. When school was out, I kept the habit up, because it gave me the opportunity to think about "stuff". I came to the conclusion that I wasn't happy, it was my fault, and I needed to start considering that it was due my own stubborness regarding the Church.
Tyffany had told me that she would be married in the Temple, regardless of my status at the time. It meant that much to her, but I heard the unsaid urging, very loud, very clear. I knew that more than a Temple marriage, she wanted her dad to be there when they made their covenants. I had a lot to consider, and only a short time to do so.
I quit smoking, started to attend all of my meetings, and generally got involved in Church-stuff, We started having some of the young families over for picinics, dinners, and always a few games and things. In AA, we often talk about having a "hole" in our hearts, or souls, that we try to fill with booze and drugs. After years of not drinking, I still felt that hole, but after each picinic, or dinner, it got a little smaller.
I heard that the Church was sponsoring a "program" for members who had addiction problems, while in Spokane. Although I was not attending AA, by that time, I saw the potential of the Addiction Recovery Program, and figured it could answer the questions that arose, once AA had awakend my spiritual-side. I went, a couple of times with the Missionaries and an investigator, and noticed a change in the Church's attitudes about "sinners" such as myself. For the first time, in a Mormon Church, I held my head up, knowing that I was not the only "sinner" in attendance. Nor, did my sins seem to be the worst.
I started to read the Scriptures, and made it a habit to pray, often, in my own way. I know that they were heard, because they were answered. I was given to know that, because of my faith in Jesus Christ, my sins had been forgiven long before. I was the only one with regrets and recriminations, I was the one who felt un-worthy, no one else even wondered. If I were ready to move forward, Heavenly Father would guide those first steps.
We lived eight-tenths of a mile from the Spokane Temple. After I got my Temple Recommend back (in time for Tyff's wedding), we attended pretty often. When I was told that I would not be re-hired at Coeur d'Alene, May 15, 2004, we attended a session at the Spokane Temple. When we were in the Celestial Room, I said a prayer, basically to the effect of "What do I do now?" The response was quick, and forceful, and I knew in my heart that everything would be OK. I was to take care of my family, first and foremost; magnify my callings in the church, and to be a worthy Priesthood holder. Since that time, I am fulfilling my side, and receiveing the blessings He has seen fit to bestow upon me.

My "Dirty" Little Sectret

I know of only two people that understand, or even know, of my love of languages; it's not something that just "comes up" in conversation. Only two of my professors at Chico State ever got a "whiff" of it, and we had several very interesting conversations arrise about it. The first was my History of the English Language professor, as we were learning to read "Olde English". We were talking about a certain portion of Beyowulf in class, and I asked about the meaning of a certain phrase, and read it to her, as we were being instructed. I can still see the look on Harriett Speigel's face, and that's been a little while. She had me repeat it, and told the class that my reading was "perfect". After class, she asked me how it was possible for me to read words, words I was only beginning to understand, with such accented perfection. We talked for a long while.

The second was my Linguistics professor, whose name escapes me, at the moment... Johansen, Johanson, Yolly Yohnson, someting Nordic, anyway... he noted that my ability to reproduce the sounds of words was way above average. He wanted me to become a Linguist, and lobbied to the last, hoping I"d reconsider. He also used to tell us that if he ever saw us, his students, in Chico State Alunmi gear, he'd have us committed to an assylum, as we appeared to have a multiple-personality disorder. Huh? He explained that "alumni" was plural, "alumnus," or "alumnae" were singular. Well, Chico, California never has been known for it's humor.

I was fortunate, as a young man, to make three trips to the Mediteranean. The first could probably be called a "Pub Crawl" through Athens, Corfu, Palma de Majorca, and Spain, with a side "crawl" of Scotland. What can I say... the Navy was contributing to my alcoholism, but it was "OK" at that time. I did learn some very valuable lessons, though.

