I skied like a pro

L e t    I t     S n o w

I first saw snow when I was 4, when we lived in Nebraska for a brief time. We moved soon after the snow fell, and fell, and fell, and fell. My dad was working as a truck driver at the time, and, especially in those days, it was hard to drive when the snow was higher than the axles, with ice underlying the snow. We packed up, leaving our trailer there, and headed for the warmer climes of southern New Mexico, where we had come from in the first place. I only vaguely remember being in Nebraska, memories consisting mainly of the struggle to get into and out of my snowsuit, mittens and boots. It always seemed my mom no sooner zipped up the final zipper, than I had to go pee. That was a big deal to someone who no longer wore diapers, as my two baby sisters did, so I did not want to have an accident. I remember putting on and taking off the snowsuit just for that reason; I barely remember being outside at all.

My next memory of snow, and really my first memory, happened the winter I was 10. We lived in La Mesa NM, a little town outside Las Cruces NM, in an adobe house that was nearly 100 years old. In January, 1959, it snowed in Las Cruces, the weekend my cousin got married. I remember it because we kids, who weren't going to the wedding were excited by the snowfall; the parents and adult members of our family were less than thrilled by the snow, deep enough to make driving difficult and walking, particularly in high heels, unpleasantly wet and cold. The marriage didn't last, so perhaps they should have stayed home and joined us in playing in the snow, making snowmen soon to melt and engaging in rowdy snowball fights.

The next time we encountered snow, two years later, was our first winter in Grand Junction CO. It snowed in mid-November and there was snow on the ground off and on all winter. "Junction", as the locals call it, is somewhat protected from the fierce Colorado winters, so, surprisingly and much to the disappointment of us children, we didn't have a "white" Christmas. A cold one, yes, but no snow, even old snow, left over. It snowed again a number of times that winter, and the next, but it wasn't until our third Christmas in Junction that we had a White Christmas!

I had a paper route at the time, and somehow the wonder of tramping thorough the snow, at 5:30 a.m. wore thin long before the snow did. That was the coldest winter we had experienced to that time, a winter of storms one after another. I remember plodding through snow in the half-light before dawn, carrying my sack full of papers, as snow fell at a furious rate, filling my footsteps before I got out of sight of them! I was happy that morning to finish my route, and get home to steaming hot cocoa, in a warm house. I never gave a thought to my dad having to work outside, all day, everyday, in that same miserable weather. Ah, the blissful ignorance of youth!

The next winter we moved from Colorado to Phoenix, shortly after Christmas, another non-white one, but still bone-chillingly cold. Phoenix was a pleasant change from the cold, but it gets miserably hot in the summer. Shortly after school let out for the summer, we moved back to Colorado, to Denver, this time. We stayed through the summer, then in late October we moved to Vail, then only three (3) years old. My dad had bought a big mobile home and had it moved up there, taking a job building roads for the Forest Service in the surrounding area. Shortly after we moved there, it snowed, and shortly after that, the road work came to a halt as winter closed in. It was too late to get the mobile home moved out, by this time, so my dad took a job as a framer, building new condos for the growing ski resort. It was brutally cold out, often not getting above the teens on the thermometer; add in the wind chill and the temperature could be around 0 degrees in the heat of the day! The snow kept coming, piling up around the trailer and making work impossible, as the winter intensified.

I caught a school bus at 5:50 a.m. across a field from the trailer park where our trailer sat; each day we would walk across the field, following whatever path we chose, tamping down the snow as we walked. All the kids went out at the same time, the busses came within minutes of each other to pick up high school, jr high and elementary school kids. After several weeks, the path traced a wiggly line across the field, easily identified by the packed snow amid the two ft + of loose snow on either side.

In January, 1965, we had a blizzard blow through, a steady fall of snow, hour after hour that obliterated landmarks and all but the tallest man-made features. When the snow finally stopped and the sky dawned clear, two days later, there was a giant snow drift blown against the side of our trailer--at least four feet separated the roof from the underside of the "wave" of the drift! No one could go anywhere, although one guy tried, bucking his jeep back and forth, trying to break through snow higher than the fenders on the vehicle after it was packed down! He soon gave up, and we all walked around in a true winter wonderland, everything covered with several feet of fresh snow. The path to the bus stop was gone, the fence separating the field from the park buried beneath the new snow; there was no way to walk across the field any longer, because stepping of the path would mean stepping into snow over one's head. We walked around the field, instead.

I worked as a "parking attendant" at Vail Village, that winter, a job that required me to stand outside all day, keeping people from parking in the Village. I remember being cold, but not unbearably so, just uncomfortably cold. I worked in several restaurants after that job ended for the day, walking home around midnight in the cold, clear moonlight. I enjoyed the weather, more so than I had in Grand Junction, because the cold was steady, not on again, off again, and I was used to the cold temperatures.

