My Dad Meets Yogi Berra

     There's not much to this story.  Dad was on a submarine in the Pacific, towards the end of World War II, and they were in a designated "safe" area near New Zealand.  Yogi Berra joined the Navy, and was assigned with other Major and Minor Leaguers to play baseball, in an effort to boost morale.  The Navy team played against all comers, often a group of guys who'd been depth-charged a couple of days earlier, so just about anyone could play in a game with some big names.

    Yogi was definitely the "star" of the "all-star" team he toured the Pacific with.  Dad named a few, and they rang some bells, I'd have to do some research, but they weren't like DiMagio, or Ted Williams (although they did military time playing ball during WWII).  Dad commented that Yogi made himself available to "the troops," engaging many in one-to-one conversations.

    Dad wasn't a part of any personal conversation, but he heard Yogi speaking to a bunch of other guys.  Dad wasn't a groupie.  He saw everybody the same, everyone put their pants on the same way, so just because a guy makes a ton of money for playing a game doesn't bestow any godly qualities on him.  In other words, Dad watched other people react to celebrity.

    The only thing Dad did say about Yogi was that he was dumber than dog [doo-doo].  

My First "Brush" With the Law

      A recent meme on social media asked if I'd ever had a policeman pull a gun on me.  Actually, I have...

     I don't remember the date, crap, it was over 50 years ago.  I was, probably, 16 at the time, had my coveted California Driver's License, and had helped my dad rebuild the engine of a Triumph TR3, for the previous year, and so earned the use of it.  Being a British sports car, it had "quirks" when we finally got it out of the garage.  While we worked on it, we'd had it painted, and reupholstered, even to the point of having a new top and taneau (?) cover (the one that covered the seats, but not a top), as well as having the door panels re-covered.  All in all, it was a work of love, Dad bought the car in 1966 for $2,000 (which was a sh@t load of money back then for a seven-year old sports car).  He bought it from an "iron lot" in Sacramento, "No warranty expressed or implied," and damn if it didn't break down at the old Milk Farm on the way home.

     It was ugly.  It was a kind of lavender color, with black interior.  Dad, through his contacts in the Vacaville PD, managed to get a title trace, and found out that it had belonged to a young woman, who used it while she went to college, and her medical studies.  This all came after something rather disturbing came up while we waited for a tow.

     You see, a TR3's hood has "button locks," that require a T-handle to open.  We didn't know this, until we had the car in the Milk Farm parking lot at about 10 pm.  We didn't know, prior to that, how to open the hood, but when we got out and looked, we knew it took a tool.  Dad started grumbling about, "Just my [flipping] luck, the [master fixer] isn't even in the car..."  It took a rather long, profanity laced search, but we located the T-handle, and popped the hood.  I'm no car guy, although I've helped my dad rebuild both the Triumph, and a '47 Plymouth Coupe, but even I knew that it didn't look good.  After we got it back to the house, we put it up on blocks, and crawled under it.

     Dad always said that you can go farther with no gasoline than you can with no oil, apparently he was correct.  The first thing was to drain the oil, and it was more than black, it was jet black.  I dipped my finger in it, it was supposed to be 30-weight, but it felt more like rubber cement.  I started to wipe my finger off, and noticed there were little flecks of metal in the mix, and showed it to my dad.  Dad was always pretty hot tempered, and he let out a string of invective that cast doubt upon the parentage of the car dealer, the president of Triumph, and just about everyone in between.

     Personally, I didn't get the harangue.  He bought the car as a "project".  He just wasn't going to be able to drive around in his sports car before he started on it.  As it turned out, we got it running in April of 1967, thirteen months later, three months before I turned 16.  When I got my permit, I was only allowed to drive their 1967 Cougar twice, and initially learned how to drive in a 1963 Galaxy 500 LTD.  Once the Triumph came out of the garage, I started begging my dad to teach me how to drive a "stick shift".   Because of all of my help, he taught me, and I took my license test in the Triumph.

     The quirks were mostly electrical, and while Dad was good at reading schematics, we had a hard time locating the trouble.  I even tried enlisting the help of the Chief of Police, Jim Lehman, who was somewhat of an autoelectric savant, or something, and even he had trouble with this particular problem.  It was totally random, but it always shut down my dashboard.  Lights, gages, heater... That's why I didn't know I was close to being out of gas... ("I put in 59 cents two days ago...")

