A Nixon Sighting - 12/20/77

I'm nobody.  I'm no genius, but I do have an above-average IQ.  I try to read a lot, but mostly for pleasure, lately, as "the News" (such as it is) is all biased, and opinion riddled; no one reports actual facts any more, stories are always colored by the political slant of the reporting organization.

Free Speech is history.  Speaking out is fraught with danger, mostly from people on the political left, which is odd to me.  I seem to remember a guy named Abbie Hoffman, and a comedian named Lenny Bruce who were being ostracized for dropping "F-bombs" every time they opened their mouths, and the uber-liberal faculty at the University of California at Berkley supporting their rights to Free Speech.  Today?  The Berkley (often referred to as "Bezerkley") campus and it's liberal extremist faculty have taught their students to "shout-down," and violently protest any ideology except for that of the far-far-left.  That once-honored bastion of knowledge has become just another liberal indoctrination center, and is a prime-candidate to become "The World's Largest Outdoor Lunatic Asylum".

Despite my claim of being "nobody," I've lived a pretty weird life.  In brief, I was born to Nixon/Reagan Republican parents, who voted for Nixon four times... for President in 1960, California Governor in '62, and again for President in '68 and '72).  Hanging on the wall [and I just caught the significance] to my right, is a picture of Richard M. Nixon and his wife Pat, standing on their patio at the Casa de Pacifica in San Clemente, California.  It's a color, 8X10" picture on a white matte background, framed in a 10X16' wooden frame.  It is autographed by both the former-POTUS and First Lady, which, according to the man who procured it for me, makes it a very rare picture, because, "Pat never signs anything."  The greeting, "To Jackie and Scott Martin, With best wishes from..." followed by the two signatures, and the date "12/20/77," all of which (except Pat Nixon's signature) was written by Mr. Nixon himself.

I got the picture through a friend of a guy in my office.  Chief John Newberg was an Operations Specialist (E-7), and sat at the desk across from mine for two years.  When our Division Officer, LT Tom Mortimer, chose not to renew his Commission in the summer of 1977, John obtained a framed, "official photograph" of the former President, autographed, "To LT Tom Mortimer, Fair winds, and following seas.  Best Wishes [Richard M. Nixon].  Prior to the LT's departure party, John let me see the picture, and I remarked that my parents would probably flip if he could manage to get another one.

At that point, John Newberg explained that he was friends with a guy who had been the Presidential Secretary to Presidents Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon, and that when Nixon resigned in 1974, Carl remained with the Nixon's, becoming the former-President's personal secretary.  John said that there was a "good chance" that I could get the picture, and that he would ask Carl whenever he saw him again.

Timing is everything, and I have had the worst timing.  The day after we had the conversation, the Nixon's left on a trip, and there was no scheduled return other than, "Before the first of the year (1978)".  July passed, as did August and September, and the Nixon's were still on their trip, which meant that Carl was away with them.  When Halloween gave way to November, I asked John Newberg if he'd heard anything from Carl recently.  John said that he'd heard that Nixon was supposed to be home around Thanksgiving, but hadn't heard from Carl to confirm that.  I asked John to let me know when he heard anything.

A couple of days after Thanksgiving, I saw a report on the local TV news, that the Nixon's were back at the Casa de Pacifica, following a five-month absence, and a glimmer of hope arose.  My original plan was to get the picture, and just send it to my parents, but we were planning on going to their house for Christmas, so I thought it would make a great Christmas gift, and I probably made John Newberg's life a living Hell, because I asked him, daily, if he'd talked to Carl.

Finally, in what I imagine was tinged in desperation, John picked up the phone, dialed an Autovon number, and talked with Carl.  John asked about the picture, and started writing down the directions he was receiving.  When the call ended, John handed me the page with the notes, and explained how it would all go down.