I learned to ski, that winter, taking the gondola to Mid-Vail and stepping out, strapping on my skis, 220 cm Heads with the old style bindings, and schussed off on the trail down! I knew the rudiments of skiing, picked up from watching and listening; I had seen Billy Kidd blaze down the "International" slope that ended at the base of the mountain. He was the hot skier of that period, and I was eager to emulate his style and success.

I hadn't gone far before I got into trouble, moving faster than I could control, my crude attempts at doing a "snow-plow" not slowing my speed enough for comfort. I finally threw myself over, falling down, and in the process learning something of how to maneuver on skis. I got back to my feet, no small feat while wearing skis almost a foot longer than I was tall! Pushing off, I began experimenting with shifting my weight and balance to control my progress. I began having more success with this and leaned forward to increase my speed.

This worked much better than I was prepared for and I was suddenly flying down the slope, with little control! With a curve approaching, and unable to veer enough to make the turn, I jumped toward a snowbank, and discovered the stem christie by doing so, when my skis lifted and turned into the curve, just before I lost my balance and fell. Once again, on getting back to my feet, I practiced my new skill, at first hesitantly, but soon throwing myself fearlessly into curves in the trail. I proceeded down the hill in this way, still bumbling, but improving, at one point losing a ski by getting mad and stamping my foot; when I lifted the foot again, the ski shot from under it and blazed down the slope, burying itself in a bank a 150 ft downslope! I took off my other ski and tromped down to dig the first one out--only the last 4 or 5 inches stuck out!

I was blazing mad by the time I got it out and had both skis strapped on again. I took off down the slope, determined to show the mountain and the skis who they were fooling with! I came out of a long, straight, low-sloped part of the trail and suddenly found myself at the top of the International slope, the steep, mogulled competition slope also known among the local ski bums and hangers-on as the "Widowmaker" for the injuries that had occurred to skiers trying to navigate it's severe, rugged slope. There was a narrow path running across the top, where racers waited their turn to dare death or certain injury, and I was intent on following it across this frightful slope.

I had no intention of taking a trip down ol' Widowmaker, even if I was too young to marry...I might want to some day! As I was traversing, though, my leading ski took a dip into a mogul and suddenly I was falling onto the plane of the International, unable to stop myself! I leaned into the fall, and into the slope, desperate to maintain my balance because it was too far to fall to the bottom--my best bet was to come to a stop and crawl to the side, but it wasn't meant to be. I couldn't get myself to a position where I could perform my limited stopping skills, for fear of falling, so I skied over one mogul after another, in a downward course. I followed an angle across the slope, switching direction in on deep mogul to angle back in the opposite direction.

Somewhere along the way, the exhilaration of what I was doing took over and I found myself laughing hysterically, tears from eyes running down my cheeks and freezing, as I began to thoroughly enjoy the journey down the slope. Several times my heart leapt into my throat as gravity threatened to take over and send me head over heels to my doom. Each time, I managed to right myself, almost at the brink it seemed, and continued my headlong plunge down the Widowmaker. I felt like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, my knees absorbing the buck of the moguls and smaller bumps as I raced aver, through and across them.

Halfway down, I found a trace of a trail that looked easier and turned into it, suddenly aware of my newfound confidence on skis. I began to turn into the slope more, to gain speed, turning back to absorb it back, similar to the way I would later drive sports cars, picking up a goodly speed and beginning to think of myself in Billy Kidd's class after all. Of course, I was still angling across the slope, where he would have plummeted almost straight down at twice my speed, but I still enjoyed my fantasy as I negotiated bump after bump.

I turned downhill again to pick up more speed, only to suddenly find the base of the mountain rushing toward me, a long apron that ended at the wheelhouse for the gondolas, still a good slope, but relatively flat after the sharp angle of the International! I slammed into that apron, taking the change by going almost to my knees, pushing up with my ski poles to race down to the wheelhouse the way I had seen so many racers end their runs before.

I threw myself into a mighty stem christie at the end, whipping around in a spray of snow to burn off my speed, but ended up to far over and fell on my side, sliding into the benches. The people sitting there, who had been watching my progress down the slope a few seconds before, scattered to get of the way as I slid in, skis first. Not my best finish, but as I lay there, I realized the truth in the old pilot's adage, "Any landing you walk away from is a good landing!" I had made it to the bottom, in one piece and all that was even slight damaged was my pride, as I got to my feet, listening to the relieved laughter from my audience.

We moved back to Denver shortly after that, so my dad could get work and the following winter left Colorado for the last time, after the first snowfall. Since then I have only intermittently experienced snow, on those rare occasions once or twice a year when we get it. I remember those years in Colorado so very well, though, and always will, a time when a skinny kid came barreling down the mountain at Vail, determined not to let the mountain win!