I saw the "Ugly American" in action. Thomas "Tex" Carlucci. We were on our first "liberty" in Athens, Greece. Tom was going to the NCO Club at the Air Force Base for dinner, and I tagged along. I had arrived on USS INDEPENDENCE while it was at anchor in Souda Bay, Crete. We weighed anchor a few hours later, so this would be my first experience outside the U.S. We waited in line, got on a utility boat, and sailed into a landing next to the Delta Club. We walked out to where there were numerous taxis, and Tom started shouting "Speak English?" He was pretty much ignored. After a minute, a cab driver approached me, quietly, saying that he spoke English, and asked me where we wanted to go. Lesson: Demanding the speaking of English in a European nation who's native language is not, is a good way to get ignored. It was simple, at first, but it ignited a desire to learn certain phrases in Greek, Italian, Turkish, and Spanish, so I could be respectful to my hosts. You'd be surprised, at least I was, at the number of people who speak English, throughout the world, if you learn enough of the native language to say, "I do not speak [language], do you speak English?"

When we got to Barcelona, Tom assured everyone that his Spanish was "passable," as he was, after all, "Tex". Come to find out, he was born in Massachusetts, raised, schooled, joined the Navy from somewhere outside of Boston. While he was in Boot Camp, his dad took the job of Chief of Police, in San Antonio, Texas. At that point, Tom became "Tex," listened to Country Music, and ONLY Country Music (none of that "Rock and Roll"). We were in the city, looking for a place to eat, and drink. Tex walks up to this nice-looking Senorita, and spouts, "El speak-o mooch-o Mexico, a don-de es la bar-o?" I wanted to crawl under a rock.

Enough. It's the sounds of the words that facinate me. It's like music being played in the background, all of the conversations we hear, and try to ignore. I don't care what the language may be, I really enjoy listening to people speak. It's unfortunate that our most polished orators are predominately politicians, but people who use their language well always have my attention. I learned stock-phrases phonetically. Don't spell it, show me how it is supposed to sound. I can make sounds, translating from one language to another...? Different story alltogether.

Anyway, that's it. That's my "dirty" little secret.

A Confession, of Sorts...

I have started to attend an AA-approved, LDS-oriented Twelve Step Program, every other week, as an assignment from my Bishop. It's really a terrific program, Mary and I were once the Missionaries assigned to be Group Leaders, and accepted other callings just as the Addiction Recovery Program (ARP) adopted a new, AA-approved book, that puts AA's program in a Mormon-friendly manner. When I was in AA, I had a lot of questions about spiritual things, but none of my sponsors ever wanted to go beyond "Higher Power," and delve into the religious implications of that concept.
But that's not why I was writing. The LDS program is great, but as it is designed to cover a variety of addictions, attendee's are asked not to go into the specifics of their addictions, and focus on their recovery. It's pretty general, unlike most of the AA meetings I've attended over the years. Almost everyone had a "story" that could get pretty graphic, and told them freely, as though it was their bonne fides for membership. Every once in a while, at a "speaker meeting," the guest speaker would talk about the nutty things he/she did to keep drinking, and those were always great for a laugh, but mostly it was serious people, who often felt compelled to confess some atrocity, or another.
I've never heard anyone talk about the "good times," when one indulged in his/her addiction, and didn't contribute to any disaster, or tragedy. My "confession" is that in all of the time I used drugs "recreationally," I can't remember having a bad time. Maybe that's a result of my drug use, but I just don't recall being involved in any trouble.
Like the first time I tried LSD. I was with the Chief of Police's son, going rollerskating at the rink in Fairfield with another friend. George was driving his dad's truck, and we "dropped the acid" on the way. I remember putting on the skates, and taking off, feeling like I was flying around the rink. In reality, I was barely moving. I stopped at the end of the rink opposite the back door, which, due to the day's heat, were opened to allow more air flow. I watched George skate through the wall at the end of the building, go past the open doors, and through the wall, back to where I was. "Wow! How'd you do that?" It got funnier after that.
Mostly, anymore, I marvel at the fact that so many of us survived the late-sixties. When I think of the times we raced up, or down, Gates Canyon, in a '50"s or '60's vintage "boat," stoned, drunk, or both, I can't believe we ever made it this far.

