Flashbacks: My Story So Far

Flashbacks, Part 11. September 19th, 1999.

2011-04-26T06:12:00.000-07:00

Flashbacks Part 9. September 19th, 1999.

It was 4:30 in the morning. I had fallen asleep before I was done packing the U-Haul. I had to get busy; we had to be in Sacramento that afternoon, and leave behind no trace of our lives here in Lakeport.

* * * * * * *

A year of misery: that's how I would describe it now. Not that it didn't have its shining moments of happiness and accomplishment. This time frame housed many milestones for us, indelibly etched in our family's history. But a year of new opportunities was what it was supposed to be, but the way the twelve months ended seemed to overshadow anything pure that had come before, erasing the joyous memories from our minds. In the end, we were scared and desperate, isolated from our friends and family; rats scrambling to desert the rapidly sinking ship.

* * * * * * *

I picked up working where I had left off, jamming all of our belongings into a 20-foot trailer while Patty and John slept. After they arose, I would disassemble John's crib and load it; we still had our handy –dandy Pack and Play to fall back on. The trick was going to be getting out of there before we had to deal with our landlords, the Cramers. To us, they were the poster children for everything notoriously despicable about Lake County. When we had found out just two weeks earlier that I had been approved for my job transfer to Sacramento (it was to be one of three locations, we didn't know which one yet…) we were most happy that we were going to keep all of our teeth. Spend a day in Lake County, and you'll know what I'm talking about. This was going to be tricky too because earlier that week, both my Nissan Sentra and Patty's Mazda 626 were repossessed. Obviously, the lady at Mendo-Lake Credit Union whom I had been dealing with didn't trust me to come through as I had last time I was overly late and we had set up a deal. The repos occurred at 8:30 in the morning, 3 days before I would have the money ready. Painfully, this was how Patty finally realized how hopelessly screwed our finances had become under my care. We were spiraling out of control in an endless cycle of getting payday advances to pay our already late bills, only to pay them off in order to get more. Finally, we couldn't even pay these on time anymore. The last few days of work at the Lakeport Safeway saw me arrive on Patty's mountain bike. It was a ride of over five miles, but at least we didn't have to keep up the façade for long I simply told people that our car was in the shop. The only person at work that I did confide in was 40-year-old redheaded decorator, Donna. As we ran out of timethis weekend, she and her "old man" were kind enough to let us put some of our stuff into their shed; stuff that would have otherwise been left behind for the inbreeds. Later, I would come and collect this stuff on a reconnaissance mission right before going to work again on Tuesday morning.

Packing and preparations took longer than expected, and we still had to stop at Safeway one last time to pick up a money order. It was already way past noon on a Sunday, and we had a 3:30 appointment at the rental office of the apartment complex Patty had found online. (Thank God for the Internet!) By the time we hit the traffic snarl on the I-5, we were seriously pushing the clock. The sun was setting as Destiny's Child's "Bills, Bills, Bills" played on the radio. We had already called ahead on our bulky cell phone to warn the apartments we were running behind, and that would have been OK, but by the time we had gotten there, they had just closed. Our only option was to cash our money order at the Safeway I would be working at in twelve hours, and find a place to crash for the night. We had a personal check from Patty's mom to cover the hotel costs come morning, but that's another nightmare story…). Somewhere near the apartments and my work sounded good, we didn't want to get too lost. We pulled into the Vagabond Executive on Arden Way. I felt lower than dirt as I was completely ignored in the lobby for fifteen minutes as other people checked right in. Perhaps I looked scruffy, standing there unshaven, in clothes dirty from moving, but at that point, we just wanted to sleep, and these people were being too snobby to realize we actually had money we wanted to spend there.

We pulled onto Howe Avenue, idling at the first place that we saw, the Best Western Expo Inn. There were other people in line (it was busy that night), but we were welcomed with open arms, and eventually we got to check in, Yes! As we opened the upstairs room, it was reaching up on midnight, and the Powerpuff Girls was the random show that appeared as we flicked on the TV. I was set to crash, but did a check for my work clothes and realized they were the first things I had loaded in the truck. I went down to the parking lot, and surveying our compacted belongings, climbing some boxes in order to reach the constricted crawlspace above our furniture and other possessions, shimmying on my stomach to reach "Grandma's Attic". As my head hit the pillow a half an hour later, I knew that this was is where we would find our new opportunity at last.

I was brimming with confidence that together, Patty and I could accomplish anything.

Flashbacks, Part 10. A summer's day in 1998.

2009-01-08T02:45:00.000-08:00

A summer's day in 1998.

" I can't believe this crap."

"What is it, John?"

"The one baker, Walter, he didn't show up for his shift today."

"Why not?"

"Well, he asked me if he could have this day off about a month ago, so that he could go to Sacramento and renew some sort of license or something. I told him to write it down and remind me, so that I could schedule him off. Well, I told him back then that I would take care of it, and I forgot about it, and now he's already taken off."

"But he was scheduled to be there today?"

"Right."

"Why are they telling you this?"

"They want me to go in today."

"Just tell them no, you're home with your family today."

"I already told them I'd go in."

"John, you told me you would stay home today. I can't take care of John by myself right now, please call them back and tell them you can't make it in."

We were barely removed from our visit to the psychic lady in Fort Bragg who operated from her home. She too, had suffered severe post-partum depression, and had recommended Paxil to help stabilize the feelings of helplessness and panic that would seize my young wife.

"Look", I said, the agitation growing in my voice, "this Store Manager already bitched me out in his office the other day for giving away a sixteen dollar cake for half an hour. HALF AN HOUR! I don't want to lose my job over this."

