Opting for an adventurous career

Serving in the Military as a career doesn’t give you much time to develop long lasting friendships because everyone is moving from one duty station to another every two or three years.  If you’re lucky you might see a former shipmate years later at a different duty station, but by then you both have developed different interests. 

            As mentioned earlier, I joined the Navy because of my cousin’s husband, Lou, and in a way to avoid the draft.  My original Navy pay was about $110 per month gross!  In 1968 my summer job paid $2.82 per hour which in those days was way above the minimum wage of $1.35 per hour. 

After serving about one year in the Navy I was earning the staggering amount of $170 per month and stationed in Hawaii.  With this “staggering” amount of income I took Christmas leave and flew home so, my fiancé, Diane, and I could get married. 

Diane had worked and babysat and sold my old car to put away enough money for our wedding and air fare back to Hawaii.  We were young and dumb and had no idea what we were going to do… we had nowhere to live and very little money left to survive for every long. We figured that we were in love, we were together in paradise… what could go wrong?

            I wasn’t authorized Navy housing nor was I allowed a food allowance as the Navy expected me to eat at the base Galley and live in the barracks.  My salty old Master Chief at the time, a veteran of World War II, Korea and Vietnam told me the tired old line “If the Navy wanted you to have a wife, they would have issued you one with your sea bag!”  Back then the Navy was a ‘man’s world.’  When I reported to my first duty station at Barber’s Point, there was a building with the windows painted over and set off in the middle of a field with 12 foot chain link fencing around the perimeter and barbed wire on top of that.  I was sure that it was the brig… but was told, nope, that’s the “wave cage” where the women sailors lived.  Today the Navy is an integrated Navy with women on ships and living in co-ed barracks.

            Back in the “old days” I couldn’t expect any help from the Navy with a new bride, and definitely wouldn’t dare ask the Navy for help… so I had to ask family for assistance if there was any help to be had.

            We returned to Hawaii and with blind luck found a place to live… in a “tree house” on a farm in Waianae on the Island of Oahu.  We found a beat up old Volkswagen for a whopping $75… Diane helped the old Japanese couple, who owned the property where our “tree house” was located, with the care of their farm animals in exchange for allowing us to rent our tree house rent from them for $75.  I called the place we lived in a “tree house” because it was up on a platform in a group of trees.  I found out that our home was up on this platform to protect it from tsunamis… which I supposed were a recurring hazard back then as they are today. 

          The property was located just across

Farrington Highway

from the beach.  The entire time we lived in the place I was always worried that I would fall through the floor because it was eaten up pretty bad by termites. Diane, who was born and mostly raised in Santa Monica, California was just naturally a surfer, she was exceedingly happy with our situation.  After milking goats and slopping pigs in the morning, which she loved doing she could take her surf board, walk across the highway and surf the rest of the day until I returned home from work.

I was stationed a short distance away at Barber’s Point.  Barbers point isn’t named for any of my ancestors that I know about, it was named for a Captain Henry Barber who wrecked his ship on a coral shoal just off shore in the late 1700s.  

Our tree house had indoor plumbing and electricity, but was ready to fall apart from termite damage.  Diane loved that place.  I would bring home surplus paint that the Navy was going to throw out so we could paint our home.  We didn’t have much choice in the color of the paint… it could be bright red, yellow or Navy blue.  Diane combined the colors to make our little home bright.  I believe the paint mostly held the walls and floors of our place together.

Our tree house actually had three rooms, a bedroom, bathroom and living room. The kitchen was actually more like a closet. It had a small stove and sink. Diane had to stand in the doorway of the kitchen/closet to cook or wash dishes.

One day I returned home from work, went directly to the bathroom and sat down… to my surprise, Diane had that day decided to paint the toilet seat… it was close to dry, but not quite. Diane thought that it was really funny… I didn’t.  On another occasion, Diane was painting the ceiling in our living room. We had to have two old refrigerators to store our food in so the bugs, termites and possible mice couldn’t get to it.  These refrigerators were placed in one corner, so there was a space between the refrigerators and the walls. Diane somehow slipped off the top off a refrigerator, while painting the ceiling, and got stuck between the walls and refrigerators. She spent most of the day stuck until I got home… I thought that it was funny, she didn’t.

            We had a small 10 inch black and white TV, a half dozen wooden crates we used as our book shelves and entertainment center and an old iron framed bed with a lumpy mattress, that came with the place.  We also had two large brightly colored pillows for our furniture that doubled as a couch or chairs.  We were still in our 60’s hippy lifestyle, so we were very trendy.  We could pack all of our household belongings in the wooden crates, load them into the back of our Volkswagen and move within minutes… we didn’t have much of anything and very little money… but we were in paradise.

            After all these years, Diane and I have promised each other that after we die and head for Heaven that we will meet back at our tree house in Hawaii to live in our Heaven for eternity… of course one of our granddaughters overheard our conversation about this and asked if she too could move in with us.

            After Hawaii, the Navy decided to send me to a squadron at Naval Air Station Whidbey Island, Washington… another paradise.

            By now we were eligible for base housing so the Navy put us up in a small cottage on a hill overlooking the Harbor and small town of Oak Harbor, Washington.  We could walk across a broad lawn… which was maintained by the Navy and walk along the sidewalks of town and window shop… we still didn’t have any money so window shopping was a great activity for us.  By now I had been promoted to Third Class Petty Officer.  Then President Nixon got us a substantial pay raise and I made Second Class Petty Officer, so we were able to buy a brand new Ford Pinto hatchback… a reliable car that we could make road trips with. 