     Anyway, it was late, and I had been to the Teen Club, and was on my way home when my car stopped at the corner of East Main St. and McClellan Ave.  I knew immediately, and got out of the car, looked for traffic, and pushed the Triumph into the corporate lot of A-1 Roofing.  No sooner had I got the car stopped (safely off the road, and on the gravel lot) that a Vacaville PD patrol car comes screeching up, lights flashing, spotlights on, spewing gravel as it skidded to a stop.  I watched the driver's door start to open, and reached for my wallet, actually getting it out of my pocket, and almost in front of me when the policeman, Jerry Self, was crouched behind his door, gun pointed at me, and yelling, "FREEZE!!"

     When you see guys get arrested at gunpoint in movies and TV, they casually raise their hands, and say, "OK copper, you got me."  It ain't like that in real life.  Back then, cops used a snub-nosed, .38 caliber, police special, now it's 9 mm Glocks, or Berreta's.  Either way, when you're, essentially, minding your own business, and a cop points his weapon at you, in real life, the hole in the barrel looks like an open sewer pipe.  There was none of this, "Ya got me copper," crap, my hands flew into the air, so fast, so hard, I ended up throwing my wallet about 30 feet away, and screaming, "DON'T SHOOT!  I GIVE UP!"

     Looking back, I screwed up.  I anticipated that whoever it was, they would want to see my license, so I was getting it out.  After a couple of days, it finally dawned on me that from the cop's viewpoint, I was reaching for something, possibly a weapon.  This was 1968, though, and not the kind of environment cops face in the 2020 era.  Kids didn't carry guns back then, and although cops didn't have to wear kevlar, cop killing was not unheard of.  I actually arranged to meet with Jerry, to apologize for my actions, which he took pretty well, although three weeks later, he violated my Triumph in front of the stairs at Andrews Park, on a bogus "drug search".  The only thing he didn't tear out of the car and basically throw on the sidewalk was the steering wheel and seats.  He went through my glove box, trunk, spare tire well... he said he thought my glove box had a false bottom to it, and ripped it out of the car.  His little fit cost him a week, because the first person I called was Jim Lehman.  The Chief made him restore my car, and what he couldn't put back, he'd pay for, then suspended him for a week. 

Coronavirus on a Monday

     We've been on a State-mandated, self-policing, self-isolation.  Apparently, the Goofenor has read his Edgar Rice Burrows, particularly the John Carter Martian series, as he talks about "cohorts," a term Burrows uses throughout the series, to describe a fully functional, self-sustaining unit of Martian troops.  Suposedly, because we've spent a lot of time with our youngest grandson, Caleb, it's cool for our daughter to come in, drop off Caleb, and go back out, and for us to be with him.  In itself, that is a blessing for both of us, as we get to know this little bundle of pure joy.  He loves his Grandma and Grandpa.  Grandma takes care of his needs at both ends; Grandpa talks to him, sings to him, and tries like heck to make him say, "Pa".

     First Digression: "Pa" is not short for "Papa," it's short for "Pops," which is what the young men on the USS MCKEE started to call me, as we got to Commissioning Day.  It's a story in itself, but not right now.  I don't want a "cute" grandpa name.  I want it less than I wanted to go through a CPO  initiation when I was in the Navy.  They called my sister's second husband "Pop Pop," and I'd never be able to publish where he stands with me.  I don't want "PawPaw," "Gampa," "Gramps," and Heaven forbid, "Umpa".

     Second Digression: About "Pops"... In 1980, I was transferred from New Orleans to a pre-commissioning unit for a submarine tender, the USS MCKEE (AS-41).  I was a "Plankowner," meaning that I had reported for duty prior to Commissioning, and was, according to Navy tradition, entitled to a "plank," or a piece of the deck, when the ship de-commissions.  MCKEE de-commissioned several years ago, and I'm still waiting... Anyway, I was the oldest guy (at almost 30), in the apartment complex the Navy rented for us (not only paid rent, but $50 per diem, over and above our regular pay).  I'd see these kids, four of them, all under 21, all out on their own for the first time, packed into a two-bedroom apartment.  Fully furnished, complete with cookware, dinnerware, and a small, but fully-functional kitchen.  They'd go down to the liquor store, or the mini-mart down the street, and buy microwavable burrito's, and the like, day-after-day-after...