I learned to speak foreign languages

S p e a k i n g    t h e     s a m e   

L a n g u a g e

I studied Spanish for almost 3 years in high school, learning conjugations and phrasing, but never really learning the language. Whether due to a lack of interest, or practice, I never gained fluency in Spanish, and stopped taking it as an elective in the middle of my junior year. I hardly gave it another thought, having taken it only as a "college-prep" requirement; once that was met, I moved on to other subjects. I still retain some of it, and can generally understand simple phrases when called upon. For some reason, I had tried to learn Arabic the summer after that last Spanish class, but gave up, when I had no way of determining the correct pronunciation and usage.

I selected Latin as an elective at the beginning of my senior year, despite my mother's dire warnings that I would hate it and have trouble with learning it. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. I never took my book home, only studying for the weekly vocabulary test and finishing the daily homework in the 10 or 15 minutes before class started. Since it was my first class of the day, I had that time available to me, quiet time to use studying or writing phrases and conjugations while others in the class were milling in the halls. It worked well for me, as it turned out; I routinely scored well on the quizzes and was able to amply contribute to class discussion as we explored the vagaries of verbs and their tenses.

I continued this practice at the mid-term exam, studying the 15 minutes before class began, applying what I had just read to the test. I wasn't sure how well I had done on the exam, but I had a good feeling about my effort and wasn't too worried. When class began the Monday following the mid-term, the teacher, an elderly woman named Mrs Shapiro, stood at the front of the class and said, "I have taught Latin for 28 years, and in all that time, I have never given an A+ on an exam. However, this time, I have to give an A+, because someone scored more than 100 points." She had included two extra credit questions worth five points each, to help those studentswho needed the points. We all looked around the room, an undercurrent of questions running through everyone's mind: Who could it be? Who was the "smart" one, who had ruined the curve for the rest of us? She walked through the seats as Linda Gilliam, who sat in front of me, and I exchanged glances and shrugs. Mrs. Shapiro came to a halt beside me, dropped my exam on the desktop and then walked to another student to deposit their exam. I looked down, thinking it was merely coincidence that my exam had ended up on top, because I had been the first to finish and turn in my test. My brain wasn't comprehending the big red numbers and letters I saw, until I looked up to see Linda gaping at me in astonishment. I looked back down and read, "105, A+, Congratulations!" in Mrs. Shapiro's bright red cursive, the "A+" with a big circle around it. I looked around as my friends and classmates stared back, eyes as big as saucers, smiling and making jokes about how I had just blown the curve for everyone else.

I would hear similar comments all the rest of the day, and again when the semester final came around. By then, of course, I was used to it, but I still enjoyed the attention and studying Latin; I still use what I learned about Latin prefixes, suffixes, and root words . The basic structure of Latin permeates English, whether directly from Latin roots, or through words borrowed from one of the Romance Languages, themselves variants of Latin.

When I went into the Army, after high school, I wanted to be an interpreter, and kept pressing the recruiter for an assignment to the Army Language School at Monterey CA. He brushed off my request several times, asking me if I didn't want to enlist for four years instead of three. I said, no, I wasn't sure how much I would like the military, and didn't want to commit myself to the extra year. Little did I know the recruiter was asking a coded question, to gauge my commitment to the service. Later I found out had I agreed to the four year term, I might well have gotten what I requested, because the training session at the Language School lasted well over a year; add the time I would spend in Basic Training, and the guaranteed leave time I would accrue, and there would not have been much of my three year term left after completing the school. Instead, he urged me to sign up for "communications specialist", saying that I could later get a transfer if I wanted. Of course, that is NOT the way the military works, as I found out after finishing Basic Training when I was sent to Ft Gordon GA for Advanced Individual Training, or AIT. I immediately tried to put in for a transfer when I arrived there, but was told I would have to complete AIT and be assigned to a permanent unit before I could request a transfer.

At the beginning of my military career, when I reported to the Oakland Induction Center, along with hundreds of other young men my age, for physical and mental testing, I was pushed, poked, tested, prodded, and subjected to other indignities for two days. At the end of our first day, we were sent to back to our hotel and told to get plenty of rest, because we would go through batteries of tests the following day that would be used to determine the training and MOS we would be receive after Basic. The bug-bear used was "If you don't do well, you'll end up Eleven Bravo (infantryman) and the place where they use Eleven Bravo's is VietNam", the implied warning therein that if you didn't want to go to VietNam, you'd better do well on the tests to get a better classification or MOS. Not that the Army didn't have 'Nam on our itinerary, anyway, but who knew, in August, 1966, just how bad it would get?

Of course, we listened to these warnings and did exactly what 17, 18 and 19 year olds will always do in that situation...we stayed up all night, carousing and partying like maniacs, at one point calling out the windows to the streetwalkers below, urging them to come up and join our celebration. We had no money, not more than a few dollars among the lot of us, and we were all to young to buy beer, so they weren't the least interested, but we had fun calling out to them, and they enjoyed teasing us with ribald remarks and good-natured insults. The night passed in this manner, until nearly 5:00, when the hardiest of us finally ran out of steam and fell into our beds.