By being promoted to a higher pay grade, the Navy also made us move to “upgraded housing” which placed us near the airstrip of Naval Air Station… I wanted to stay in our cottage near Oak Harbor, but the Navy said no.

            Shortly before we moved out of our cottage, Diane had found out that we were going to be parents. At Whidbey Island I discovered that a couple of buddies from little league and high school, Jack and Bobby, were also stationed there. We would get together often for picnics and camping trips.

When Diane was about 6 months pregnant we got the news that Diane’s father had passed away while visiting Mexico.  We loaded up our Pinto and headed home to make arrangements for his funeral. 

Brian was born January 11, 1972 at the Naval Hospital at Whidbey Island.  We were on pins and needles for the month before he came.  At Christmas we went down to Seattle to see Uncle Alvin and his family.  Then on the way home to Whidbey, while waiting in line for the ferry, Diane thought that she was in labor… of course we had to clear out a bunch of cars waiting in line so we could get out of line to make it to the nearest hospital… false alarm.  There were a couple of more false alarms.  The doctor told us that we will have plenty of time to get Diane to the hospital when she went into labor, so I took his word for it.  In the wee hours of January 11^th Diane woke me to tell me that she thought that she was in labor… remembering what the doctor said I told her we had plenty of time then I went back to sleep.  I finally got up, as Diane’s water had broke and she was in fact in active labor… we made it to the hospital in plenty of time as Brian was born later that evening.

My buddy Jack and his wife had a baby boy about the same time that our son, Brian, was born. When the boys were about three months old, We thought that it would be a great idea to rent skis and a camping trailer from the Air Station’s Navy Exchange to go up to Stevens Pass in the Cascade Mountains to go skiing… none of us knew the first thing about skiing. I had a flash back to when my Dad tried to ski down a ramp from our garage/barn roof in Iowa and missed the ramp altogether.  But, I figured that I could ski. I was able to ski down the bunny slope with a bunch of kids, but couldn’t get the hang of stopping, I had to grab a hold of a kid, a tree branch, fall on my butt or ski into a bush to stop. Jack and his wife didn’t even try. I figured that Diane, being the surfer that she was would get the hang of it… but, first you had to get up to the top of the bunny slope by grabbing a hold of a tow rope… I got the hang of it, but Diane grabbed the rope and went head over heal up the hill until she let go of the rope… It was a funny sight.

After one night in a small camping trailer with two crying babies, we decided unanimously to go home… We never tried skiing again, or camping with babies.

            A couple of months later I had to deploy with VAQ-131 onboard the USS Enterprise of the coast of Vietnam.  It was a sad time, I was going to miss Diane and my new son.  Diane kept me up to date on Brian’s accomplishments, crawling and potty training… I had a bunch of great pictures to keep in my locker to look at but didn’t help me much from getting home sick.

I did have a girl in every port while serving in the Navy… my wife, Diane.  As I decided to make the Navy a career while serving on the USS Enterprise in the war zone of Vietnam, they allowed me to reenlist and receive a tax free bonus of about $8,000… we were rich and Diane became a career Navy Wife.  In addition to getting a tax-free bonus for reenlisting I was given the choice of orders… I picked Naval Air Station Sigonella, Sicily.

We were able to pay off our 1972 Pinto hatch back, with some of my reenlistment bonus, buy some baby furniture for Brian and a new washer and dryer.  The Navy packed up our things and shipped them to Italy.  Diane and I packed up our son, Brian, dog Snoopy in our car and headed for Florida where I was to attend some advanced training.

We were able to rent a mobile home in a trailer park bordering a swamp in Florida while I attended school.  One day Diane had Brian and Snoopy out in our small yard playing when all of a sudden Snoopy started barking at the swamps edge… a big alligator was crawling out of the water.  Diane grabbed up Brian and Snoopy and headed indoors.  To this day, Brian has a terrible fear of alligators.

While in Florida, we were involved in our only car accident when a couple of girls, rear ended our new “paid for” 1972 Pinto hatch back.  The car was totaled, so the insurance company allowed us to get a new 1973 Pinto sedan with upgraded wheels, hood pins and a racing stripe… we were styling then.

After I graduated from the advanced training we loaded up our car with Brian and Snoopy once again and headed for New York where I was to turn the car into a shipper for it to be sent to Italy.

We spent the night in New York, getting up early the next morning to fly to Italy.  One thing about Italy in 1973, it wasn’t anything like the United States… no fast food places at all.  When you went in somewhere to eat, expect to eat a lot and spend a lot of time in the restaurant… no fast food available here!

After a short layover in Rome, where we got something to eat, and Diane was pinched on the butt by some Italian Guy that she tried to punch, and the Italian pilots settled their short lived strike, we finally boarded our plane for the trip to Sicily.

One of the best things about the Navy is when people receive orders they are also assigned a sponsor from their new duty station to help them get settled in to a new and sometimes foreign environment.  Our sponsor picked us up from the airport in Catania, Sicily and drove us to the Italian Motel that we would call home for about a month until we could obtain an apartment in one of the surrounding communities.

The Motel had a restaurant so that’s where we ate every night.  I discovered that the easiest thing to order was Veal Parmesan… which I was pretty much sick of by the time we moved out of the motel.  Our sponsor and his wife were wonderful in that they went out of their way to show us the local attractions and were instrumental in finding us our apartment in Bel Paso, a small mountain community on the slopes of Mt. Etna.