     I don't claim to be a great cook, but I can brown hamburger, so there are a host of things I can do, and these kids needed to know that.  I'd invite them to have dinner with me, all four of them, they'd bring the hamburger and an extra saucepan, and I'd get the spices/mixes to make a bunch of things.  I would teach them, give them a chance to try what I was doing themselves, and have enough food to feed a fleet (a lot).  The first time I did it was with the youngsters in my own Division.  Word got around quickly, and soon the lines at the liquor store and mini-mart disappeared.  I was the acting S7 Division Officer/LCPO, and the Division LPO (Leading Petty Officer) by assignment.  I started to put in Transportation Requests, to get a vehicle(s) to make Commissary runs from the apartments in Pacific Beach.  The base transportation office wouldn't give us a regular, Haze Gray, Navy van, but they would authorize us to rent a van, two days a week, from a dealership near us, to make runs down to get food and necessities.  The young'uns took to calling me "Pops," not because I was more than 10 years older than them, but out of respect, because I looked out for them.

     Most recently, when my eldest got married, my new son-in-law confided that he didn't know if he could ever call me "Dad," out of respect to his own father.  I told him that it was okay, that he could call me "Pops" if he wanted, gave him a bunch of derrogetory greetings as potential options, and used the old, "...just don't call me late for dinner." (It's a freaking Dad Joke, it's supposed to be a groaner)

     Back to Self-Isolation: I would call myself bored, except I've done a lot around my house.  I took down a decorative brick wall around the 12 X 12' front patio.  It really opens things up (okay, okay), but seriously... It wasn't much, the only thing holding it up were two pairs of 2 X 4's (to make a 4 X 4" post) that were rotting at ground level.  Once I took out the corner post, it went down with a push.  It broke up, some, when it hit the ground, after all, it was a "decorative" brick structure that was 40+ years old, otherwise I'd just leave it where it was.  Who knows, I may decide, once I get it broken down into manageable pieces, dig under it, and put it back as an extension to the front patio... Hmmm...

 

State Directed Self-Isolation: Day One (Day 5 of the regular isolation)

     We have a governor (no, he doesn't deserve the capital "G," so don't correct me), he's a moron.  To be specific, he is a liberal moron, surrounded by two legislative houses full of liberal morons.  He's appointed other liberal morons to important State offices, like Attorney General.   Javier Baccerra might be a nice guy, but he's a liberal moron, among other liberal morons.  It's why people in a number of states are paying under two dollars per-gallon for gas, and it's almost $3.50 in the Golden State.  It's where we have one-quarter of the nation's homeless, people defecating on the streets, and a Sanctuary State law that protects, and provides tax-payer funded services to people who are in the country illegally.   ILLEGALLY. 

     Don't give me that BS about their "rights".  I get that, but as long as crossing the border without legal and proper authority remains a criminal act, they "undocumented," they are "ILLEGAL" aliens.  Don't freaking try to downplay it.  That's all I'm going to say on that.

     Other than I feel for the kids who were brought here as babies, or born here, but I thought there was a law about profiting from a criminal act... Yeah, it may not have been the kid's criminal act, but why should he/she profit from it?  And for those born here, why should they profit from citizenship when their place of birth was determined by a criminal act?  OK, now I'm done.

     So, Sunday, Solano County went to "shelter at home" orders, closing sit-down restaurants, closing down shopping (except for groceries and essential items), and yesterday, the head-moron declared it statewide.  He announces that as many as 56% of Californians could get the COVID-19 virus, so that when the percentage is lower, he can tell us, in his best "Captain Kirk" way of public speaking, what a visionary and decicive leader the is, "saving the citizens of California from the pandemic"... What a joke!  The guy's in WAY over his head.

     I feel like I've been "sent to my room".  "Go home.  Stay home.  And don't speak to any of the other boys and girls along the way"  (I borrowed that last from George Carlin).  What he doesn't realize is that, going out to read in the morning, and hanging around the house the rest of the day is pretty much everyday...  At first, it was a suggestion for anyone over 60, then it became a "request" from the county, and now an order that effects 40 million Californians.

     And speaking of 40 million Californians, as of 11:03 am. (PDT), March 20, 2020, there were a total of 1,063 cases, and 20 deaths.  I took Statistics in college, so I understand the math used to figure percentages, and according to my calculations, COVID-19 is effecting 0.00004% of the population, that's 4 in 100,000 population.  Going further, if there have been 20 deaths (out of 1063 cases), the virus is only fatal in 7.5% of the reported cases in the state.  So far, the fatalities have been among the elderly, people with underlying heath problems, and particularly the elderly with underlying health problems.

     I'm not being the "rebellious teen" (that would mean that my Second Childhood is over, and I'm not ready for that, yet), but I live in a community of 100,000 people, or so, and I believe we've had more than 4 cases reported here, and I'm not one of them.  I feel my chances are pretty good.  I go to a three places, Starbuck's, the Church building, and home.  I go to a park, but I don't get out of my car, and social distancing isn't a problem.  I have my grandson in my home fairly often, but we are in a "cohort" which includes my daughter's family, so that really doesn't violate any protocols.