John had made the contact on Tuesday, December 13, 1977.  Carl told him it would take him seven days to acquire it, and that I (me?) was to meet him (wearing my uniform) at the San Clemente Inn, at 1500 (3 pm.), and that if I wasn't in front of the entrance, the car wouldn't stop before it returned home, at which time I would receive it in the mail, sometime after New Year's.

My obsession with punctuality (I am always 15 to 30 minutes early for everything) proved to be in my favor, as at 1500-sharp, a black Lincoln Continental pulled up, the back door opened, and a two men got out, Carl and a Secret Service Agent.  Carl identified himself, and presented me with an envelope, and we shook hands while I thanked him profusely.  As I was about to step away, Carl smiled and asked, "Aren't you going to look at what I've given you?"

I was 26 back then, and not real perceptive.  I didn't get that Carl was hinting at something, so I told him, "Nah!  I'm sure it's fine," and started to walk back to my car.  Carl said, "I really think you should see what I gave you, I want to make sure you got what you wanted."

I stopped, turned around, and finally noticed that he was grinning at me.  "OK," I told him, and I proceeded to open the envelope.  Inside was the picture that is currently hanging on my wall, glued to the white poster board, but there was no signature.  "Um... Sir?  I was hoping to get the "official" photo, and his signature."  Although I tried very hard not to let it show, I'm sure my disappointment was pretty obvious.

It was then, that Carl introduced his companion, the Secret Service-guy.  "I brought him along because I have something different in mind, something you might enjoy a little more than just an autographed, official portrait photograph.  Now, if you'll empty your pockets, and allow yourself to be frisked, we can get down to business."

I took off my White Hat, put the contents of my pockets into it, and gave them to Carl who had volunteered to hold them during the "pat-down".  The people in the lobby of the Inn were all watching this "Swab" get frisked by a guy in a dark suit and sunglasses, ushered into a limousine, and whisked-away in the direction of the freeway.

Turning off, well before reaching the freeway, we followed a small, private road down the hill, and towards the ocean.  We came to a gate, where a guard gave "the eye" to everyone in the limo, and asked who I was.  Carl explained that this had all been previously approved, gave him my name, and we were allowed access to the property.  We continued towards the main house, parking outside the entrance to Richard Nixon's office, and going inside.

So I can attest to the authenticity of the picture, as I actually met Mr. Nixon, spoke with him about my parents being such ardent supporters, and my intentions.  As he began to write the greeting, he asked for my parent's first-names, then penned the greeting, signed, and dated the picture.  I expressed my deepest gratitude for being able to infringe upon his time, and as we were shaking hands, he looked at me, and said, "Wait a minute."  Whereupon he pushed a button on the intercom on his desk and said, "Pat, would you come to my office, please?"  I heard the response, "Just a sec." followed by footsteps approaching the inner door.

Patricia Nixon entered the room, and surveyed the scene that she'd encountered.  Turning to the President, she asked him, "Do you need something?"

"Yes," the former-POTUS replied, briefly explaining what I had told him about my parents, and my plans for the picture, ending with, "... and I thought I'd have you sign this as well."

I didn't understand it, at the time, but she got kinda huffy, snatched a pen from the desk, smiled at me, and gave a withering glare to Carl, scribbled her name, dropped the pen, spun on her heel, and left the room.

It wasn't until we were in the limo, on our way back to the San Clemente Inn, that Carl told me of Mrs. Nixon's distain for signing autographs, and I got the context for her behavior.  While the President was explaining about the picture, Mrs. Nixon was fairly beaming, smiling at me, and shaking my hand, until the request for her signature.  It was as if someone threw a switch, and she went from cordial to cool.  I asked Carl why she signed it, if she didn't like to do autographs, and he explained that the President had put her in a "position".  Carl continued, "He must have been impressed with your story about your parents, or he wouldn't have done it.  If he'd had me take it to her, and request her signature, she'd probably say 'No,'.  Mrs. Nixon is very private, even more so, after the past three years, so she's very concerned about her 'image'.  By the President asking for her signature, in front of you, she couldn't refuse, at the risk of damaging her image."  Hence the reason for her "huffiness".