At the time, newer apartment buildings in Sicily were left unfinished on the outside of the building… I was told it had something to do with taxes, anyway, we found a really nice place to live… a huge three bedroom apartment with marble floors and a terrace off our living room and bedroom.  Brian’s room was large enough where he had a virtual playground in his room with a swing, his choo-choo train and a bunch of toys that were scattered everywhere most of the time.

Our dining room window overlooked a common court yard we shared with an ancient Catholic Church… whose loud bell echoed through our apartment pretty much every hour.  We eventually became accustomed to the bell.

One day when I came home from work, the Italians were shooting off fireworks and really having a good party all over Bel Paso.  When I got in the door I found Diane and Brian under the dining room table scared to death.  With all the noise and hooting and hollering going on outside, Diane thought we were at war.  When she found out what was really going on, she relaxed and had a good time the rest of the time we lived there.  It seemed that there were a lot of Saints the Italians had to celebrate.

Diane met one of our neighbors… a school teacher who taught English at the local school.  The kind lady introduced Diane to many of our neighbors who were all very nice.  The Italian women fell in love with our blond haired blue eyed Brian.  He was very spoiled in that town and learned to speak Italian by playing with the other little kids in the neighborhood.  While living in Sicily we discovered that Diane was pregnant with our second child… the Italian women were beside themselves with this news.  They were always bringing something for Diane to eat that was supposed to help with her pregnancy… much of it was good except for the squid or octopus.

The local ladies also taught Diane how to make authentic Italian dishes.  One of our favorite stores was the local bakery which always smelled so good.  There was also an establishment on the corner where we could order espresso or a Gelato.  At the local flea market we could order these really good rice balls with cheese inside… I don’t remember what they’re called.

As there wasn’t a hospital close by in Sicily for Diane to deliver our baby, the Navy sent her to the U.S. Naval Hospital Naples, Italy a couple of weeks before her due date… it turned out that she was in Naples for almost a month.

Brian and I would pack up our Pinto on a Friday after work and head up to Naples.  We had to cross over from Sicily to the mainland of Italy on a ferry at the Messina Straight… it was always an adventure.  When we were driving up the Italian autostrada we were always passed up, like we were standing still by the fast Italian and German sports cars.  I’m sure those drivers thought my 1973 Pinto sedan with Mag wheels, hood pins and racing stripes was a funny sight… but I thought I was cool at the time.  And of course, there were no fast food places for Brian and me to stop at to grab a quick bite to eat.

With Brian only being two years-old at the time, he was always drooling, peeing or pooping his diaper… and he loved playing in the dirt, so by the time we pulled into Naples after a long road trip through Italy with no fast food and picked up his Mom, he was pretty rank… even though I always made sure we started out our trip clean and would always stop to change his drawers when need be.  Regardless, his Mom was always pissed off when she caught a whiff of him.  To this day, nearly forty years later, she still brings those things up when she is trying to make a point about my laziness or procrastination.

Finally after several long weeks, Diane was able to bring our new son, Christopher, home.  We then had two blue eyed blond haired boys our Italian neighbors could fawn over and spoil… we always joined in the community celebrations and had a wonderful time.  We had mixed emotions when the Navy finally gave us a house on base, and we had to move from our Italian neighborhood.

We just got settled in to our on base housing when the Navy gave me orders back to California.

The Navy’s recruiting slogan for a while was “It’s not just a job, but an adventure!”  Try flying from Catania Sicily to Rome to New York and then to Los Angeles all at the same time with two small boys… now that was an adventure.

Moving at lightning speed through life

I just attended another Navy Hospital Corps ball; I have lost count of how many of these events that I’ve attended over the years.  The guest speaker was a retired Marine Sergeant Major and a veteran of World War II, the Korean War and Vietnam…he brought tears and laughter through telling the story about his military and life experiences. Many of the young Sailors and Marines in the room knew what this man was talking about because they know of the comradery they feel with their fellow brothers and sisters in uniform, and many of them have also witnessed first-hand the devastation that war can bring.

These annual events are held to celebrate the milestones of the organization that the attendees belong to and the pride they have of serving their country in uniform. The many young people at this celebration were still in or barely out of the teen years, but with a chest full of medals.

I never had to go onto a battlefield, but I saw many young people who were severely wounded either in body or mind… years ago I had a co-worker who served in Vietnam with the Army. He decided to reenlist in the Navy. This Sailor suffered from severe and untreated Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Which is better understood, and better treated today. Back during Vietnam those returning home from war with this disorder were many times treated like outcasts or criminals because of their “bad” behaviors. My co-worker was very polite and respectful to everyone; he never got into trouble or tried to hurt anyone. The reaction this Sailor had when he heard a loud noise was extreme fright… I don’t know what ever came of this Sailor, but I hope that he received help for his crippling wounds of the mind.

I decided to join the Navy because I wanted to be the master of my own destiny… I didn’t want to be drafted and I didn’t want to go to Vietnam. I figured that by joining the Navy I would be safely assigned to a ship that remained far away from the shores of Vietnam. I thought that being in the United States Navy would be a really cool thing to belong to, and it was, and as it turned out the best decision I ever made.

As I already mentioned, I obligated to join the Navy on July 8, 1968 and met my future wife, Diane, on the same day. This happened because I went to visit my cousin, Dale and his new wife, Cathy, to tell them about what I had just done.  Dale was not only one of my cousins, but my best friend.