"John, this is important, don't leave me alone with John right now, I can't handle it. Please, I'm begging you."

"All right, all right, I'll call them back in a minute and tell them I'm sorry, I can't make it in."
"Really? Do you promise?"

"I promise."

"Thank you, I just can't cope right now. Yesterday I just froze up for an hour, and prayed that he would just stay asleep. Your work will just have to understand that you're already scheduled off, and you can't make it in.

Could you just come here and lay down with me until I fall asleep, please? Right now, I just want to get some rest."

"Sure thing, honey."

And as I wait for my wife to fall asleep, I was contemplating how I had just blatantly lied to her face. As soon as I was sure that she was out cold, I got up from the bed, and was heading for the door. I tried calculating how long I could be gone without her noticing my absence, having no clue the future effects my deception was going to have.

Flashbacks, Part 9. A summer's day in 1994.

2009-01-06T16:50:00.000-08:00

Originally posted September 19th, 2006.

Note from the author: I am jumping through the tumultuous teenage and younger adult years. I have not been inspired to write about them yet, although not for lack of material. Quite the converse is true. Perhaps when I am done with the story that I am curently telling, I will go backwards a little and cover that ground.- 1-10-08

Some names have been changed to protect the innocent and unaware.

My heart froze.

"What are you staring at man?"

"You remember that song Crush that I showed you?"

"Yeah...?"

"That's her!"

"Oh!"

My friend Ray and I had walked from my apartment into town that afternoon, and now we were standing on the sidewalk in front of the Ukiah 6 theater. Approaching the ticket window were a solitary woman in her early twenties and her son.

"Where are you going?"

"I'll be right back!"

Carrie was a girl I had indeed had a crush on in high school. I think the first time I had met her was through some mutual accquaintances, strolling around residential Ukiah, somewhere between Pomolita and Todd Grove Park. She was a year younger than me, Class of 1990. She was tall, probably 6 feet, but I saw that that fact didn't matter so much, for at that time, she was dating a guy that was close to the same height as me. I think I was impressed with her natural beauty, she had a face that didn't need any makeup to look elegant. We never got to hang out all that many times, and it was almost always in a crowd, although we kind of had two different crowds, and we didn't cross paths too much, unless of course, there was partying involved. That's the universal language of teenagers in Ukiah.

For a brief time in high school, when class let out for the day, and everyone would begin walking home or to find something to do in town, I would pick the best rose I could find off of one of the bushes on Low Gap, and seek her out to give it to her. She would always smile appreciatively, but never say anything. I always saw her as kind of shy in that manner. I think that we each became involved with other people soon enough, and so, I put my admiration for her to the side.
As I was walking towards her, I was trying hard to bolster my courage and figure out what I was going to say. I was determined to ask her out on a date of some sort.

I know that in high school, everyone goes through a whole series of crushes on different people, all in varying degrees of seriousness. Most of mine had played out in some manner or another by now. Either I had made a move on them at some point, or we had become friends, or they had settled down. This was maybe the only one I had never had an oppurtunity to explore, and I was sure that if she was seeing somebody, there would have been three people there buying tickets instead of two.

As I got about twenty feet away, panic started to set in.

What if she doesn't even remember who you are?

That was a distinct possibility. She had already had more serious boyfriends since that time frame in which I had flirted with her, plus had a kid with someone, in the brief time that she had left Ukiah maybe five years prior. Then I would look like a complete stalker, bothering her and her kid as they're just trying to go to the movies. I turned around and walked back.

"I just couldn't do it! I was too nervous!"

"You're going to have to tell me the whole story about this girl..."

"There's not that much too it, but I will. Next time I see her though, I will for sure say something to her."

But I haven't seen her since.

Flashbacks, Part 8. Goodbye. Fall 1993-?

2008-05-06T22:41:00.000-07:00

The young man stepped forward to the front of the church, ready to hear what the guest ministers had to say about his heart's own wounds. The older couple laid their hands on his shoulders, as was apt to happen in this church. He felt neither awkward nor uncomfortable, he had grown very accustomed to the positive feelings he felt when he was here. He was neither judged nor condemned here. The older woman began to sob sorrowfully. She said something about his mother (in his mind, he knew this to mean his birth mother), and his child heart being very deeply hurt. Although he knew this to be true, his own reaction to this surprised him. He suddenly felt very cold and aloof, something he had never felt here before. He took his seat, unable to process what he was thinking, devoid of any discernible emotion. After the congregation adjourned that day, and he turned to walk out the doors, for reasons he could not explain, he felt like it was goodbye.

Originally posted May 5th, 2008

Flashbacks, Part 7. A Day in 1984.

2008-03-08T21:47:00.000-08:00

Flashbacks, Part 7. A summers day in 1984...

I was restless. It wasn't even noon yet, and I was bored of hanging around my dad's paint store already. It wasn't really his, but in my mind, it was synonymous with his work. It would be past 3:30 before a bus would run from the corner of North State and Low Gap all the way back to our house in the Valley; and analyzing the different patterns of wallpaper in the numerous oversized sample books, or playing secret hideout in the back storeroom no longer held the appeal that it did when I was nine.

I was restless, and something was stirring inside of me.

Like a volcano, that had lay dormant and was now seething below the surface, something was struggling to get out.

I told my dad that I was going for a walk, and on my way out the door, I deftly pocketed a can of black Krylon spray paint. An internal voice told me I would be needing this.

I walked down Ford Street, until I came to a bridge, where the road crosses over the creek. Growing up in Ukiah, I never met a set of train tracks or underbelly of a bridge where I didn't feel a little more free.

