Tell me a story...

WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS...

Carl sipped his coffee and unfolded the morning newspaper. It was November 5, 2008, and there on the front page was a picture of the president-elect and his beaming family. He thought about the speech from Grant Park the night before, with the repeated refrain “Yes, we can,” and the silent echoes of “I have a dream…”

And then it all came rushing back, a full-blown flashback. He could remember standing in the kitchen of the old apartment in Minneapolis, fumbling around in the drawer to find the business card, dialing the number and waiting nervously as the phone began to ring. And of course, he remembered the conversation verbatim…

“Hello.”

“Hi, Sean. It’s Carl.”

“Hi, kid. What’s up?”

“I showed the apartment this morning.”

“Already? The ad just started today. You probably just put the sign out. Good work! Did you rent it?”

“Uh… not exactly.”

“Whataya mean?”

“Well, two guys showed up at the door bright and early, both of ‘em in full dress Air Force uniforms. One was a Captain Jordan and the other said he was his commanding officer, but I didn’t get his rank. They were looking for an apartment for Jordan.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, Captain Jordan is colored.”

“Oh crap. So what did you do?”

“I showed them the apartment.”

“You did what? Why did you do that, Carl?”

“We ran the ad, Sean, we’ve got a sign out front that says ‘apartment for rent.’ What was I gonna do?”

“So what happened?”

“So Jordan looked it over. Meantime the old man tells me Jordan is a B52 pilot. They don’t have room in base housing and he needs a place close to the base, for him and his family.”

“Family? Oh great.”

“Yeah, wife and two little boys.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, Jordan liked it and wanted to take it. So I had him fill out the application.”

“You what?!”

“Keep your shirt on. I told him there were two other applications that we’re checking out and it’s first come, first served. If one of the apps checks out, the apartment is rented.”

“Okay, okay… good thinking. What did they say?”

“The old man gave me the fish eye, but they said thanks and left.”

“Okay, here’s what you do: wait ‘til about noon, then call and say it’s rented. Case closed.”

“What about the sign? What if they drive by and see it’s still there?”

“Good point. Okay, bring in the sign. We still got the ad running. I’ll explain it to the company.”

“I don’t know, Sean. It doesn’t feel right. The whole thing feels wrong.”

“What? Why? You know the company’s policy. We’re not renting to coloreds in that building. Not in that neighborhood. If we did, then what? What about the next apartment, and the one after that? Before you know it, it would be the entire building. They have their own part of town, Carl. Why aren’t they looking there, with their own kind, for God’s sake?”

“I know, but the guy is a B52 pilot, Sean. You know what’s going on. Kennedy has the naval blockade going. Russian ships are heading for Cuba. Who knows what that crazy-ass Khrushchev is going to do next? We could be at war in a couple of days. Besides, he seemed like a nice guy. It doesn’t feel right, Sean.”

“Look, Carl, I don’t make the rules. I work for the company and you report to me. I’m gonna keep my job, and I’m sure you want to keep that nice manager’s apartment with the discounted rent. So call him back and tell him it’s rented. Got it?”

“Yeah, Sean, I ‘Got It’.”

“Don’t crack wise with me, kid. Just do what I told you. Or I’ll get somebody who will.” And with that, the line went dead.

Later that day, Carl remembered standing next to the wall-mounted phone in the kitchen, working up the courage to make the call, rehearsing what he would say. I’m sorry, but the apartment has been rented. Thanks for your application and good luck… good luck with that possible war thing… hope you don’t have to fly off to Havana… or Moscow. He dialed the first six digits of the number Jordan had left, then waited, his finger poised to dial the seventh.

“Hell with it,” he said out loud, banging the phone back into its cradle.

He never made the call. Like many other things, he just didn’t have the guts for it. The company continued to prosper, with its little red lines drawn on the map. Sean kept his job, enforcing those red lines, and Captain Jordan kept his, defending the American way.

Carl looked at the front page again and smiled. He’d have to save this edition, maybe round up a few more copies for his kids and grandkids. October of 1962 was a long time ago – and so very far away.
_____

Keepin' it real...

Herewith, chapters 7 & 8 of Bro. Dick.