It was there at my cousin’s apartment when I met Diane, who just happened to be at Dale’s house visiting her sister… my cousin’s wife.

At this time I was still working on my shyness around girls.  I thought I could ask my cousin or his wife to “set me up.”  Of course they were really enjoying themselves at my expense… finally I had to ask Diane directly if she would go to a movie with me because her sister told her I wanted to say something to her… I was trapped.  She came outside, where I was helping my cousin with the barbecue, and asked me directly “Do you have to say something to me?”  I almost melted.  I mumbled out “Do you want to go to a movie with me or something?” She replied “I don’t know.”  I stupidly came back with “You don’t like me?”  She smiled and agreed to go to the movie with me… the rest is history… but to this day she enjoys embarrassing me all over again and again by relating this story to whoever will listen… I just tell her that my line worked!

We started dating regularly and six months later I entered boot camp in San Diego on January 14, 1969.  As Diane was a ward of the Los Angeles County Foster Child Program, my parents were able to qualify as foster parents to Diane.  She moved in with my parents while I was off serving in the Navy.  This just gave her more ammunition to embarrass me all over again by telling everyone, that she married her (foster) brother! 

We were married on December 13, 1969, a day after Diane turned 18.       

Diane and her six siblings were all placed in foster care after her mother had died of leukemia when she was about 8 years-old and her father was unable to take care of all the children because of his poor health.  Diane tried to stay in contact with her family, but as a child it was very difficult… this resulted in some of her siblings not being very close with one another.          

As a ward of the state of California at the time, when a foster child turned 18, the state would turn them out into the street for them to make their own way.  But Diane had plans… she managed to earn enough money to pay for a beautiful dress, rent a hall in Norwalk, California and pay for our wedding reception afterwards.  We were so young; we spent our first night together as husband and wife at a hotel across the street from Disneyland and spent the next day at the park.

After Diane and I were married, Dale was then my cousin, best friend and brother-in-law.  Unfortunately, when our father-in-law died a couple of years later there were some harsh words between myself and Dale.  Cathy and Dale eventually divorced and we were never close again. 

When you’re not paying attention things will change or disappear altogether and you won’t notice them missing or the change until it’s too late.  The same is true with people… life is short, sometimes shorter than expected. 

Fast forward about thirty-five years to the future, Dale’s father, my uncle Eugene died.  I went to the funeral where Dale offered his hand, I hugged him instead.  We reminisced about the old days in Rowland Heights and the fun we used to have.  We talked about our children and grandchildren… we were having a good visit there at Uncle Eugene’s wake, then Dale closed his eyes and died.  I am saddened that my cousin, best friend and former brother-in-law had died at his father’s wake, saddened by the years we lost, but at the same time was grateful for the short visit we were able to enjoy before he passed.  Dale will be missed and I’m sure he is in Heaven enjoying new adventures.  I found out that same day that another opportunity was lost when I learned that a good childhood friend, Ed “Eddy” Murphy had just died. 

Three years earlier Eddy, as I knew him, sent out a message to our high school alumni, inviting everyone to a Mega Reunion.  I considered sending him an email saying hi… but I was busy, and I was sure he was busy, so I didn’t do it… also I had prior commitments with a earlier Hospital Corps Birthday Ball being held at the same time as the High School reunion.  I now wish that I could have at least said “Hi” to Eddy.

Enjoy your family today… reconnect with old friends… life really is too short.

Surviving the teen years in the Sixties

The sixties were a good time to be alive and a teenager in Southern California. 

There were many temptations then as there are now, but those temptations didn’t seem to be as dangerous back then as they are today.  My friends and I were able to stay away from drugs and to stay away from trouble… or as some might say “we didn’t get caught!” 

            Our interests seemed to be focused on cruising Whittier, Sunset or Van Nuys Boulevards to find girls, or cruising down Beach Boulevard to Huntington Beach to find girls, or going to High School dances or events to find girls.  It seemed as though everything we did, we did for the purpose of finding or impressing some girl. 

            A big priority back then was to obtain a driver’s license and a car, if my car was broke down, had a flat tire or needed gas there was always the possibility of borrowing Mom’s big 9-passenger station wagon that we could use to go cruising in to find girls… which was highly unlikely, but we still had to try.

            After we got our cars and drivers licenses the world of Southern California opened up to us.  But we were also introduced to reality and responsibility because now we had to get a job to earn money for gas in our cars and insurance so we could pursue girls. Minimum wage jobs paid $1.35 in the early 60s… fortunately for me my Dad used his contacts to get me a summer job in the Meat Packing industry in Vernon, Calif. This summer job was full-time and paid nearly $3 per hour, in 1966 that was a lot of money. Back then we could fill up a 20 gallon gas tank for $5.

I should have been rolling in the dough, but after getting paid on Friday evening the cruising started… my buddies and I cruised from the San Fernando Valley, San Gabriel Valley, and up and down the Pacific Coast Highway from San Diego to Santa Monica and into Hollywood in our constant search for girls… of course we saw a lot of them, but none wanted anything to do with us… It probably had something to do with none of them wanting to get into a car with a bunch of boys out cruising. So after a weekend of constant cruising, shooting pool, going to the movies and eating a lot of hamburgers and hanging out at the beach on the weekends I usually had to borrow some gas money from Mom or Dad so I could get back and forth to work for another five days. 