I slept the sleep of the just....for just over 30 minutes! The night manager came through the rooms, knocking on doors, opening them and calling out, turning on light switches, then shaking those to slow to wake up. I sat up in my bed, which I hadonly just got to sleep in, asked what time it was and gaped at the person who answered me with "5:30!" I asked why we had to get up so early, grousing that I hadn't had very much sleep, and when told we had to get up so we could get breakfast before reporting to the Induction Center, said I'd rather sleep than eat. I was told I had no choice and to move out, a set of commands I was to grow far more acquainted with in the following weeks than I ever wanted.

We stumbled down the stairs, out into the street and down to a restaurant where the meal chits we had been issued were to be used, joining a line that stretched out onto the sidewalk. The breakfast we were served consisted of runny powdered eggs, soggy toast and Tang or coffee. After tasting the Tang, I opted for the coffee, not that it was better, but it would help wake me up while blunting the taste of the eggs. After finishing our sumptuous repast, we were herded out of the restaurant, down the street and into the Induction Center, already bustling only little after 6:00 a.m.

There we were directed into different lines for tests, and more tests. I sat down in the first room and began a test called the Armed Forces Qualification Exam, a lengthy test that was supposed to represent our IQ's and potential skill level for the Army to determine the best way to utilize us. Of course, the Army never does anything that approaches relevance with regard to "best utilization" of manpower or resources and, even at this early point in my experience with the military, I sensed the truth in that statement. However, I picked up my pencil and made my best effort, fighting a hangover-type headache and the urge to lay my head down on the desk and catch 40 winks...or 80, if possible.

I would discover during interviews with counselors in Basic that I had scored 164 on this test. They encouraged me to apply for Officer Candidate School, or OCS, until they discovered I was only 17; I was told I could apply once as I was 18 as they moved on to other indoctrination topics. I also took a Spanish test at the Induction Center, scoring an 88, which I felt wasn't bad considering my exhaustion and how long it been since I had studied, and a strange little test that posited a mythical language, some rules and vocabulary, which I only managed a 57 on. When I heard these scores, my hopes of getting to the Monterey Language School pretty much evaporated, because I thought I hadn't done well enough to garner a posting there.

Almost three years later, when I was going through the round of separation interviews, designed to convince one to re-enlist in the Army, I learned the truth about those scores. I wasn't the least interested in continuing my association with what I considered, based on considerable experience, a gang of lunatics, maniacs, dimwits and losers. The SFC conducting one of these interviews surprised me by bringing up my oft-repeated request for assignment to the Language School, telling me he could get me in the program, if I signed on the dotted line, of course. I replied that I didn't think I did well enough to merit such an assignment, but he said, "Oh yes, you did." I asked what he meant, saying I had only scored an 88 on the Spanish Test, and far less than that on the other language test. He stunned me by saying that 57 was the highest score he had ever seen, that the usual score on the test was around 19. I sat there with my jaw flapping, thinking how different things might have been.

By that time, I had spent a year in Europe, learning French from the female civilian operators on our military switchboard, one of whom was my girlfriend, and another year in VietNam, where knowing French came in handy. I learned French from Genevieve Pinot, during our days at the switchboard, and our nights in restaurants, bars and her apartment, achieving a rudimentary fluency, much better than I ever mastered Spanish, in six short months. I still remember words, phrases and conjugations in French, some 38 years later, and can translate reasonably well, although I haven't used it much in the ensuing years. The language still holds some semblance of romance for me, memories of a skinny, shy 17 year old who felt pretty mature, being able to navigate on his own through Paris. I have always wanted to return to visit again the places I knew so well back then, to hear the patois of French spoken on the street, to enjoy pommes-frites, and climb le Tour Eiffel, or marvel at l'Arc de Triomphe and then walk down the Champs Elysee, to my room at the Hotel George Cinq. Perhaps one day, perhaps.

Through it all, I have thoroughly enjoyed the realm of languages, the way words ripple and shimmer in the hands of a skilled writer or an effective orator; an artfully turned phrase, whether spoken or written, has the power to motivate, to arouse, to thrill, to challenge, to change. Just as fascinating as our own are these "foreign" languages, with their unfamiliar cadences and sometimes awkward, for American ears, pronunciations and accents. I have collected phrases and words as I passed through, as a memento of my early interest in language studies, committing them to memory, saving them for use at an appropriate moment, possibly to ease a strangers tension in my "foreign" (to him) land, partly to help in communication and to help break down the barriers that prevent us from effective communication. In doing so, I have realized a greater appreciation for my own language, polyglot that it is, as I recognize words that have traveled into our vocabulary as surely as English has traveled into the vocabularies of languages all around the world. Languages are a living entity, at least those that are vibrant and meant to last; English is the best example of liveliness, borrowing shamelessly from any source, morphing and changing as new words and definitions are needed and old ones lose their value.