Staring at the canvas of cement that now bore only scrawls, I let my feelings of frustration (with no one in particular, and yet at everything in the world), go. I formed in words large enough to obscure everything else, Crucify Authourity. My boiling emotions were partially sated, but not fully. Turning to the other wall, I wrote equally imposingly, I Fuck My Mother. Assessing my work, I was a little shocked that such emphatic messages had just been immortalized by my own hands. Climbing the embankment back up to the road, walking back to the store, I felt a little outside myself: perplexed yet enthralled by my actions.

Flashbacks, Part 6. 1981-1982, Manchester.

2008-03-02T08:25:00.000-08:00

Originally posted May 20th, 2006

The highlight of each month was going to the coast for the weekend. It may not have been every single month, but it seems that way in retrospect. I guess those were some pretty good times.
My dad never came with Elaine and I to the beach house in Manchester. That was kind of our own special thing to do. We always tookm the Anderson Valley route, passing the pear orchards on the southern outskirts of town, past the Junior Academy, then on to Boonville, and the smallest town I have ever seen, Philo. We would always stop in Boonville for grub, for she was usually picking me up after school on Friday afternoon on coast weekends. We always went to Bahl Ghorms for hamburgers, and then (sometimes) across the street to Horn of Zeese for dessert. I remember on the wall at Horn of Zeese they had the Garfield strip where he's bathing in the cup of coffee and Jon is asking him if he's having fun yet on the wall there. If you are pondering why these establishments have such strange names, you must be reading this from Sacramento, not Ukiah. Ah, to grow up in Mendocino County...there is a culture all its own.

Boonville is a small town with its own language, called Boontling. The story goes, that the parents made up a way to communicate so that the kids couldn't understand roughly a hundred years ago, a Pig Latin for adults, if you will. To the uninitiated, it would seem weird to go to the telephone booth, and instead of it saying Telephone, it would instead read Bucky Walter or something else that sounds like a Dead Milkmen album. Bahl Ghorms translates as "good eating" and Horn of Zeese is "cup of coffee" if memory serves correctly.

From there, the trek to the coast always took a treacherous turn. Any path to the ocean from Ukiah involves a lot of winding roads, and the particular scent of the leather that BMW used in their interiors, coupled with the motion sickness inducing cornering, would never fail to make me nauseous. I can only remember one time we made it all the way to ocean air without having to pull over for a puke break.

Once to Manchester, we would enter the Irish Beach community, mostly vacation homes. I recall knowing that this was kind of an exclusive area because I had never seen a neighborhood where you needed a magnetic card to raise the barrier arm to the entrance before. There was at least one other kid that I would run into from time to time at Irish Beach, a girl about the same age as myself, who lived in one of the first couple of houses near the entry driveway at the top of the hill. Elaine's beach house was further down the road, not all the way to the bottom though. Sometimes it was just us there, but quite often, her soon to be divorced husband, Bob was there, as well as their black furred Bouvier dog, Beau.

The beach house was beautiful, one main floor with a deck that entered to a dining nook, a small kitchen, a living room with beach view bay windows, two bedrooms and a loft that overlooked a small gated patio. There was a carpeted stairwell that led to a sub half floor containing a bunk bed, bathroom, and sauna that featured some heated beach stones, that we would pour water onto to produce steam. That sub floor is where I would usually stay, which was cool; it had a sliding door exit to the slender, rocky path down the face of the hill to the beach.

Once to the sand, on your right view were some rocks, and around the corner to the right, if you went far enough, a really cool cove. I know that I went pretty far that direction with either Bob or another kid one day, I can'r remember for sure which. Past the cove, we came upon an entire wall of large anemones, an image burned into my memory by the vividness of the colors. Also to the right were some rocks that about once a year, when the tide would recede enough, were a great place to pluck abalone from. Too bad I am deathly allergic to the mollusks. To the left, easily accessed, was the edifice known as Big Rock. Big Rock was a good source of fun, I spent many hours climbing its surface. Right before Big Rock, there was an small inlet stream to the ocean, coming from the hills, through the driftwood and foliage. I tried in vain to track it to its source before, I had heard it started as a mere trickle far up in the mountain, however, the path became inaccessable after a point. My favorite beach activity was to stand almost knee deep in the water, and wait for the tide to roll in around me. As the sea went out, and the sand would shift around my feet, and I would become deeper and deeper embedded in sand, I would imaginemyself being carried inch by inch out to the ocean by the quickening tide. I really believed that this was happening, and it took a long time to figure out that I wasn't really moving, it was the illusion of sand and tide coming in, but nonetheless, I would spend hours doing this, at least until the tide got up around my waist. *(A couple years after this, I had a very vivid nightmare in which I was taken to a beach, but not this beach, by Elaine and my dad, and as I turned around to say something to them, I was caught in an undertow, and carried out to sea, and my dad swam out and brought me back in. This one dream was so realistic, the only reason I know it was a dream and not a memory, was that I know I had never been to the particular stretch of beach that was material in my dream.)

When Bob was there, he would coerce me into going jogging on the beach with him. Usually this would be a three or four hour excursion. We would bury our sandals in the sand at the base of the trail, and retrieve them at the end of our running. The wet sand felt good underneath my feet, but I could not keep up with Bob, and he had no intention of waiting up for me, but still, I loved the beach. The farthest we ever went was to the Point Arena Lighthouse. Well, he got there and it was in my sight by the time we turned around. As long as I could avoid the sand fleas that habitated near the washed up kelp and seaweed, I was OK with the solitude and ocean air. When we would return, usually between noon and 1 pm, Elaine would have an enormous pancake feast ready for us.