Another reason that I probably couldn’t attract any girls was because of my job… The place I worked was right next to a rendering plant where all the really gross parts of cows were rendered into fertilizers and other foul smelling products. My car had the aroma of Vernon, California and those dead cows embedded in the upholstery and paint of my car. It also seemed that I could never get the stench of the place out of my skin and hair no matter how many showers I took or how many bottles of English Leather cologne I used… or come to think about it maybe it was the cologne…

            Another issue that I faced was that even though I had a cool Earl Schibe painted blue 1950 Chevy to cruise with, and on paydays had a pocket full of spending money, I was extremely shy around girls and was very unsure of myself.  I found it very difficult to even speak to girls… so what did I do?  I signed up for Drama class at Rowland High.  Some of my friends’ parents worked in the movie or television industry, not as famous actors or anything; they usually worked as electricians, carpenters or sometimes as stunt people. The kids that I knew who did have famous parents usually never had any contact with them. A lot of kids I knew lived in a home with a divorced mother.  I always felt sorry for them because my parents stayed married for more than 50 years. Even the “child actors” that I knew of, but never really knew were way too important to hang out with us ordinary people. Most of those kids are now dead. I figured they died because chasing their dreams killed them… or maybe drugs.

             By taking Drama in school helped me get over my shyness and also led to a wasted number of years of also trying to becoming a professional actor.  I finally came to the realization after several wasted years that my wife and children were more important to me then continuing to chase after a pipe dream.  My children needed my attention more than I needed to Act. 

Another class that really helped me in my life was “Typing.”  My four years of Drama, Remedial English and one semester of typing at Rowland and years of Community Theater, led me into the career field of Journalism… I have worked on newspapers, magazines, radio and television with the American Forces Radio and Television Service…and now Public Affairs…go figure.  I’m sure that my High School English teacher probably thought that I would wind up as a day laborer somewhere. 

At one point in my educational career someone thought that I was smart enough to graduate directly from the seventh grade at Alvarado Junior High to the ninth grade at John A. Rowland High School.  At the time I thought that it would be really cool to skip having to go to school for a whole extra year.  I didn’t think about being a simple minded freshman at Rowland and not knowing anyone… and leaving my buddies behind with them having to go through the eighth grade without me… but what did I know at the time. 

Mom was real proud of me for being so smart that someone figured that I would benefit by skipping he 8th grade, until she discovered in my junior year of high school that I might not graduate.  I did graduate though… barely.

Summer was here, I was finished with school… forever… I thought, and life held unlimited possibilities for me.  After graduating I went back to work at the meat packing plant in Vernon… I seemed doomed to work in some sort of meat processing job because during the school year I got a job at a meat market in Hacienda Heights, California… there I met some other buddies Ray and Larry.  Larry’s older brother took care of him because their Dad was a professional musician and worked in Las Vegas a lot.  I never knew where their mother was and never asked.  We even cruised up and down Whittier Boulevard together looking for girls. Ray was a little older then Larry and I so he was eventually drafted into the Army and went off to Vietnam. We lost track of Ray then. A few years later I heard that Ray survived Vietnam, but used his Army education to get into dealing pot, which got him busted and put into prison. 

 I eventually figured that I had better change my career field away from meat processing… probably because I was laid off from the meat packing job.

I started working for a used car lot on Whittier Boulevard for a while… That is when destiny hit me.  One of my cousins eloped from Nebraska with her new husband to California… their car broke down and they ran out of money in Rowland Heights, so they were staying with my parents until they could get on their feet. 

Linda and Lou needed some help.  I volunteered one day to take Lou out to see if he could find a job.  On our cruise through La Puente, California on that fateful day, he spotted the Armed Services Recruiting station located near the old Star movie theater.  It had been there for years and to me seemed to be a bit foreboding with the mean looking recruiters hanging out in front of the office.  But Lou wanted to see what they had to offer.  The Navy recruiter was the only one in at the time, so Lou talked to him.  I found what he had to say fascinating, so instead of Lou signing up, I did.  As I was only 17 at the time, but a recent high school graduate, I needed parental permission.  Lou and I left with me holding all of the pamphlets about my future and the permission slip for my Mom and Dad’s signature.  That night my Dad came home and I explained what I wanted to do… of course Mom was against it but I was able to talk them into signing that important document.  Besides I needed to do something to avoid the draft. 

I was too stupid to go to college to obtain a draft deferment as most of my friends did.  I didn’t want to go into the Army or Marine Corps to go directly off to Vietnam.  I didn’t want to join the U.S. Air Force because I would become very air sick when flying… besides in 1968 the Air Force’s waiting list along with the Coast Guard’s was two years long to get in. 

The Navy had cool uniforms and it seemed the Navy went to more exotic places then any of the other services… as depicted on TV and at the movies at the time. 

That was on July 8, 1968.  I decided that I would get my Mom and Dad’s permission to become a Sailor with a girl in every port…little did I know.  On that fateful day I finally found a girl who would give me the time of day… after my boot camp and advanced training was completed we got married.  We are still married. I retired from the Navy the first time in July 1989 and returned to Rowland Heights. Then I returned to the Navy as a civilian employee and retired again in May 2013.

Heading West to new Adventures

                Grandpa gave Dad his, nearly new at the time, 1959 Ford, because Grandpa gave up driving after he forgot where the ignition was located, and he kept running over curbs.  Besides, Grandpa walked to work everyday because he only lived across the street from his work at the Omaha Municipal Utilities District office.

                Dad packed up the car with Rodney, Allen and me, loaded a trailer with what belongings he could fit in it and we headed west. 