On Christmas Day, we'd had the picture framed, gift-wrapped, and placed under the tree. The five of us, Mom, Dad, Mary, soon-to-be-three year-old Tyffany, and I sat on the living room floor, in my parents condo, with me "playing Santa" (basically just handing out the presents to the proper recipients), making sure that "our gift" was the last one.

Mom and Dad had got up on the sofa, by that time, so I looked around the tree, and said, "Well, there's just one present left, and it's to Grandma and Grandpa, from Steve, Mary, and Tyffany."  I picked up the package, and put it on the coffee table in front of my parents.

Mom gave it the old, "Gee, I wonder what this could be," as she picked it up, and proceeded to rip at the wrapping paper.  Once opened, she looked at it for a long time, showing it to my dad, who also looked at it for a while.

Mom:  "Is this real?"

Me:  "Yes."

Mom: "You actually got THE Richard Nixon... Richard M. Nixon... PRESIDENT Richard M. Nixon                to sign this picture for you?"

Me:  "Yes."

Mom:  "You're kidding me, right?  You had somebody who could forge Nixon's signature, right?"

Me:  "No mother.  I asked a guy I work with to ask his buddy, who's Nixon's secretary, if he could get           it for me, and I actually got to meet President and Mrs. Nixon, and watch them sign it."

Mom:  [stunned silence]

Dad:  "Well, that's a gift that's pretty unique."

I mean... I knew they'd like it, but I didn't expect them to get THAT choked up...

9/11 + 18 Years

     I STILL REMEMBER.  I was in my car, it was early in the morning (here in California).  I was listening to a local, early-morning talk show, on 96.9 FM, The Eagle, KSEG out of Sacramento, driving my Mazda Miata towards a small coffee shop in what used to be called, "The Albertson's Plaza" (still many of the long-time residents do).  Hava-Java was the name, dark, full-beaned flavored coffee was the house drink, and doughnuts, crullers, maple bars, etc., as well as some cultural favorites of the Jordanian Christian couple that owned it.  The station engineer muttered something about an airplane crash, and to stand-by for more information.  The two guys on the morning show, which was broadcast "live" from the East coast, broke the news to the usual morning listeners, just as I pulled up at Hava-Java.

     When I walked in, the owner was watching the television, and saying over-and-over, "They've ruined us," and occasionally putting in a "They have no idea..."

     I walked passed him, and got my first glimpse of the fires in the first tower.  I was shocked and stunned, but I got my coffee, and hurried out the door to my car, and the half-mile to the high school where I taught, grabbing the TV remote before turning on the lights.  I checked enough to know that this had become a big deal, because all of the networks were covering it.  I selected FOX NEWS, and the TV stayed on that for the entire school day.

     Early that morning (well before the normal arrival time for students), a young man I'd never seen before came to my door, looked at the TV, and asked if he could come in.  I gave him my OK, so he picked a desk, and sat down.  It wasn't long before he was joined by a second, then a third; before long, I had students in every desk, only about half of which were mine.

     As the school's normal start time neared, I called the Office for advice.  I have a room full of students, some of which I know, many that I do not, and the first-period bell is about to go off.  They are quiet, talking softly among themselves, some asking questions that I try to answer as best I can.  Do I run them off?  Are we "holding school" like usual?  These kids are going to be scared, and want to be somewhere where they feel safe.  They are safe in my classroom, I have a list of names, grades, and first-period classes, I can send to you via my TA.  What do you want me to do?

     I already knew what I wanted them to do... hold classes (except for first-period), allow the classroom TV's to stay on a news channel all day, and allow me to deal with the emotions being touched-off by this horrific event.