     Still, there's that "inner teenager" that wants to get out and howl... Except that at 68 (almost 69), I haven't gone out to do much howling.  If we go out at all, it's for dinner, or a movie, or a ballgame, but all of that is closed/cancelled until further notice.  So even if we could go out, we'd be back in a couple of hours, at most.  With everything closed/cancelled, why would anyone go out?

California Self-Isolation: Day Two

     The rains have stopped, at least for now.  Temperature is 53 degrees (at a little before 1 in the afternoon), skies are overcast, but it's rapidly burning off, and will give way to Mostly sunny by 5 pm.  The expected high, then will be 57, and will cool to a brisk low-40-ish, with the prevailing breeze from the SW at less than 10 miles per hour. 

     Funny how that sh*t becomes important when you "self-isolate" (thanks to a governor who's in way over his head).  I don't mind, though, I can still do my morning routine, I just have to use the drive-thru at Starbucks.  I can still go out to my morning "spot," read my scriptures, and do a crossword puzzle on my iPad.  This is a habit I am reluctant to give up, because it goes back a long way, back to my Navy days... 

     It's hard to say when it started, it was something I did, once, enjoyed, and did again, a couple of days later.  I would go to a quiet place, a parking lot, a park parking lot, the Cabrillo Monument, some place that wasn't overrun with people (at five am. in San Diego, in the late 1970's,there was an abundance of choices).  I would go to a place with a coffee, a pack of cigarettes, listen to the morning talk shows on the radio, and mentally prepare myself for my day.  Some times, it involved reading something.  It varied.  Sometimes, to prop up my knowledge of the computer system I was teaching to a group of Marines.

     Okay, I could digress into some of my favorite Marine Corps jokes, but I've always, down deep, had nothing but respect for the guys we used to call "Jarheads".  Sort of the same respect you'd pay a rabid dog, but respect nonetheless.  We'd exchange "insults" every morning, and some how, I'd have a comeback that "scored" against some very senior Marine NCO's and Officers.  As is most inter-service rivalry, the ones between the Navy and the Marines is all done in fun.  We know, if the call to battle comes, we will pull together, and accomplish the mission.  But until then...

     See, I did digress, but the classes that were most challenging were the ones with the Marines, so I had to find answers to questions that, apparently, no one ever thought of.  I started reading tech manuals on the AN/UYK-7 computer system which was jointly used as a tactical and clerical main-frame.  I learned more about the whole system, the software, and programming routines that could be accessed by a computer terminal.  And got a great deal of enjoyment from waking up, and having some quiet time to think.

     In college, I'd sit in the parking lot, reading, trying to catch-up on the five classes I was taking.  The bulk of my studies were at my work, I had an agreement that I could work on homework, but I had to drop the studies, and respond to calls in the back-end of a bowling alley as quickly as possible.  I started as the Night Mechanic at Vaca Bowl, going to Solano Community College during the day, and working 4 to Midnight Tuesdays thru Sunday.  The head mechanic would leave me a project, or two, I'd work on them until 5, do the pre-league lane preparations, and go back to the back around 6.  I had, at most, 25 minutes between lane prep and practice time, so I'd order food and go back to work on the projects.  A few minutes before practice started, I'd go out, get my food, and go back to the shop to eat and finish my assigned projects.  Depending on the number of calls (ball returns, re-spots, deadwood, or worst, blackout) and how quickly they could be responded to, I'd finish my projects about 7:30 - 8, and have 4 hours of study time.  When machinery malfunctions occurred to the point of closing a pair of lanes, it would, whichever league it was, cause a loss of study time. 

     That first semester at Solano almost killed me, but that was before they hired a new head mechanic, Mike, who kept my deal in place, but kept me bussier than a one-armed paper hanger...  It took a while to realize that the stuff he had me doing at night had a direct effect on the number of calls, jams, and blackouts, so that by the end of my third semester, I was back to having 4 hours of study time, just about every night, actually quite a bit more.  I got up early fairly often during the Summer of '92, and the end of the Fall semester in December.

     When we moved to Paradise in the Summer of '94, and I'd go early to classes, go to the coffee shop on the way, and sit in the shade in the parking lot at Butte College for two semesters, finishing AA degrees in both Language Arts and Social and Behavioral Science (with honors).  At Chico State, there's a coffee shop that is directly across the street from Taylor Hall, the English Department building, and you could find me there around 7:30 every morning from '95 - '97, book propped up, reading as rapidly as possible for someone who's never taken speed reading classes.  Somewhere in that time-frame, I had the "Semester From Hell"...  four classes, three of them literature classes.  Of the three classes, one had a reading list of five novels, one had a list of four, the other had a list of seven Shakespearean plays and a number of sonnets.  The barista would see me coming, and have my cup ready when I hit the door.  We got on a first name basis, he called me "Steve," I called him "Mnmmf". 