                Mom, Lorie and Kevin would follow on a train.  I'm sure that Mom lectured Dad thoroughly on the care and feeding of us boys before he left with us.  Mom was a real worrier when it came to Dad and us boys.  She could worry about anything… will we get in a crash, will the car break down in the desert, will we get sick on the road, will Dad go off and forget one of us at a road side stop.  Mom worried so much that her hair turned white before she was 30-years old.  Grandma said it was because of Dad and us boys.

                We got about 30 miles from Omaha when Dad ran into the back of a car driven by an old farmer and his wife who pulled out in front of us.  The car wasn't damaged much, and no one was hurt, but the trailer hitch was bent below the rear bumper.  Dad had to bend it back in place as good as he could get it then chain the trailer to the trailer hitch on the bumper of the car.  He told us not to mention it to Mom, but I'm sure that it was a worry to Dad for the rest of the trip to Arizona.  My brothers and I were going to stay with our Grandma and Grandpa Barber until Dad could find us a place to live in California.   On our trip west we even got to see the "Thing" because we pestered Dad for about 300 miles to stop when we got there.  This sign keep teasing us that the "Thing" was coming up in just 300 miles, then 250 miles, then 200 miles, then 100 miles, then only 50 miles.  We were in a dither by the time Dad pulled into the roadside attraction, which housed the "Thing."  He realized that we would never have forgiven him if we bypassed the "Thing" without stopping. Besides I think Dad wanted to see the "Thing" as badly as we did.  I don’t want to ruin the suspense for other travelers and tell what the “Thing” is.  But I will give a hint… Think Egypt!

We eventually made it to Grandma and Grandpa Barber’s house in Tucson.  Dad and Grandpa spent the next two hours talking about Dad’s highway strategy and the hours of driving it took him to get there.  Setting mileage records are important to the males in my family.  Even today after someone makes a long drive to some place it's the topic of conversation for hours afterwards.  We discuss routes, stops and the time it took us to get to where we were going.  We even discuss lessons learned from long road trips.

Despite stopping to see roadside attractions, Dad was proud of the fact that he once drove 2,000 miles in 24-hours.  Of course by the time he got to where he was going, everybody in the car had a bladder problem.  We usually had to time our pee stops with fuel stops when Dad was driving.  My wife says that I do the same thing now.  I think that this is an inherited male pride thing.  It is in the same class, as not needing to stop to ask for directions... our pride won't permit it, besides most males have a wonderful sense of direction.  I am one of the few who can't tell north from south, or east from west.  I let my wife read the directions or a map to a new location when I am trying to set a new mileage record… but I rarely mention that fact to others.

                Finally, after about a month at Grandpa and Grandma Barber’s house in Tucson, Dad and Uncle Alvin came to pick us boys up to take us on to California.  Grandpa Barber, my father and Uncle Alvin discussed the trip from Los Angeles to Tucson and the route they would take back to Los Angeles for a couple of hours.  Grandpa and Grandma Barber were happy that we wouldn't be homesick anymore, and I think they agreed with our other Grandmother Hersh that we were a bunch of heathens. 

                We drove into California in the evening and I was amazed at how many headlights and tail lights streamed ahead of us in the dark.  I never imagined that there could be so many cars on the road.  I thought... what an adventure!

                A short time later, Mom, my little sister Lorie and baby brother Kevin arrived in Los Angeles by train.  Grandma came along on the trip to help my Mom out with the little ones.  We were together as a family again, except Grandpa who was still in Omaha working.

               We stayed at Uncle Alvin's house for awhile until us boys got on everybody's nerves.  Mom and Dad bought a three-bedroom house with a nice bathroom in Rowland Heights, California. The bathroom even had a modern electric wall-heater to warm up the room with.  Mom lectured us boys on not trying to cook anything with the wall-heater, or to not to try and pee on it.  We moved into our new home on Halloween night in 1961.  The first night, we had no electricity and one bed for Grandma and five kids.

                The next day our electricity was turned on and our furniture was delivered.  Finally, we had television with three channels.

                Once again, Mom and Dad found a wonderful place for us to live.  Our house was almost brand new when we moved into it.  And Rowland Heights was out in the country... 20 miles from downtown Los Angeles!

                Grandma had to return to Omaha so Grandpa wouldn't starve to death, or spend too much money eating out.  We put her on the train and said goodbye.  I wouldn't be able to spend the weekends with Grandma and Grandpa for a long time.

                I entered the fifth grade at Rowland Elementary School.  And once again I met some buddies... Larry, Larry, Donny and Eddy... again we all had names that ended in y.  Although one of the Larry’s was nicknamed "T" because he had a cool baseball cap that had the letter "T" on it.  Besides, he needed a name so when we were talking to one of the Larry’s both of them wouldn't get confused.  Dad and I got into one of the San Gabriel Valley Council's Boy Scout Troops and I started playing Little League baseball with my new buddies. 

                Baseball was all consuming to us boys.  Our heroes were the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Angels.  We each had a new modern transistor radio so we could spend the night at each other’s houses in the summer time and camp out it the back yard and listen to the immortal and ageless Vin Scully call the Dodgers games.  It was almost as if we were right there in the stadium.  Sometimes one of our fathers would take all us boys to a game at Chavez Ravine in LA.  We loved sitting by the opposing team’s bullpen so we could harass the players there.  We never could get any of them mad enough at us to pay us any mind though.