Chapter 7: Sundays with Airman Spooner...

Dick joined the Air Force when I was about ten. I remember many conversations at home among the adults saying what a fine thing this was for my brother to do, serving his country and all. Dad was really proud of him, even though he would have preferred the Navy.

It turned out that Dick's basic training assignment was at Camp Parks, near Dublin in the Livermore Valley. And so began a series of Sundays when my Mom and Dad and I would drive from Vallejo to spend the afternoon with Bro. Dick. We'd cross the Carquinez Bridge, pick up Highway 4 over to Martinez, and then head down a beautiful two-lane road lined with walnut trees through towns with quaint sounding names like Concord, Walnut Creek, Pacheco, Danville, San Ramon, and finally Dublin. By the way, that two-lane road through the endless tunnel of walnut trees is now I-680. Next to Marin County, I thought the Diablo and Livermore valleys were the prettiest places I'd ever seen. They're still beautiful, but a lot has changed since the early fifties and not all for the good.

It was funny at first to see my brother with his hair cut really, really short, wearing his olive drab fatigues and the little square top fatigue cap. He looked like a blonde Beetle Bailey. The best part of the trip was eating lunch in the mess hall. I thought the food was terrific.

All in all, it was a good time for our family. Mom and Dad were bursting with pride and Dick seemed to be doing well. We met several guys from his barracks and they all seemed really nice. It was a fine way to spend a Sunday. We'd head back to Vallejo before it got dark and when we got home, Dad would say, "Let's go bowling." So off we'd go to the Miracle Bowl on Tennessee Street to bowl a few games.

Basic training was over in six weeks and then Dick shipped out for Biloxi, Mississippi. It was a very short time, but those Sundays are a warm memory for me, a good time for our little family unit.

Chapter 8: Weiser's wake...

Warren McManus was Dick's best friend, but we didn't dare call him Warren. To everyone in the neighborhood he was Weiser (Wee-zur). He live across the street from by friend Dillon up on Jennings Street and all of us little kids loved him. He was just a great guy. His mom and dad (we called them Momma Mac and Daddy Mac) were like a second set of parents to my brother.

Our dad would cast a pretty critical eye on anyone we brought home, and if he saw things he didn't like, you were sure to hear about it. On the other hand, if he took a liking to your friend, that person could always count on a hearty hello and a slap on the back when he came through the front door. Dad loved Weiser and he was always welcome in our home.

In the forties and fifties and on through the Vietnam era, a young man was accountable for military service. Either you enlisted, were drafted, had some sort of student deferment, or there was a documented reason why you could not serve. Whatever the case, you were accountable. When my brother and his friends hit the magic age of eighteen, they began to make their choices. Dick and his friend Jerry enlisted in the Air Force. Weiser chose the Marines and headed off to Camp Pendleton for basic training.

I can't remember the year, but I know it was around the Christmas holiday season and all the guys were going to be home on leave. Weiser was on his way home when somehow his car went off the road and rolled over several times and he was killed. The whole neighborhood went into mourning, but especially my brother. Dick was devastated.

He visited Momma Mac and Daddy Mac to pay his condolences and they invited him to Weiser's wake. Dick had never been to an Irish wake and had no idea what to expect. That evening he put on his dress blue uniform, braced himself, and set out for the McManus's home. What happened there changed my brother in a very profound way. The house was filled with food and drink, there was laughter everywhere, glasses were raised and stories were told, and the whiskey flowed like a bubbling spring. It was a party!

Dick came away thoroughly shaken. He wasn't prepared for a party and it took him several days to recover. We talked about it many times in the years that followed and I know that the experience shaped his beliefs about death and dying. He came to see Weiser's wake as a celebration of his life, and that's exactly as it should have been. Sad funerals, Dick would say, are only for the living. That person you loved has passed on to a better place, and their life and that passage should be celebrated. He came to believe that graveyards and grave sites were also only for those left behind. Many times he would tell me, "The person you loved is not in that grave, Charlie."