I don't think Bob was ever intentionally cold to me, but there was definitely a strange vibe there. He was a tall man, definitely over 6 feet tall, slightly thin, but not what you would call athletic. He had a mass of vericose veins in his legs and feet, I'm sure all that jogging on hard sand didn't help. I could kind of see why Elaine got burned out on him though. He was very intelligent and well read, I was always reading from their library there when Elaine was not continuing my father's Sunday comic book tradition by satiating me with Super Friends or Battle of the Planets, but Bob seemed to be the type of guy that would always want to win the intellectual conversation, rather than hear the other side of the argument. He seemed very structured, not extremely spontaneous, and a little withdrawn into himself. I could understand his resentment with the odd little arrangement that seemed to be going on, (to this day, I'm not sure what the whole deal was between him and Elaine, who was supposed to have access to what properties at what times or what..), but even though at times, he seemed to be very annoyed and cranky, he did always manage to be civil to me.

One thing I really hated about the coast was the abundance of ticks that were there. I know the dog had them a bit, and I can recall at least three times I had to have them removed from my scalp. Gross.

There was no television at the beach house, I don't even remember there being a radio, but I never minded.

There was one time, that Bob found a abandoned baby seal on the shore, and we had it at the beach house in the tub until Marine Animal Rescue (or whatever the authorities were) showed up. I used to have a cool photo of I and the little girl from the house at the top of the hill holding it, but I have no idea what happened to it.

The first time I ever drove vehicle was at the coast. someone let me drive their Jeep through this huge field of purple, yellow, and white lupine there. I wish I could say I was a natural at driving, but I can't. Perhaps thats why I was 24 before I ever got my driver's licence.
Elaine never yelled at me that often, or did she have reason to, but there are just certain things in your life you never forget, no matter if they are large or small. She would always get groceries at this little store, halfway between Point Arena and Manchester, a fine little market, similar to Wildberger's in Ukiah, maybe just a hair bigger inside. One day we were shopping there, and she had run into some friends, so she was talking to them while she put groceries into the cart. I had really been wanting a Ring Pop, and she was preoccupied, so I just put it into the cart. Upon checkout, it was discovered, and rightfully, I got yelled at for jsut assuming she would get it without asking permission. I felt so bad, just thinking about it now makes me feel guilty.
I always enjoyed these trips to the coast, they made me feel really great. I will always treasure them in my memories of my life's experiences.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ultimately, Elaine broke it off with my father. He later told me that he asked her to not break off her relationship with me. He felt (then?) that I was suffering from female abandonment issues. I don't think I ever did see Elaine or Bob again after that.

Flashbacks, Part 5. 1981-1982.

2008-02-15T11:19:00.000-08:00

Originally posted May 6th, 2006.

I don't exactly know where my dad met Elaine. At first, she would hang out at the paint store that my dad used to manage, you know the one, that used to be right there across from The Music Hut on one side, and across the street was Wright Stuff Pizza (I think they were brand new at this point.) Even though I was only 10 at the time, I could tell that she was hot. She must have been in her forties, if not pushing fifty, but her body was still toned, though her skin was starting to show the effects of years of tanning. Her hair was a silvery white, and yet her demeanor was vibrant and youthful. I can see why my dad was attracted to her. She would always show up in the afternoon sometime, driving her coffee brown Beemer. Man, I loved that car, but the smell of the leather that they used in those seats would overpower me sometimes. Not even the sheepskin seat covers could conceal that particular odor that lingers in my senses to this day.

My father hadn't really dated that much, at least that I saw, since Mom had died about four years prior. Except for the one lady when I was eight, Debbie, whom I didn't even meet (or hear of) until we took a weeks vacation to a trailer park in Klamath Falls, Oregon. I guess that purpose of that visit was to determine whether or not they were going to get married. It turns out the answer was no. I have no recollection of this, but apparently, I woke in the middle of the night (I still wet the bed at this point), and they were in the process of getting down and dirty. I asked what they were doing, and my dad explained to me calmly that they were making love. I guess Debbie freaked out about that, and my dad figured that it wasn't going to work. It's OK, her two children, both younger than myself, annoyed me the whole time I was there.

But two years had passed since then, and Elaine wasn't like that other lady. She was a woman of the world, and her confidence was overflowing.

I know that Elaine and my dad would often go out together, presumeably to parties and night life, but to me it seemed that just as often, Elaine was taking me to her house. Now, I cannot recall my father ever coming to her house, or to her beach house in the Manchester Irish Beach community. This was because Elaine was married. I don't remember questioning any of this, but I was aware of it, and almost instantly, it was part of the routine.

Elaine (and Robert) owned a massive house just south of Ukiah, before Hopland; out behind Retech, behind the part of the hill visible from the highway, on a paved driveway that branched off from a dirt road. There was parking/ turnaround area, centered by a tall oak tree. There were two short sets of stairs down to the house, and if you looked to the right you would see a barn and stables. I believe they only had one horse (there may have been two), they used to belong to their adult daughter, who still had a bedroom readied on the top floor. That's where I would sleep when spending the night. The main entrance was through the kitchen, though you could also step down into the basement type area from the front. That was where the laundry was done, and there was a small utilty room, and some couches down below as well. Connected to the kitchen there was a walk in pantry, a dining room which was almost never used, and the spacious step down living room, bedecked with white carpeting and huge bay windows. The living room was very much the center of the house, as the second floor rooms all overlooked it, from the cluttereed den on the outer edge where Robert spent most of his time if he was there, to the secondary bedrooms and bathroom, in which was encased a laundry chute to the basement, so that from every floor, you could deposit your dirty clothes directly to the hamper below. This provided hours of entertainment for me. The master bedroom was on the northern corner of the main floor, and it in itself was nothing much, but the master bathroom was something magnificent. A marble bathtub, I can't even really call it a bathtub, it was a small swimming pool, it even had steps. I did get to take a bubble bath in the "pool" a couple of times, I swear there had to be enough water for a small lake in there....It was not what I was accustomed to, seeing how at home we only had well water. There was a a "pump house" and a small holding tank that hit an underground stream at home. I can remember having to conserve water very carefully during the drought years of the seventies and early eighties, always getting concerned if the needle on the gauge would slip close to zero.