                When we weren't listening to baseball on our radios or going to games in LA or playing organized games on the Little League field, we were playing a pickup game on an empty lot that eventually became the Fullerton Road exit off the Pomona Freeway.

                The only thing around Rowland Heights when we first moved there was a Market Basket grocery store, a liquor store called “Fifth Avenue Liquors,” which retained the name even after someone thought it sounded much nicer to call Fifth Avenue Colima Road, and a gas station that looked like it was built when gasoline was invented and empty fields and hills that stretched for miles and seemed reserved just for us boys to run across and explore.  Diamond Bar and Phillips Ranch weren't housing developments yet... they were still real ranches.  Because I was no longer interested in being a cowboy, but wanted to be a baseball player instead those places held no interest to me.

                Right behind the housing track where we lived was a hill we called "Tree Hill" because it had a bunch of Oak trees at one end where we could spend hours playing.  This grove of Oaks became our haven from reality.  We spent hours playing cowboys and Indians.  We staged war games in those trees, and sometimes just lay on the ground watching the clouds float overhead.  Even as kids we couldn't bring ourselves to attach anything to the trees such as tree houses or forts to destroy their grandeur.

                Right in the center of Tree Hill was an old cattle watering hole that a long-past rancher had dug into the hill.  To us kids it resembled the caldron of a volcano... that we firmly believed it was.  We would dare each other to run across the caldron from edge to edge before the volcano blew and swallowed us up in fire.  We ran through this caldron of danger many times... and survived each trip.  When we weren't feeling particularly lucky, we would always skirt this dangerous place.

                A trickle of water ran through a creek bed along side Tree Hill.  In the soft limestone banks of this creek we could break off layers of the soft limestone to discover fish fossils imbedded in them.  We thought that we had found wonderful treasures that a museum would pay us huge sums of money for.  I even saved some of these fossils for my Grandpa back in Omaha.  I figured he would be real proud of me for making such an important discovery.  We spent hours, days, weeks and months playing on and exploring Tree Hill and the creek bed.

                More water ran through another creek that ran through Rowland Heights, so my buddies and I set out to dam part of it up to create a swimming hole.  We developed another spot where we could spend countless summer days wading in our swimming hole... it wasn't deep enough to swim in.  During the winter months we spent hours fishing in this spot... we never caught anything, because the only fish in the creek were small minnows, but we were sure if we spent enough time there we could eventually catch something that would swim along.

                We did have a wonderful place to fish in Rowland Heights one summer.  An old Spanish hacienda next to our Little League field had a wonderful large pond on its grounds.  The owners opened up the pond for kids from all over to come and fish for Bluegill.  We often came home from a day of fishing that summer with a stringer full of fish.  We were unaware that we were allowed to do this because the pond was going to be filled in, the old Spanish hacienda torn down, and our Little League field next to the old house leveled so apartments could be built in their place.

                Losing a wonderful fishing pond and a local ancient landmark was bad enough, but to lose our beloved baseball diamond was worse.  Our fathers got together and located another donated parcel where a new and improved ball park could be developed.  Fathers and sons spent days, weeks and months picking up rocks, raking, building fences, installing irrigation systems and planting grass.  Then we spent more weekend mornings mowing the grass, installing sponsor signs on the new fences and taking care of the ball park so we kids could play baseball.  The new ballpark turned out to be a big improvement over the old one.  We had not one diamond, but two.

                Eventually, my aunt and uncle and two cousins moved to Rowland Heights.  We then had more family for gatherings.  My older cousin also joined us for baseball and in the Southern California winter time... street football.  This is where I received my first football injury.  My cousin and I ran into each other going for a pass.  Because he was bigger than I was, I got the worse of it... a concussion.  I spent about two weeks in the White Memorial Hospital in Los Angeles.  The worse two weeks I spent in my entire life.  White Memorial didn't believe in supplying televisions in their rooms, and they didn't believe in serving meat to patients.  I almost starved to death and would have if my Dad hadn't smuggled hamburgers up to me.  Another problem was expiring from boredom with no television and not being allowed out of bed.  After my stay the nurses on the ward probably wished that they didn't have a ban on televisions.

                Finally the day arrived when the doctor said I could go home.  On the drive home with Mom is when we learned, from the car radio, that President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas.  Mom and Dad were pretty upset about that.  For the next week we watched all of the special reports on his life, assassination and funeral.  We even witnessed live on television, the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald.

                Because of the spaciousness and hills remaining to be explored in Rowland Heights and a television commercial for Honda motorcycles I figured that I would take a chance and ask for a motorcycle for my 12th birthday.  Mom was totally against it, but Dad's argument for such a wonderful thing for me to learn to drive and deliver my newspapers on so Mom wouldn't have to get up at four in the mornings to help me, won her over. 

                Dad got real excited about having a motorcycle in the family.  He even spent a lot of time looking around for just the right motorcycle.  I was set on having a Honda 50 and kept telling him so.  On television they looked really slick and fast.  Dad on the other hand, had other ideas.  One day he came home from work all excited that he found something called an Indian he was going to buy for me!  I wouldn't hear of it.  As I said, I wanted a Honda!  Besides who ever heard of an old-fashioned motorcycle called an Indian!  I thought that it was a real hokey name for a motorcycle.  Mom told Dad that the motorcycle was for me, not him.  So I got my Honda 50.  I realized years later my horrendous mistake, but if Dad would have won the argument, I would never have learned to ride a motorcycle.  I probably would have been an expert passenger though.