I think about raising my children

T h e   B e s t   A d v e n t u r e   E v e r

When I watch my children, in those moments when they are unaware and being themselves, I am happy. They are not perfect, although at times I have believed they were; each has his own share of flaws and faults, some worthy of notice, others merely the normal variety. I see behaviors in them that will carry them through all the seasons of life; I see also, with the cold clarity of hindsight, where I might have applied a little more, or less, pressure to better affect their development. However, overall, I am content with the way they are turning out and their progress to date on the goals they have set for themselves, as well as the ones I have for them.

I would not readily admit that, to them, for I have not yet finished applying my parental influence; there are elements I feel still in need of work and lessons yet to be learned. I am just as certain my own parents feel the same way about me, even after all these years, and my apparent inability, or admitted unwillingness, to learn. You see, children are that kind of adventure, one that goes on and on, new perils and thrills with each passing phase of their development and, of course, quiet passages when it seems they will always be a certain way. That doesn't last, for no sooner do I get accustomed to one or the other at one stage, than they are off to the next, and once again I am caught up in the excitement. Some of these changes are unsettling, some are disappointing, but, on the main, they are all worthwhile in the effect on them and on me. I learn as much from their education in the ways of the world as they do themselves, from a different perspective, to be sure; watching as they absorb each new lesson, waiting for the evidence of actual learning, dreading serious repercussions or heartbreaks, while presenting a calm, collected demeanor in the face of their trials and tribulations or a proud pat on the back for their triumphs and victories.

I clearly recall looking into their faces as they were born, with the first a sense of wonder, with the second a sense of wonder renewed. Looking into Andrew's face for the first time was like looking into a mirror, so clearly did I see myself imprinted on him. When Matthew was born, two years and nine months later, I was prepared for the shock of recognition, but I saw another side of myself, as clearly as before. Of course, their mother's genes are there, too, and they each represent a certain blend of each of us, within the realm of their own personalities. Watching their identities emerge as they matured and developed from infancy into little boys, and on to adolescence and the teenage years, finally/suddenly approaching adulthood has provided me with insights into my own progress through life. I understand so well now the things my parents tried to tell me, the need for the values they did their best to instill in me and my siblings. I also understand how hard it was, how much harder I made it for them, sometimes unnecessarily so.

We, the triumvirate of Andrew, Matthew and I, travelled far and wide, visiting National Parks and ballparks, cities and forests, historical markers and ghost towns, playgrounds and amusement parks. In the early days, our travels included their mother, but after she left it was just the three of us, camping in the wild, or in hotels, as we made repeated visits to Yosemite, Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Disneyland, San Francisco, Zion, San Diego, and, of course, grandma and grandpas. We camped in the Mojave and visited a cave full of stalagmites and stalactites and other wondrous rock formations. We fired off rockets with the Boy Scouts and watched fireworks; picnicked by rivers and lakes, swimming after in endless summer days. We visited video game arcades everywhere we went, and watched movies in Seattle, San Francisco, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. We rode roller coasters everywhere one was available, the wilder the better!

We talked of many things, historical, technological, personal, musical and everything baseball. They have developed intelligent opinions and learned to express themselves eloquently, sometimes to achieve some new freedom or privilege, sometimes to argue a point successfully. I frequently hear back from the parents of their friends how impressed the parents are by my sons apparent maturity, their politeness, and their ability to speak in complete sentences, with courteous consideration of others. From earlyon I taught them the importance of a good vocabulary, teaching them to spell and use words correctly. Next to good manners, a good vocabulary is an essential skill, often forgotten in today's mad rush of a world.

Lest you think I believe my sons are perfect, please let me disabuse you of that misconception. They make mistakes and fail at various attempts, but they succeed more often than average and, I hope, learn from their mistakes. It has long been an adage with me, one that I impressed on my sons form an early age, that it is no sin to make a mistake, the only sin is in failing to learn from the mistake and repeating it again and again. There have been mistakes that were repeated, not many, but enough to ensure the boys were human after all, as human as anyone. Mostly, though, they have been level-headed and willing to exert the effort needed to do well in school and in extra-curricular activities, and patient with me as I learned to be a parent and role-model. In some ways, we each helped the other to grow and become better people, our bond transcending the difficulties of financial, personal and emotional circumstances.