Yes, it was a different lifestyle I was being shown for that period. I know that Elaine had a good paying job, I can't seem to recall what it was, but I know that Robert did very well as a doctor in Ukiah, for a time. Elaine was very good to me. She would take me to Deerwood, and while she played tennis, I was learning to swim. There was one time, before I was really confident in my swimming abilities, that I was getting cramps, and I was calling for help. She ran up after about 5 or ten minutes, but right as she got there, I was able to cling to the edge of the pool. She was pissed. But she got past it. Much like my dad had made a ritual out of taking me to Rick's Donuts down in Pear Tree Center for a sugar donut each Sunday when I was little, or in years later, we would stop and get a Svenhard's Apple Strudel and A San Francisco Chronicle at the Redwood Valley Store, Elaine would always get me an Eskimo Pie from the poolside concession. Sometimes we would go to the Redwood Health Club, and she would play raquetball, and I would swim in the big pool there.

I know that I spent two Christmas' at the house in South Ukiah, helping her to top icebox cookies with different decors, or making peanut butter fudge (that stuff was good). These were among my most cherished memories of my time with her. Each year, they would get a gigantic tree for the living room, that was almost the heighth of the two floors. If it had been placed closer, you could have touched the top of the tree from the walkway that extended the perimeter of three quarters of the second floor.

It was also at the Ukiah house that I may have experienced one of the most embarassing moments of my young life. I loved to read. Books were my constant companion on long trips my dad would take to dog shows all over the state. I was always reading on the bus to school, and to town to hang out at the paint store. Well, I had just finished reading the book adaption of Raiders of the Lost Ark. In the part I had just read, the girl had just laid a big fat tongue kiss on Indiana Jones. Somehow, I had got this into my head that this was how you showed affection to women. I was giving Elaine a big hug in the living room, and as I was going for a peck, I inserted my tongue into her mouth, causing much shock and revolt to her. She explained that this was inappropriate behavior, and wondered where I had learned such a thing. I had told her I read it in a book, and she corrected my action. Right after that, I heard her call my dad at work. Yeah, well, how was I to know that was wrong? That was really one of the few times that I felt like I had let her down. She had a happy demeanor except for when I did something that was really truly wrong.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
to be continued.

Flashbacks, Part 4. 1979

2008-01-06T21:50:00.000-08:00

You can hum that Billy Corgan tune in the background if you want...

The first year after Mom died was hard on my dad. He bore his grief as he did with all of the hurtful things in his life; visibly he would go through the process of healing, silently he added the weight to the load. For that year at least, he tried to respect my mom's wishes for me, until his parenting direction took over again. We went to the Seventh Day Adventist Church for that year, for the sake of Mom's friends there, until my father could no longer keep up his facade. I left Calpella Elementary School to begin attending The Junior Academy, to be spiritually educated as my mother had made my father promise...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

At least there was one familiar face there. Of the eight people I had gone to preschool with at the house at Oak Knoll, Allison Trout was also attending the UJA. I would have preferred that this daughter of a local dentist had been in my homeroom though.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The covered hallways between the classrooms and the grass fields used for baseball were a fun place to play when it rained. Most of the other kids seemed to favor staying inside the classrooms during rainy day recesses though. Sometimes I would join them and read books from the classroom bookshelf. It was here that I learned about the history and personalities of the Harlem Globetrotters. The school library had more books, to be sure, but there seemed to be a pervasive propaganda twist that I could never reconcile myself to. There was one fictional book in particular that I remember, called Sermon in the Sand, about missionaries to a remote isolated island. The specific passage that stayed with me concerned the tribal chieftain, who was diametrically opposed to the presence of the missionaries. But one night, from a distance, he heard them singing worship songs by the campfire. This singing affected him at a spiritual level, even though he didn't want it to, because it challenged his core beliefs.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

To the eastern side of the elementary classrooms was a small playground, with a slide, jungle gym, swings, a sandbox, and two teeter totters. This area overlooked a vineyard, and was shaded by oak trees. In the fall, when the leaves would fall, I would bury myself in the leaves, becoming completely immersed, until I could no longer be seen. Most of the year, there were yellow mustard flowers in bloom, of which I would eat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Just as it was at every other elementary school in the late seventies and burgeoning eighties, the cafeteria food sucked. I would look forward to the occasional school fundraiser, when they would sell French bread pizza (the current trend) and Kool-Aid. The rest of the time, I subsisted on a brown bag lunch, in which my dad would insist on packing a thermos of buttermilk, "for nutrition". This I would promptly throw out every day. After a while, I stopped eating lunch altogether, and would either give it away, or more often, throw it away. I remember being caught in the act one day by a larger, brown haired kid named James.

"So you're the one who's throwing out his lunch!"