                Mom and Dad made me pledge to never drive it on the streets.  I could only drive it up and down Fullerton Road, which as mentioned before was just a large dirt area bisecting our housing tract that ran from some railroad tracks to Fifth Avenue.  As I mentioned earlier, years later Fifth Avenue was renamed Colima Road.

                One day, when "T" and I were "pushing" my motorcycle up to the hills so we could ride it, we spotted a girl we knew.  Of course we just had to show off our skills by popping wheelies and doing doughnuts.  The location we were doing this just happened to be on a paved street.  A police car pulled around the corner with its lights on.  I immediately knew that my parents would kill me after bailing me out of juvenile hall.          

The police officer took the keys to my motorcycle got my address and told me to push it home.  He said to hurry along because he was going to wait for me there.  I knew that I couldn't run because then there would be an "all-points bulletin" put out for my arrest.  So I took off pushing, "T" of course decided that he'd better get on home for dinner... even though it was only about 2 in the afternoon.

                I think the policeman calmed my mother down enough after she discovered that he wasn't there to tell her that I was killed, so she didn't have the energy at the time to really kill me.  She just said, "Wait 'till your father gets home."  I immediately knew that I was off the hook on this one with my Dad.  All I had to worry about was the traffic judge sending me off to reform school. 

After explaining to Dad what had happened... with the girl there and everything, he told me not to ever drive my motorcycle on the street again.  Dad did have to take a day off from work to take me to juvenile traffic court.  On the way there, Dad got pulled over for speeding and got a ticket himself.  I thought that I'd better keep my mouth shut... just in case.  He just said, "Your mother doesn't need to know about this."  The juvenile traffic judge told me to never ride my motorcycle on the street again, and "I don't want to see you here again!"... No fine... no jail time... I was free to go.  My Dad had to pay a fine for his ticket, but I thought it would be better if I didn't rub it in.

                I got my first car at 14-years old. A 1949 Chevy fast-back.  The same kind of car my Mom and Dad drove as a hot-rod when I was a baby.  It was given to me by my uncle for washing dishes in his restaurant one day.  It had dents, no first or reverse gears and was pretty ratty looking... but it was wonderful for the possibilities that I dreamed up sitting in it for the next two years until I could legally drive.

                Dad used this car for my mechanical education, which was fine by me.  Luckily the lady who lived next door to us had a 1950 Chevy that she was going to sell to the junk man.  I purchased it from her for $10.  The body on it was in better condition than my '49 Chevy and it was a whole year newer.  Dad and I took parts from the '49 Chevy to fix up the '50 Chevy.  Another neighbor took care of some minor body repair on it.  Dad took care of the upholstery and Earl Schibe painted it blue for only $29.95 plus tax.  By the time I got my license when I turned 16, I had a 1950 blue Chevy cruiser.

                I was finally a teenager in Southern California with a cool car.  Dad had to make three more trips to the juvenile traffic judge with me up until I was 18 because of that car.  We saw the same juvenile traffic judge each time... thank God he never remembered me from before.  I did get a letter from the Department of Motor Vehicles stating that if I got one more ticket my license would be suspended until I turned 21... my traffic law violator days were over.  I needed my car for dates! I lived in Southern California! If I didn't have a car I would never be able to go out on a date again... I couldn't see that not happening.

                Luckily for me, Dad loved working on cars.  We were always repairing something or other in the garage.  Dad worked on cars like some men play golf... it was a hobby for him.  It also gave us something in common to work on together.

                A couple of years earlier I had a heart-to-heart talk with my father about scouting.  I told him that I knew that he liked scouting, but it really didn't interest me anymore.  He told me that I should have said something earlier because he didn't care about going to all the functions and camping trips either.  He was just doing it because he thought I liked doing it.  We both dropped out of scouting.  However, my father got back into it when my brothers started scouting.

                When I became interested in cars, I was too old for Little League baseball, and despite my desire, wasn't good enough to make the high school baseball team, and surprisingly, both my parents refused to let me try out for football.  Because of my father's desire for us boys to be athletes, I was sure I could talk my father into signing the permission slip… thinking about this years later maybe the doctors who treated my childhood accidents and concussions probably dissuaded my parents from allowing me to do dangerous stuff.

                Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, the county took over our Little League park's upkeep.  The fathers and sons no longer had a community activity to participate in together. The county put in more grass and picnic tables, and hired people to mow the grass and take care of things.  The park is still there, and when the county's budget permits, the park is taken care of.  They even named it years later for a politician who had nothing to do with building the original park.

                That park played a very important part in our family history.  Kevin, my youngest brother and his future wife, Maria were babies when I played Little League baseball at that park… and I’m sure both of them were ignorant to their future when they were sitting next to each other in their strollers at the games needing their diapers changed.  Maria had older brothers so her father and mine were part of the grounds-keeping fathers at the field.

                Eventually a developer came along and decided that tree hill would make a good location for some more houses.  Our volcano disappeared, and the creek with the fossils was cemented over to create a storm drain.  At the end of the hill, our wonderful Oak trees were cut down and the end of the hill chopped off abruptly. 

Somebody else decided that something needed to be built to give the local kids "something to do."  Where our wonderful Oak trees and hill once stood, somebody built a fake hill with a water slide, and fake trees... and charged the kids $10 to get in to use it.  One day some kid was hurt on the slide, so the parents sued.  The water slide on the fake hill with the fake trees was shut down so kids wouldn’t be hurt from having fun.