Something Uncharacteristic

I usually begin my mornings by reading the newspaper, and listening to the Bob and Tom Show on 104.1 FM. I particularly enjoy the OP/ED page, where the "From Our Readers" letters are highly informative, sometimes passionate, often humorous, and always an insight to the people in my community. Over the years, I've noticed that there are frequent contributors to these "letters," whose views of life are quite different than my own. I read them, often shaking my head at the extremes they go attempting to make a point. I've watched the growth of this town, from a "stop on the freeway" at 18,500 people, to a thriving city of nearly 100,000, but the biggest change is mainly political.
During the "housing boom" at the turn of the Century, people from all over the Bay Area sold "flats" in San Francisco, and bought huge homes (relatively) on the proceeds, outright. Something I've learned, over the years, is that people who live in metropolitan areas tend to be very liberal. Vacaville, in my youth, and well into my 30's, was a fairly conservative agricultural community. Today, it has taken on a considerably more liberal slant.
Of the frequent contributors to the OP/ED page is a flaming-liberal, mean spirited man named Harry Short. I've read a lot of his crap over the years, and know-without-looking when I am reading one of his letters. Apparently, he was abused by a Conservative, as a child, and still harbors a grudge against anything further right than Lennin. I don't know the man, personally, all I know is what he vomits onto the OP/ED pages as often as The Reporter allows. One character assassination after another; a cheap-shot here, maybe he thinks he's funny...
He wrote a piece, attempting to make light of the Tea Party-folks, that kind of "lit me up," and I wrote a response. I don't know... maybe it's just that I'm tired of people who focus on the "antics" of a protest group, rather than the issues that bring them together. It was the same thing in the 1960's, people made fun of the "drugged-out hippies," rather than focusing on an unfortunate and unpopular war. I guess I snapped.
I'm more of a moderate-conservative, recognizing the need for "programs," but abhor abuses and extravagances. I want a government that is efficient, and don't believe in creating more government. I believe that, according to the Constitution, the government should be representative of the will of the people, and never conduct deals "behind closed doors". So called "earmarks" should be abandoned, as a practice, and politicians need to realize that they represent a constituency, their seat is not the property of the individual, it belongs to the people who elect them. I have never voted for anyone on the assumption that they would vote their personal preference over the needs and will of the people who elected them. I guess I'm naieve that way.
Maybe it's the "liberal backlash," making the word "conservative" the butt of all jokes, and a repository for blame. I didn't agree with the tactic when conservatives were in charge, either. Making fun of people for their beliefs is just plain un-American.

April Fools Day

Listening to The Bob and Tom Show on the 'net. Thinking about April Fool's Day. Thinking about the time when the kids were young, and we made the first of April "Get Dad Day." Tyff was 12, or 13, and begining to blossom into her own person. We would trade "put-downs," pranks, and other "fun family things, all of the time. Tyff kept trying to "get" me, but I usually managed to turn the joke back on her, and I watched her get frustrated, trying to figure out a way to focus a joke on me. It was '87, or '88, when she finally pulled it off.
OK, she "got" me, it was funny, we all laughed, but she was so proud of herself, she began to try more often. Somewhere, along the line, her attempts to "get Dad" crossed from funny to disrespectful, and we had a talk about limits. She asked when it would be appropriate, and I said, April 1st. Hence, April Fool's Day became Get Dad Day for my family. We've had a lot of fun with it, over the years, and Tyff's gotten me more than once. Mary, too.
Once, when living on Federal Blvd, in San Diego, Mary left me a note on the door. I read about what amounted to a really bad day, little things that happen all the time. As it went on, it got worse, and worse, and then it went just a bit too far. I began to realize that it was a gag, probably right after my first stroke (hey, who knows? They couldn't tell me when the first one had been...).