Great, now it was a manhunt on campus, and I was nervous 'cause I was caught. I think the teachers must have gotten wind of this and told my dad, because after that, we reached a compromise. I now received peanut butter and honey sandwiches every day, but I still had to pitch that nasty buttermilk.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Among my Christmas presents that year, I received a glow in the dark Wham-O Frisbee. If I couldn't find one of my school buddies to play catch with, I would entertain myself on the basketball courts with a trick I discovered. I would launch the frisbee at the faded asphalt, trying to achieve a parallel angle. Much like skipping a stone on the water, the momentum from the skimming projectile would launch it back into the air, and it would hover to the other end of the court.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There was a curious ceremony that would take place on the bus that took us to school on the southern outskirts of Ukiah each day. The bus driver would always make a pit stop at the little Oak Knoll Grocery store for about ten minutes before we would arrive at school. There, we kids would load up on candy cigarettes and Terra Pan 10 cent candies, you know the kind: Fireballs, Atomic Jawbreakers, Alexander The Grape, and my personal favorite, Lemonheads. We would imbibe our sugar, and then emulate the adults we knew who smoked, blowing a cloud of dust from our cancer stick shaped gum.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My school picture that year was probably the worst of my school career. (Even worse than the one I would have a few years later in fifth grade, when I tried to look cool by keeping my eyes a little droopy, and ended up holding one shut. That was the year all the kids called me "Popeye".) It wasn't so bad that I had the psychedelic printed button up long sleeve, or the perpetually not-quite-combed hair that never appeared to be cut symmetrically, but rather something more noticeable. I had been sick about a month prior to Picture Day, and I had developed a rather annoying running nose. Even after all the other symptoms faded, that one persisted. Eventually, it caused a tender spot below my nose, which promptly got infected and scabby with pus. It took me two months to rid myself of this affliction, even with tedious care and tons of medicated ointments. Suffice it to say, this was one school photo I was not eager to hand out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My first foray into entrepreneurialism was in my second grade classroom. I had gathered about six small toys of mine, and arranged them on my desk before class started. Underneath these toys, I placed a sheet of paper, with prices listed to correspond with my merchandise. The crown jewel of this collection was a little unicorn figure, which I was selling for 25 ¢, while everything else was 15 ¢ or less. I was considerate enough to simply leave my wares on display once class started, but not proactively engage in conversation about them. The teacher then informed me that what I was doing was against the rules. My dad's response would become family lore for years to come, "He's just being a good capitalist!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As I would be for a few more years to come, I was a small kid for my age and my grade. Sometimes this made me an easy target for bullies. One day, near the end of my time at this school, three eighth graders grabbed me out on the field, and then swung me by my wrists and ankles, 1-2-3, heaving me as far as they could. When they saw that I was obviously hurt, they tried to cover up, so that they wouldn't be tattled on. They picked me up, and deposited me on a white, table like structure, over by the elementary side. I laid there for the remainder of lunch, until someone noticed me there. After a trip to the nurse's office, I dragged myself back to class. My dad was irate at the school, but I didn't know who the bullies were, so there were no consequences handed out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

One day, my homeroom teacher made me angry for reasons I cannot even recall now. In retaliation, I wrote in my Skilpak before turning it in, "I hate you, Mrs. ______." Upon seeing this, my teacher became distraught and called my dad at work. He reasoned with her that the emotions of children run in extremes, they love you one minute, they hate you the next. In short, you can't take them at face value or get your feelings hurt by them. I ended up going to the principal's office where I was threatened with The Paddle Of Corporal Punishment ®~! Actually, it was a paddle without the ball, painted with some sort of message. Although that particular ass whipping never transpired, the one from my father did. This day was the beginning of the end of my time in private school, not because of my actions, but because my Dad realized that he couldn't hang with the ideology of this school. He had tried to fulfill my mom's wishes for me, but now it was strictly up to him, and he had to do what he thought was best.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Upon my triumphant return to public school at Calpella, some kids recognized me, and wondered where I had been for over a year. I was glad to be back. I had missed the weekly morning assemblies, the partitioned walls on rollers, my cubby drawer. They were just starting a chess club, although I only managed to get on the novice board rankings for one week, it was something fun to do.

Although I would now resume my career of racking up Student of the Month Awards, another trend was about to begin away from school: that of waiting. Waiting in the Chevrolet at Denny's while my dad ate brunch with some of mom's friends (and him getting pissed when I kept honking the horn for him to come out), waiting outside in the car at the Coach House, while my dad spent time in the Cantina (although I did get bribed with chocolate mousse if I had to wait a long time), and waiting outside (and sometimes inside ) of Vic's Place or Harold's Club, while my father tried to drown his grief…

Flashbacks, Part 3. The end of the seventies.