Time flies by, though, and eventually all adventures come to an end. Such is the case now, as Matthew finishes his last semester in high school, and prepares to enter the world of adults. I hope I have done a good job with both my sons, teaching them what they need to make their way successfully in the world, and not needlessly burdening them with problems. I think I did a reasonably good job, but only time will tell, and, remember, the job is not finished, so long as I am still drawing breath....and maybe not then! Some lessons take time and the proper circumstances to come to fruition; only then does our training kick in and become useful. I will be watching, commenting, guiding, trying to keep my trap shut when necessary, continuing on with the parenting blueprint given me by my parents, passing it on to my sons with the fervent and heartfelt hope they, too, will improve on it and pass it on to their own children. Our own family form of immortality, a living gift that keeps giving long after we are gone.

alone , but not lonely

A l o n e   A g a i n   O r

I have spent a great deal of time alone over the years, and as a result, have developed many skills for filling the time. I enjoy reading, often spending hours in rapt concentration as the pages whiz by, whether a techno-thriller or a book detailing events in History, new discoveries in Science, a fascinating Biography or any of the marvels of the Physical World. Reading is a gateway to a universe of wonder, of knowledge, of self-understanding and the realms of Man’s stored knowledge. I feel sorry for those who do not enjoy this simple pleasure.

I also draw, filling page after page with doodles and designs, ideas for room arrangements and architectural details. I began drawing when I was a young teenager, adopting a style reminiscent to what I saw in comic books. I took a drafting class in the 8th grade, thinking I did OK, but not as well as some of the teacher’s favorite students. Little did I suspect I would make my living for the better part of my life doing this. Along the way, I expanded my repertoire of drawing skills, exploring the way design interacted with written words and everyday items.

When I was in freshman English, in high school, the teacher required us to write a poem. I tried my had at it and enjoyed it, then wrote several others. One of my first efforts was titled “Where are the flowers, now”, with a repeating refrain that ran, “where are the flowers, now, where have they gone?” Some four or five months later, I heard a song by Peter, Paul & Mary, called “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, written by Pete Seeger, who also influenced a young Bob Dylan. The only similarities in the two were in the repeated question/title, but I was razzed by my friends for “stealing” from a popular song. I had never heard it before, that I know of, and certainly didn’t consciously copy any part of the song, but who knows? We all take in stimuli from a vast variety of sources and then reissue it as refined by our own views, prejudices and perceptions. At any rate, this early success--did I mention the poem in question, and another with obvious homage to Poe, was well-received in class?--lead me to pursue an interest in writing that has remained with me to this day. I did quite well, writing in high school; at one school, the creative writing class published a ?magazine? filled with students? work. The first issue of the semester, I had one story and a poem; by the third issue, I had more entries than all the other students combined.

Had you asked me in those days what I wanted to be, I would have confidently answered a writer! I seriously pursued this goal, although later that same year, at a different school, I encountered a less enthusiastic teacher, who told me I should stick to writing about what I knew, i.e. teenage issues. Her criticism took the wind out of my sails, and, the following school year, after I submitted a story that I had slaved over and felt very positive about, I received a rejection letter--an actual letter, one my friends and teachers at the time said was a good sign, rather than a rejection notice--I began to let that dream slip away from me. I still wrote, to amuse myself, and the friends I corresponded with, until one day I received a letter from a friend who said he was going to start saving my letters, because they were little works of art, so creative; consequently, I stopped writing for others.

I have always kept journals, filling them with sketches and written snippets, recording my passage through this world, for myself, if no one else. I still do, sometimes seeing, in my mind, an entire piece, inspired by something I read or just saw on TV, or as a result of a conversation. I write to soothe that savage beast within that desired to roar, but instead is content to know the talent is still there, the potential still on tap.

I can say I came by it honestly; my maternal grandmother wrote and, with her sister, performed radio plays in the late teens and early twenties of the previous century, in their home town of Brooklyn. They were quite popular, and my great-aunt maintained a life-long interest in performing, appearing in dinner theatre and community theatre productions well into her 70s. My uncle also took after this side of the family, achieving a modest level of fame in college and in the Los Angeles area for his appearances in community theatre and civic light opera presentations until he decided to forego his theatrical dreams and concentrate on professional pursuits. His is a case of too little ego, because ego is the fuel by which careers are driven; that he has the talent is widely recognized, that he is willing to sit in one office after another and attempt to convince someone who wouldn't know talent if said talent were to bite him/her on the butt, is anther story entirely.

Sadly this is the case with much of the creative arts; the loud, obnoxious and barely-talented rise to the top out of sheer persistence, while those who may well be the better talent wait tables or move on to a more dependable source of income. Who is to say whether it is an equitable arrangement? Not me, I'm too busy writing what I want, or reading to gather new ideas, or drawing the blueprints for a better world. I'll leave that decision to you, gentle reader and wish you luck in your own private spaces.

I once had a roommate who...

F i v e    R o o m s    &    A    V I e w

I have only had three roommates over the years. I shared an apartment with my uncle for a few months after I got out of the Army, but it was his apartment and I was just getting reacquainted with civilian life. I lived on my own for the next five years, in a series of apartments in Los Angeles and then Houston. It never occurred to me to seek out a roommate until I was in college and financial considerations were more important.