As he grew older, I don't remember Dick being involved with any specific church, and I think he was pretty skeptical about organized religion. That doesn't mean that he wasn't a spiritual person, or that he didn't believe in God. Quite the contrary. Someone (I can never remember who) said: "We are spiritual beings having a brief physical experience." I think Dick would have seized on that statement, and I think that is what he ultimately took away from Weiser's wake.

This is not to say that my brother was right, or to questions anyone's beliefs. I think we all have to come to grips with these questions for ourselves. I only know that our conversations had a major impact on me as I was growing up and formulating my own belief system. It also explains something that may seem a little strange: in the twenty years since my brother's death, I have never visited his grave. Not even once. My heart tells me he isn't there.

Seems to me...

Let’s hear it for the American River Bike Trail! It is a wonderful resource, all thirty-two miles of it, from Folsom Lake to Discovery Park and the Sacramento River. We live near the midway point at mile 13 and it seems almost criminal to live so close to the trail and not take advantage. That’s what brought me to Carmichael Cycle one Sunday last summer.

I’d browsed around Carmichael Cycle (cute name, eh?) before, but this time I was a serious shopper. I was determined to buy a bike. The only question was what kind. As it turns out, there are many choices. There are mountain bikes, and racing bikes, and street bikes, and regular old fat tire bikes that have been re-christened “beach cruisers,” even though we don’t have a beach to cruise.

The young man who helped me showed me some classic skinny-tire racing bikes with equally skinny seats, the bicycle equivalent of thong underwear. He said they were for “aggressive” riders. They had narrow handlebars that curled like rams horns and it looked like you had to stay in a permanent tuck position to ride one. I told him I don’t tuck much anymore.

We finally found a row of bikes that had upright handlebars and wider, flatter seats. He told me they were “comfort bikes.” Now that’s more like it! After a quick test ride, I became the proud owner of a comfort bike. I also bought a stand that turns the bike into a stationary trainer so that I can work out indoors during bad weather. I have to admit, I haven’t put many miles on that bike stand. If anyone out there is looking for a bike stand/trainer with very low miles, have I got a deal for you!

And so, I hit the trail, riding upstream for five or six miles, or downstream about an equal distance. It is a great workout and the scenery is beautiful, and you really come to appreciate the change of seasons. The difference between July and December is quite striking.

My comfort bike has a feature that has caused me some concern. There is a bell attached to the handlebars. It has a little spring-loaded lever that you flick with your thumb to make it ring. I assumed it was to alert other bike trail users when you’re approaching, and that all bikes would be equipped with one. When Gabe saw it, he just laughed. Matt was a little more respectful, but I could tell he was amused.

I learned straight away the difference between Aggressive and Comfort bikers. I can be clipping along at what I think is a pretty good pace and suddenly I’ll hear, “On your left,” followed by a whooshing sound as the rider flies past. That is an Aggressive. Sometimes they ride in teams. You will hear, “On your left – four!” followed closely by whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.

You can tell the Aggressives by their bike shorts that look painted on, their little magic shoes that clip on to the peddles, their colorful biking shirts or windbreakers, and a myriad of other gear – rear view mirrors, water bottles, saddlebags, and so forth. But, no bells on the handlebars.

We Comfort types, on the other hand, are usually in T-shirts and shorts during the warm months, or old sweatshirts and jogging suits when the weather turns. On our feet, you will find running shoes that became walking shoes on their way to becoming biking shoes. Many of us don’t bother to wear a helmet. What’s the worst that can happen at Comfort speed?

My favorite route is downstream on the trail to Howe Avenue, then over to University Avenue, then on to American River Drive and back home. It’s about ten miles and it’s enough for me.

One Sunday, I was clipping along toward Howe Avenue when I saw an unusual rider up ahead. As I got closer, I could see that it was a woman with curly gray hair popping out of her helmet, riding a three-wheeler. “On your left,” I called out as I prepared to pass. I glanced to my right as I went by with a semi-whoosh and the lady smiled at me and rang the prominent bell attached to her handlebars. I’m guessing that she was in her mid-seventies.

I intend to ride the bike trail every chance I get, maybe adding a little distance each trip. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m definitely not ready for a three-wheeler. And one of these days I’m going to find my crescent wrench set and take that damn bell off my bike.