2008-01-01T18:59:00.000-08:00

Mom's funeral was yesterday. It was at the little graveyard by our neighbors house. I only know that I was there because Dad told me that we both went. I still don't remember any of it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I awoke around midnight. The sheets beneath me were not even wet yet. My father's face was illuminated by light from the hallway, though the rest of my room remained dark.
"Go back to sleep, John. Everything is fine."
Before I turned back onto my side to slumber, I saw in my dad's hand the glint of the brown handled boning knife.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That morning when I awoke, gazing out the front door towards the kennel my Dad had constructed from 4 by 4 posts, covered in cracking yellow paint and now rusting thick square wire mesh, I noticed only four afghan hounds where last night there had been thirteen. I walked to the back of the house, where tall pine trees that swayed ominously with each heavy wind provided shade for the unused shed, which I would sometimes imagine as my own house when I would play. As I stepped over the dried weeds to the area where the ground became simply dirt, I noticed a subtle, but wide indentation in the ground, as if a massive hole had been dug, then filled back in.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Even though it was just the two of us now, we still attended the massive Seventh Day Adventist church in the back streets of South Ukiah. At least for a little while. From the street, you could see Hillside Hospital, and the rolling lawns in front, right before it turned into Laws Avenue. I liked the stained glass pictures in the windows, and we could always get a good look at them from where we would perch. We always seemed to settle in the top left hand balcony seats, right next to the little upper level walkway, and right on the other side of the main door. But from our vantage point, the priest speaking in the pulpit seemed very far away. I don't think that we could have chosen a seat farther away, actually.
Sometimes, I would see my Dad breaking down in tears in the middle of the sermon. But he wouold always be fine by the time we would meet Mom's friends for brunch at Denny's later.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We haven't been to church in about a month. We spend a lot more time hanging out with my Dad's friends nowadays. Sometimes my Dad's friend's Rich and Judy, who live on a ranch off of Road I, will babysit me for the night. They have two daughters, Michelle and Janelle. We all take a bath together, and eat Rocky Road ice cream after dinner. Well, they do. Personally, I can't stand Rocky Road. Their mobile home is cool, and their farm is even cooler. They have a huge farm, full of corn and other stuff, a whole shed full of canned goods, such as bread and butter pickles, and a large chicken coop. Michelle and Janelle even have a swing set similar to mine, just about the same really, except theirs has green and yellow candy stripes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Tonight we stayed out until really late at the house of my Dad's friend Dave. He's got some pretty cool property out on Tomki Road. Dave is a sandy haired guy with perpetual stubble, and he seems really nice, if not a little different. He has a lot of cool books in the house at least. Tonight we were barbequeing chicken all night in the two story shed structure down the slope from the shrubbery hidden, but beautiful white house. Dave and my Dad seem really giddy, laughing their heads off. I think we finally ate around 8:30 tonight, but the chicken was rather burned. Dave just said it was Caveman chicken, it was supposed to be like that. At least it was good to see my Dad laugh some.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dad said that Dave is going to be staying with us for a while, just kind of sleeping on our couch for a bit. It turns out Dave is a pretty good artist. He drew a pencil sketch of me from a photo we just had done at K-Mart. It only took him about 10 minutes, but it is completely realistic. It turns out he is into Lord of the Rings and science fiction, just like me. He even named his dog Frodo, after the main character in the book. He has a different way of looking at things than most other adults I've met. He has a really casual attitude about things. I like his dog though. He's a little dog, not like my ours, with one ear bent down, and he has a weird gait, since he limps on two legs, his front right and back left. I asked what breed he was, and he said, "Mutt".

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dave is a really crazy guy, but fun to hang out with. Today he put me in the clothes dryer and turned it on. We both just laughed as I spun around, until my Dad came around the corner of the kitchen to utility room on the south side of the house to see what we was causing so much excitement. It was a short ride, but fun.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We all went over to my Dad's friends Dave and Karen's house in Potter Valley today. They are nice people too. Karen is a dark haired lady who is very sweet, and (the other) Dave is a rather tall gentleman with reddish hair and kind of a thick mustache. At one point tonight, I was standing by the house, and I watched all the adults walk to the side of the shed, across the way. They all seemed to be smoking, which I thought was odd, since the first Dave and Karen don't smoke.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dave who was staying with us, is taking off from Redwood Valley. He told my Dad thanks for letting him stay, but he's hitchhiking to Oregon now. But, he's letting me keep Frodo as my own pet. School is starting up again soon.....

Flashbacks, Part 2, An Interlude. 1977-1980.

2007-12-15T11:08:00.000-08:00

Growing up in the Valley, I didn’t really know how good I had it at the time. I always feel at peace when I revisit home, no matter how old I get. We tend to view the past with an air of nostalgia, tending to forget or gloss over many of the things that might have been awry at the time. This interlude is an insertion into the current chronology of these musings, focused on some of the individuals who were like a second family to me. – J.

In the late spring, the weeds grew wild in the expanse between our house and that of our neighbors, the Winters. As the summer grew long, the sun turned the vast field yellow and dry. The only landmark in between our two houses, besides the vineyard that bordered both our properties on the east, was the old dilapidated chicken coop that my father would later admonish me for playing in, for fear of the rotted structure falling on me. Often, I would spend time at the Winter’s, whenever I was out of school and my dad had to work. I vividly remember one summer, the patriarch, Quinton (or QT, as everyone referred to him), mowing a path from their property to ours, just so I could walk across quickly without getting stickers in my socks. At my age, the effect was awe-inspiring, as the weeds were much taller than myself, and the distance the path ran was at least as long as a football field. Someday, there would be several houses in between, but for then, it was unclaimed, a no man’s land.

June was the mother of the family, having four adult children of her own: Rusty, Duane, Cindy, and Tony. (Later, there would be a running joke about whether I was akin to being her first grandchild or her youngest child). Long before June married the old cowboy, QT, she had lived a couple of years in England as a student.

The yellow house down the road was my home away from home, where I would curl up on my blue beanbag and read Where The Wild Things Are and Just-So Stories. Sometimes I would drape a blanket over two chairs, and create a makeshift fort, able to see what was going on outside by peering through the spaces in the stitching. When it was cold, I would curl up by the gas heater, located in between the dining and living room areas. Every Saturday morning, I would dine on cinnamon toast, a staple of my diet during these years. If it was summer, or school was otherwise out; I would uphold a tradition of eating a lunch of spaghetti with garlic and white pepper at 11:30 am, while watching Underdog and Friends. I enjoyed that cartoon so much, that June even sewed me an Underdog shirt. I do recall that she enjoyed sewing, crocheting, and needlepoint, portioning off a room just for sewing, and the Singer table sewer that was so popular then. [Author’s note: Later, when I was 15, and “ran away from home”, that sewing room became my room for about six months, but that’s another story.]