In the summer of 1974, I moved into a house with Mark, a friend I had met through one of my buddies from VietNam. Mark was a gregarious, handsome young man a few years younger than I, with an infectiously bright personality. We got along great, for the most part, sharing similar likes and dislikes, so I thought we would do well as roommates. That misconception was due in no small part to my inexperience in living with others. Mark was probably as disenchanted as I was, after our differences began to manifest themselves.

I’ve always been the type to prefer to take care of things at the time of their occurrence, rather than stacking them up, to be dealt with later. Mark wanted to live the life of a slob, with periodic “GI parties” as he would call the occasions when he wanted to clean. Having spent three years in the Army, I had NO desire to EVER again have a “GI party”. I preferred to pick up after myself and clean as I went; Mark, on the other hand, was content to leave dishes, clothes, papers and other detritus laying where they fell or were deposited, until such time as he felt the need for another “party”. One of his favorite tricks was to light a cigarette--another bone of contention between us, as I didn’t smoke--and then leave it standing on the butt, on the coffee table, dining table, counters, wherever he happened to be at the moment. Very much a “man of the moment”, he frequently lit a cigarette, took several puffs from it, then stood it and left it where it was, the result being a piles of ash around standing butts, here, there and, at times, everywhere. It did no good to say anything, he would act contrite and, five minutes later, do it again!

Mark never bought any beer, either. It wasn?t that he didn?t drink it, he did! He just did not buy it. His reasoning was simple: he didn?t drink much. This was true, in it?s way, he would only drink a few sips, then leave the bottle laying where he had sat it down, usually next to one of his cigarettes, and go off to bed. This was due in part to the fact that he was working at the emergency room, he was a nurse, on the swing shift, and would get home late, around 11:00 p.m. He had classes early in the morning, so he wouldn?t stay up very long after arriving home in the evening?just long enough to open a beer, light a cigarette, have a few sips, several puffs and then, off to bed! Leaving behind, of course, a bottle, the cap, the cigarette and it?s ash, a match sometimes, a unique memorial to his having been there those few moments. Then the next morning, after he had slept to the last possible minute, he was out the door in a flash, not to be seen again until that evening, same time, same routine, same detritus. After several days of this, the house was cluttered with these remains; if I wanted to have company, I would have to clear away the debris. Needless to say, this did not promote amicable relations between us.

Matters weren?t helped by Mark?s social life. He was attractive, successful and outgoing, all qualities well-regarded by the opposite sex. Thus, there was a steady stream of young ladies accompanying him home, after work, resulting in TWO bottles of beer opened, but not drunk, and TWO cigarettes left standing to burn away to ash. This in itself was aggravating, leading as it did to double the trash left laying around, although Mark would often get home minutes before his lady friend of the evening, and scurry around, removing the evidence of any other woman, a dubious benefit to me in at least removing some of the mess.

However, this also lead to messes of another sort, as these young women inevitably learned of each other, with predictable and distressing results. I was put in the awkward position of having to explain to one woman or another, that this was the way Mark was, and I didn?t expect things to change any time soon. Too often I ended up holding someone whose heart was broken, providing a shoulder for tears shed for the wrong person.

I began to dislike Mark, an otherwise likeable guy. He was one of those men who could go to a party and every woman in the room would crowd around, jockeying for position. I had seen him make a date with one woman, while asking another for her phone number, with neither woman evidencing any rancor at this obvious duplicity. In another man, daggers would have been flying, fingernails scratching for eyes, hackles raised and fur flying. There are women who have this same magnetic attraction, but we are far more accustomed to seeing men cluster around a beautiful and sexy woman, than to see women gathered around a man.

The downside to this was the inevitable hurt feelings of those who only passed through his orbit. Being inside the orbit was no picnic either, as I was on the receiving end of much of the anger that should have been directed at Mark. This imbalance came to a head one night, when I consoled a distraught young woman, a pretty redhead whom I had liked and thought maybe would cause Mark to change his ways. He had been seeing her for several weeks, forsaking almost all others. For Mark, that was remarkable in itself! However, he reverted to type, and started avoiding her, leading her to our doorstep one night, in search of closure, if nothing else. After listening to her tale of woe, really the same story I had already heard a dozen times, I told her, ?That?s Mark!? She agreed he was a skunk and declared she would never give him another thought, and left. Mark came home a short while later, with another woman, but I was thoroughly disgusted with him, and had retired to my room with the music turned up loud to better ignore him and his shenanigans. Soon, I fell into unsuspecting sleep.