     I had a reputation, among my students, for never lying to them about "life stuff," as they called it, making a promise to be truthful on the first day of school.  They'd ask stuff about my Navy experience, did I ever live alone?, how I met my wife, things about life beyond their little, sheltered environment.  Did I still have friends that I met in high school (I still think my answer to that is hysterical...)?

     I got to know my students in ways they would never understand.  I knew that most of my students would be in "panic mode," as was the case.  I knew they would see it as de-stabilizing force, making everything "different" and uncertain.  I knew they would need someone to look to, to be reassured that life was going to go on, pretty much as it had.  To help them understand that, yes, things would probably change, and be different, but that "different" wasn't a good/bad-thing, it was just different.

     Whether or not they knew it, they were looking for someone to take-charge, be a leader, step-up... I was glad I could be that person for my students.

The REAL reason I am not attending a 50-year class reunion.

     To be blunt, you people treated me like crap for four years.  I wasn't a "local," or someone who'd lived in Vacaville for a long time, I was somewhere between the military dependents, and the people who were drawn to town by CMF; I was actually both, because my dad was retired from the Navy and worked at CMF.

     I wasn't an athlete, at age 14, I had a nicotine addiction, but I did know a little about wrestling.  I "lettered" in wrestling for three years.  I spent a lot of nights keeping score for the leagues at Vaca Bowl, and knew some of ya'lls parents before I got to know you.  I hung out at "The Wall," one full block from campus, and a place where the smokers hung out.

     I went, alone, on Rooter's Busses, and felt like a part of something, until we'd get back to the school's parking lot, and I'd walk home, alone.  I was bullied, even knocked unconscious by a "blind siding," on the front lawn, no one cared.  The office refused to believe that the student who did it "would do such a thing".

     I admit, a lot of my problems were just that, my problems, and looking back, I didn't handle things as well as I could have, and that has nothing to do with you, my classmates.  I have a "back story" that effects my ability to trust people, and I'll leave it at that.

       I have a few friends from high school.  I play golf with a couple of them every week.  I've kept tabs with some of you through Facebook, and hope we can continue those relationships.

       Few people, if any, will notice that I am not there.  I went to 40 and 45, and few people even knew I was there.  Go back into the yearbooks, I'm not in any of the clubs or organizations.  I didn't help build any of the Homecoming floats, or do any of that stuff because nobody asked or invited me.  I'm not bitter.  I don't have any sense of loathing about my high school days, I've just had so many other experiences that have meant so much more to me.

     To my classmates of 1969, I send you my hearty greetings on the passing of another year, condolences for your losses, and my prayers that you will have health and success in your future.

     On vacation, again, at the Welk Resort in Escondido.  Played a round of golf this morning, and shot a 70.  I’d be blasting out boasts about it, except the course is a par 62... Still, it was only 8 over par, for 18 holes, which means that I made 10 pars... At 68, that’s not bad...

     We are in the planning phase for a Hawaiian Cruise in 2021.  We have deposits down with Norwegian Cruise Lines, have room assignments, and the ship’s itinerary for the week.  I’m going  to try and get a room at the Hale Koa for then, maybe for just a couple of days, either before or after the cruise, to spend time on Waikiki Beach, or maybe go snorkeling somewhere off Oahu.

A Pair of Boxing Gloves

     I was 13 when my dad caught my sister and me smoking in her bedroom.  It's a very clear memory, because it was the first time I stood up against being slapped/spanked/beaten/mauled by my dad.  Look, in the '50's, if you screwed up, you got "the belt," or "the paddle," or any of a hundred other things.  My dad would experiment, settling on the small bamboo shoots used to prop up a garden plant, like tomatoes.  A handful of them not only hurt like a mo-fo, but sounded even worse, and didn't leave welts.