There was plenty to explore outside the house, as well. I would sometimes linger in the garden, and try to walk through the two large growths of pampas grass that grew tightly together, without getting cut by the razor sharp edges of the leaves. When the patio deck was built, I would often hide under there as well, seeing how long I could avoid detection from the adults. There were also thickly nestled bushes off of the deck area, which I would shimmy and crawl a narrow path through. Somehow, this reminds me of how, in dry weather. I would crawl through the drainage ditch pipe at the base of Road J, until I was too big to fit. By far, the most intriguing spot was underneath the house itself, where there was a miniature lake of foul smelling water. If it hadn’t been raining, there was a beam that I could traverse from one side to the other, but most of the time, I would make my way around the perimeter, where there was substantially higher ground. There was a gully that drained the excess water down the hill, into the roadside ditch, but there was always a huge amount of brackish water underneath, no matter what. It was also possible to crawl from the high ground surrounding the nether-pool to the ground underneath the deck. I’m perplexed as to whatever happened to my fear of spiders and snakes while underneath there.

The other great attraction was the cemetery that was located on the property. I would spend hours upon hours exploring the fenced in area. Some of the graves were as old as the late 1700’s, and with the exception of my mom’s ashes that had been strewn recently there, the newest graves were from the early 1900’s. They were all stone or granite headstones, usually in family clusters, enclosed in little gated fences. The exception was a lone wooden headpiece, uninscribed and split down the middle, reportedly caused by an old lightning strike.

The Winter house itself used to be a coach house in the 1800’s, a rest stop for Wild West travelers arriving by stagecoach. June often told me that she would sometimes see strange lights come up the driveway, but upon inspection, no one was there. She also attributed “misplaced” objects around the house to a poltergeist that she believed had had his origins in those frontier days.

Once every two weeks or so, I would spend a day with “Grandma Pat”, who was, in fact, June’s mother. She lived in a nice, rustic, two story house on West Road, right by the railroad tracks. [Author’s note: for those that know the area, this is the same house that Kyle and Chenene would later live in.] Our activities would usually include going to the flea market or the antique store off of Highway 101 (where Road N had an outlet). I recall the excitement and anticipation of seeing her, and the constant supply of cinnamon flavored Certs that resided in her car’s glove box.

Many other memories were built at the Winter’s house, including climbing trees; watching a greenhouse being built; playing in ivy; chasing ducks; freshly grown lemon cucumbers, strawberries, and mint; eating sourgrass, icebox cookies, riding on top of a truck, and grilled peanut butter, banana, and brown sugar sandwiches.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When my dad came home today, he was in tears. I had a hard time remembering when I had last seen him like this, and I wondered what was wrong.

“There’s been an accident at the mill…QT’s dead.”

A bale of lumber snapped free of it’s fastener while being hoisted above QT’s head. His death was instantaneous, as his body was cut in two.

It hit June the hardest, as her husband was her life up to this point. People gathered together. Duane poured me a brandy, saying, “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
I didn’t really need it, but I drank it anyway.

No one could foresee that this was merely the beginning of tragedies that would befall the Winter family in years to come, most of them appearing suddenly, whenever everyone’s life seemed to be going along pleasantly once more.

Flashbacks, Part One. September 30, 1973.

2007-12-07T00:31:00.000-08:00

Originally posted May 3, 2006.

Mom is home today. I think she made sure to be here for my second birthday. It is a nice day outside. The sun is high in the sky this afternoon, and the way the rays of light come through our kitchen window, it makes my mom's black hair look like there are streaks of gray in it. The giant tree that is visible from our window is still providing a large patch of shade. The bark on the trunk of the tree looks dark, almost black. I don't even think my dad and my mom together could put their arms around the trunk of that tree.

Wait, I see my dad....is that what my present is? It is! They got me swing set! Dad looks so proud of himself. I think he just finished putting it together. It's got everything on it: two swings, a slide, a two person sit down swing, thank you Mom and Dad!

Dad must have worked really hard to put this up by morning. At least it's in a good spot, the slide is in the sahde, and the rocker swings are in the sun. Mom and Dad can see me from the smaller kitchen window on the south side of the house and watch me play all day. And I think that's what I'll do, Dad is going inside to talk to Mom anyway.

These colors are good too. The support poles are white with yellow and brown candy stripes, all the plastic seats are yellow, the rest of the metal parts are brown. I think I heard my Dad say he got this from Sears. I've only seen a swing set like this once before in my life, we were visiting some freinds of my parents, and they had kids too. Their kids were just a little older than me though.

Mom and Dad have been inside for a while now, I think I see the sun getting lower in the sky. Hey! There's this red sawdust here at the foot of the slide. Now there's a monster throwing the sawdust on my new slide. Now I'm going to clean it off. But the monster keeps throwing the sawdust on my slide. Well, I will keep cleaning it off. Wait, I will tell my parents, I bet they will be interested.

"Mommy! Mommy! There's a monster and he keeps throwing sawdust on my new slide!"

SLAP!

"Don't you ever lie to me!"

"I'm sorry Mommy..."

As I begin to cry, her face that was contorted in anger, fades, as she hugs me and puts me on her lap as she sits in her wheelchair.

"Don't you ever lie to me again, John."

Her face expresses her seriousness about this situation. I nod my head. The sharp sting continues to burn in my cheek. I had never known my Mom to be angry before, and she frightened me more than she hurt me today.