I woke up, with a heavy weight on top of me, Mark straddling my chest and pummeling my side, yelling at me about betraying him and telling stories about him! He was livid because ?Red? had returned, after the other woman had left, and confronted him, telling him I had told her everything about his evil ways! I admitted I had comforted her, told him how completely sick of having to do that I was, and told him I would be moving out at the end of the month. He went back to bed, with ?Red? as it turned out, and things were never the same between us. I was not interested in having a roommate again, although I reconsidered that idea, a year and a half later. At that moment, though, I was not interested in ?sharing? any more, having gotten more than I bargained for and not enjoying my largess at all.

I was a temporary Boy Scout

B O Y   S C O U T   M E M O R I E S

I so wanted to be a Boy Scout! My best friend Larry, my partner in crime since we were 2 year old terrors living next door to each other and spending all day each day driving our mothers to drink and an early grace, to hear them talk about it, had been going to Cub Scouts at his family’s church. He invited me to go, but since we weren’t Lutherans, I wasn’t sure I would fit in. He kept asking, though, and I finally agreed to go with him.

The den met in the Family Hall at the Lutheran Church, an imposing structure for an 8 year old boy, maybe for an adult as well, at the time, although I don’t know. The only Lutheran’s I knew of were Larry’s parents, neither of whom was large or impressive. Larry was even taller and skinnier than I was at the time, and people often said I needed “to stand twice to make a shadow”!  I was properly intimidated when I walked into the cavernous hall, to join several dozen boys my age in learning the mysteries of scouting. Most of the boys had uniform shirts and hats, ribbons and braid festooning them like military decorations. I wanted my own shirt and hat, too, but that would have to wait, I found out, until I had filled out an application and paid the fees and dues.

The Scout pack was working on knots that night, and I was soon sitting among a group of other boys as perplexed at the complexities of tying knots as I was. We each had a length of rope, a book demonstrating the techniques of knotting and a buddy to work with. I tied every variation of “granny” knot known to man that night, eventually collapsing in gales of laughter at my inability to master the bow hitch and the other knots I had never even known existed. The Scout leader made the rounds, demonstrating the steps to each group and commenting on the efforts displayed as each boy tried to perform the skills necessary to meet the requirements for the badge. Larry and I worked together, egging each other on as we were used to doing in our other daily lives. Neither of us made any measurable gains in knot-tying skills, but we had a great time.

When I got home that evening, I told my dad I didn?t think I was cut out for scouting, because I couldn?t learn the knots. He laughed and told me it wasn?t nearly as hard as I thought, then spent the next hour guiding me through a series of increasingly difficult knots, including the bow hitch, that he had learned when he was in the Navy. I still remember that night, the stories he told me about being in the Navy and the knots, especially that darned hitch, a knot I still use to this day! I only went to a few more Scout pack meetings, and then we moved to another town, and, since I didn?t know anyone, I had no reason go to any more Scout meetings.

I was the Fastest Gun Alive!

W H E N   I   W A S   Y O U N G … A n d   f a s t !

I got a Have Gun, Will Travel holster set when I was 8; the twin holsters and felt hat were Christmas gifts from my Grandfather. I wore them proudly, the only two-gun kid in my neighborhood. We played Cowboys all the time, those days; not so much “Indians”, except as an occasional threat. We had forts and kept an eye out of Injuns on the warpath, but we were more interested in gunfights, mimicking behavior from the many westerns on TV. Every kid I knew had a holster set, usually the Gunsmoke set or the Lone Ranger set, and we terrorized the neighborhood, reliving those thrilling days of yesteryear, holding shoot-outs that put the Gunfight at the OK Corral to shame.

I was a dual threat, capable of drawing and firing off a string of caps with either hand; my friends inevitably fell before the firepower from my matching set of pistols. My friend Larry and I would stride toward each other, hands at the ready, steely eyes intent on the other’s, watching for any sign of reaching to draw. At the slightest movement, my hands would flash to the holsters and draw the pistols, the sound of caps exploding rapidly as I fired, the smell of the cordite filling my nose, the sweet smell of victory. Larry would drop his pistol, grab his chest and stagger back, “You got me,” he’d gasp before falling, a death rattle that went on and on as he rolled on the ground. I would stand over him, saying properly manly things like, “Let that be a lesson to you, Bad Bob, not to mess with Paladin!” He would twitch, a death spasm that brought additional shots from my cap pistol as he jerked and recoiled, until finally I would have to reload. Then< I would offer him a hand up, and we would stroll away, arms over each other’s shoulders, friends for life!

My holster set was eventually torn beyond repair by the repeated jerking of the guns from it, in fast draw “contests” and I moved on to other games. Recently, I saw the same holster set, new in the box, the way it had been that long ago Christmas, and the price was only $350.00. Who knew? I amsure, though, that I got far more value than that the three or four months I was the ?Fastest Gun Alive?, in my neighborhood, that winter and spring of 1958. I don?t think I would have passed up the opportunity to strap on those twin pistols, for the promise of even that much money almost 50 years later.

No children were harmed in the retelling of this story. All characterizations are colored by the effects of time on the memory.