     He didn't have time to get his weapon of choice, when he walked in on a room full of cigarette smoke, Pat and I sitting with cigarettes hanging out of our mouths, Dad went nuts.  He pushed Pat against the wall, and proceeded to slap my face, repeatedly, hurling profanities the whole time.  Suddenly, at 13, I'd had enough of that crap, balled up my fist, and punched my dad in the nose, causing it to bleed.  The only evidence was a small blood stain on Pat's drapes (on the bed-side of the room).

     You know how time can go all slow-motion, whenever you are at a near-death event?  The following all happened in the next 10 seconds:  As soon as I threw the punch, I regretted it.  I mean, it was my dad, even if the jerk was slapping me, but I was done with corporal punishment.  In that moment, I knew that I wasn't going to be physically disciplined anymore; Dad took the punch, and stepped back, wiping at his nose, a look of utter shock on his face, Pat was crawling along the wall, trying her best to get out of Dad's line-of-sight, and I saw the blood from Dad's nose, come off the finger he wiped his nose with, and land on the drape; the shocked look turns to something akin to murderous rage, but Dad wipes at his nose again; said something I couldn't hear; stomped out through the kitchen to the front door; got in his car; and drove off.

     Pat gave her condolences, knowing that when Dad got home, he was going to kill me, but I wasn't so certain.  He was wrong to repeatedly slap my face, if for no other reason than all he did to Pat was rudely shove her out of his way so he could get a clear shot at me.  To this day, I cannot stand being patted on the cheek, or anything close to being slapped.  Slap me, it doesn't matter who, or how you identify, you're going to get punched.  I've made it a habit not to punch a woman, but slap me, and you've just grown a set of testicles...

     Obviously, Dad came home and killed me, that's how I'm getting to write this... DUH!  He didn't, but  he brought something with him when he came home... a pair of boxing gloves...

     These weren't "competitive" gloves, they were more like pillows that you could make a fist in.  Dad's theory was, if we got to one of those moments where either I felt "used and abused," or he got to where he wanted to "knock my dumb-arse out," the offended person would place one pair of gloves on the other's bed, and we'd meet in the back yard to "fight it out".  It was a joke, with those gloves, I couldn't swing hard enough to hurt anyone, and the "fights" usually turned into a laugh-fest, as a result.  By the time either of us got to more than a dozen or so punches, the goofiness would get to one of us, and we'd start laughing.  It worked, oddly enough, because it gave us an opportunity to work off some of the steam generated in father-son relationships, but it also gave us a chance to talk, and say why we felt a certain way.  Afterwards, we'd sit on the patio, and work out the difficulties, compromising on both sides, to achieve an equitable solution.

     That was, until I "took a swing" at my mom.

     I really didn't.  I was mad, and slammed the wood paneling on the back of the oven, and the heel of my had broke the wood.  Mom started dancing around, like she'd achieved some goal, talking about how I was "in for it now..."  She told my dad that I tried to punch her.  I was sitting in my room, contemplating how I was going to get along when Dad threw me out of the house, and the door opened.  There was my dad, with a pair of boxing gloves in his hands.  He tossed them on my bed, and said, "Five minutes."

     I picked up the gloves, and headed for the back yard.  I was pulling up the glove, when my dad came out, gloves on, that look of rage on his face.  I put my palms out, trying to get him to listen to my side, and I never saw the punch he threw.  I remember Mom, kneeling over me, saying, "Scott, you might have hurt him."  But that was like a flash, and I was down for the count.  I'd thought that it was impossible to hit hard enough to hurt anyone in those gloves, but apparently, if you aim a sucker-punch at the chin and connect, you can cause blackouts.  Mine lasted three minutes.

     The gloves went away after that.  What had once been a joke, an opportunity to sweat and work out a conflict had become another dominance thing.  When I was a teenager, he was in his forties, 5'10", 210 pounds of Corrections Officer.  He could whip my butt, and there wasn't anything I could do about it... Except wait... 40 years later, when he was in his 80's, I could have... But by that time, I understood him a whole lot better.  Everyone can be an example, and even a bad example is still an example...