     When we moved to Paradise, I had a job with Orchard Lanes (yes, another bowling alley), in Chico.  I didn't work as a mechanic, I was the night deskman, and night manager.  I had, at any one time, 5 customer service people, 2 bartenders, a short-order cook, and two gameroom supervisors that worked for me, all fellow students at Chico State, all but two under 21.  We had a great team, I was "Pops" to everybody, the lead bartender was "Mama," and everyone else were our kids.  It was a great working environment, and business soared.

     Dale, the guy who owned the lanes, had made enough to offer profit-sharing to the employees, build a laser tag room, and set up a sound an light set up that became "Rock 'N Bowl," "Christian Rock 'N Bowl," and "Country 'N Bowl" nights.  People would pay a flat $10 to enter, 5 people to each lane, and bowl from 9 pm. to 2 am.  Of all the nights, the least favorite was the Country night.  Despite the agricultural tradition of Butte County, there just weren't that many "cowboys" around.  College kids liked rock and roll, and would even tolerate Christian rock if it had a good beat.  If you say the word "Country," however, all you hear are frogs belching and crickets chirping.

     After work there was a 15-minute drive up to Paradise, usually arriving home and getting to bed around 3 am.  In the three semesters I was at Chico State, I had no classes before 10 am., so I got some sleep.  I actually worked my schedule around to have Sunday's off, so I'd have one day a week to catch up on sleep.  And yet, I'd still get to the coffee shop across from Taylor hall by 9, book in hand, but by that time Mnmmf had gotten a different job, so I had to waste time ordering...

     When I started teaching, I started getting up at 5 am., getting my coffee, and moving close to the school, where I could sit, listen to the "Mark and Brian," or "Bob and Tom" radio shows, so I could go into class with a smile on my face.  I'd also smoke enough cigarettes bring my nicotine level up enough to last me through til lunch.

     So, you see, I've done this for a long time, and I don't know if I even want to break this habit for some silly virus.  According to my information, COVID-19 effects 6,223 Americans (out of 330,000,000 people) with 103 deaths.  So, to begin with, the percentage of Americans WITH the disease represents 0.0002 percent of the population, meaning that you have a 2 in 10,000 chance of actually catching the disease.  On top of that, 103 deaths, among 6,223 cases means that it's fatal to 19% of those who catch it, at least in America.  19% of two, is somewhere around .4 deaths per 10,000 population.  That means, if everyone in America caught COVID-19, there would be a little over 13,000 deaths nation wide.  13,000 people is a lot of people, but it's hardly the "Black Death" that the media paints it to be.

     I will be cautious.  I will be vigilant.  I will not be "sent to my room" by a government that is paniced by the looming loss of power they will suffer come November.

A Political Ramble...

I don't like to talk politics.  The subject is too divisive, and no one wants to respect another person's right to have a different opinion.  It's typical us-versus-them, and it detracts from a far more important fact... No matter which party, person, gender, gender-identity, you support, ask yourself: "What is the most important thing to come out of this three-plus years of harassing the President?"  Right now, it appears to be the level of corruption in our Federal Government, that is exploiting our tax codes, and sending millions of dollars to the families and friends of senior politicians in Washington D.C., and in the states that have declared "Sanctuary" status.

Four political families, Biden, Pelosi, Schumer, and Romney have family members with ties to Ukrainian energy companies, which our tax dollars have gone to "prop up".  The example of Hunter Biden, $83,000 per month, in a field he knows less about than I do "brain surgery," has got to set off some kind of alarms...  The fact that people who have a lot to explain, should the Justice Department start an investigation into the family dealings of these four, are trying so hard to obstruct any investigation into this "coincidence" tells you volumes about how fearful they are.

It's time for Congress to go back to it's true nature as "The People's House," and return it back to the people.  This ruling class, this self-styled "American Royalty," is what made the Presidency of Donald J. Trump a reality.  They wanted to impeach Trump for collaborating with Russia, when it was Hillary and the DNC who paid for the Steele Docier, and participated in spying.

The new question to ask our Congresspeople, or our Senators is: "Will you support legislation to put term limits on the Legislative Branch?"  If they do not propose or support such legislation, they don't get another shot at it, and we finally elect people who are willing to do the right thing.

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...