tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84496168430658617502024-03-23T03:14:53.049-07:00C.W. Spooner - The Rejected Writer's JournalA blog dedicated to the proposition that if you have rejection notices, it is proof positive you are a writer.C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-29125822730554337752024-01-19T10:15:00.000-08:002024-01-20T11:45:22.692-08:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;">HISTORY
ACCORDING TO THE VICTORS<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 18pt;">T</span><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">he cable news
networks have a camera station set up inside the capitol building in Washington
D.C. Reporters stand in front of the cameras, microphones in hand, and report
the latest happenings from the House and Senate. In the background stands a
white marble statue of Jacques Marquette, a Jesuit priest, who in 1673,
accompanied by Louis Jolliet, laid eyes upon the mighty Mississippi. The
engraving on the base of the statue reads:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />WISCONSIN’S TRIBUTE<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">JAMES MARQUETTE<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>S.J.,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">WHO, WITH LOUIS JOLIET<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">DISCOVERED THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">AT PRAIRIE DU CHEIN, WIS.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">JUNE 17, 1673<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizO6uI3_Qwv90oMihPg9-bD6ytUSHq8Y6VwTyvMqBirg_5kC9VYhsrbg26ohk_JGPC0fRBnwNHEuuAZevdetSMNA06bvqGY4WaKJbJ9RJUWpVQ5Q0pLRqGn5w9dGa1vv5HWRQdFuyDWQVy0scbbsi0L-F1t-4j9YJNP5g61MXgW3sohGqYpK7lk85TO-_J/s320/IMG_4531.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizO6uI3_Qwv90oMihPg9-bD6ytUSHq8Y6VwTyvMqBirg_5kC9VYhsrbg26ohk_JGPC0fRBnwNHEuuAZevdetSMNA06bvqGY4WaKJbJ9RJUWpVQ5Q0pLRqGn5w9dGa1vv5HWRQdFuyDWQVy0scbbsi0L-F1t-4j9YJNP5g61MXgW3sohGqYpK7lk85TO-_J/s1600/IMG_4531.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span></p><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Imagine the dialogue
at that historic moment. Maybe it went something like this:<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Marquette: Oh joy, oh
rapture! Jolliet, look at this magnificent river. Such power, such potential!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Jolliet: Praise be to
God, the creator!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Marquette: [Speaking
to his guide and interpreter, a Sioux known as Many Tongues LeBeau] LeBeau,
ask our native friends if they are familiar with this mighty stream.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: [Speaking to Proud
Eagle, a chief of the Menomonee tribe] Chief, the white devil wants to know if
you are ‘familiar’ with the river.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Eagle: Is this white
mans' humor? Are we ‘familiar’? Our people have lived on this river since
time began. Tell him we were here while his ancestors lived in caves and ran
from the giant lizards.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: [To
Marquette] He says he’s never before seen these waters.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Marquette: But how
can that be?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: There is a
legend of a great flood where only a handful of beasts survived. Native people
stay far away, on the other side of yonder ridge.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Marquette: Did you
hear that, Jolliet? We are the first to stand on this ground.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Jolliet: Praise the
Lord!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Marquette: Ask him
how far—in legend—the river extends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: He wants to
know how far the river runs.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Eagle: It begins upstream
at a lake we call Itaska and extends far down river to where it empties into a
vast open sea. By canoe, a brave would take a hundred suns to reach the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: [to Marquette]
He says he has no idea.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Marquette: It appears
to be navigable. Think of the commerce, think of the trade, think of great
cities rising on its banks! Ask him if legend has given this mighty torrent a
name.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: What do you
folks call the river?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Eagle: We call it <i>Misi-ziibi</i>.
It means Big River.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: Big River?
That’s the best you’ve got?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Eagle: It sounds
better when you say <i>Misi-ziibi</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: The chief
says it is called <i>Misi-ziibi</i>, which means ‘Mother of all waters, flowing
swiftly to the heavenly sea’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Marquette: Oh
rapture! Oh joy! Jolliet, we have discovered the Mississippi. I will call it ‘River
of the Immaculate Conception’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Jolliet: Halleluiah!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Eagle: These people
are crazy. Why are they so worked up?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: They think they
discovered the river.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Eagle: Sheesh… Tell
him there were other white devils, way down river, who were here in the time of
my great great grandfather. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">LeBeau: Father
Marquette, the chief congratulates you and your friend, Monsieur Jolliet, on
this grand discovery. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">So it is written. So
let it be carved in stone. Back to Wolf Blitzer in the studio…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-75122708665309246262024-01-07T11:08:00.000-08:002024-01-09T09:40:31.420-08:00<p><span style="font-size: 22pt;">Lone Rat</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">t was a quiet
January morning and Homer Bumwell was hard at work in his palatial office. His
massive desk held four large flat-screen monitors, one tuned to CNN, the other
three focused on company business. As President and COO of YahYouBetcha, the
fastest growing online gambling operation in the U.S., he took great pleasure
in keeping track of the betting action on the company’s many platforms. With
the NCAA championship game on the horizon and the Super Bowl just a few weeks
away, the gamblers were out in force. <i>Thank God for cloud computing and
infinite capacity, </i>he thought. <i>Go ahead, suckers, bet to your hearts’
content.</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The monitor tuned to CNN was on the far-right side of
the desk, the sound muted, the banner at the base of the screen scrolling news that included the words “active shooter” and “Iowa.” Bumwell paid no
attention.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">There was a polite knock on his door and Bettsy Lovelady,
his secretary, popped her head in. “Good morning, Mr. Bumwell. Mr. Zipper is
here to see you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Homer checked his Rolex. “Great, right on time. Send
him in.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The door opened wide and Hardy Zipper, Vice President
of Business Development, walked briskly into the office, his right hand
extended to shake hands with the boss. “Mr. Bumwell, thanks for seeing me on
short notice. How are you, sir?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Never better, Hardy, never better.” They shook hands
firmly. “Let’s use my conference table so these damn monitors won’t be in the
way.” They walked to the large mahogany table surrounded by comfortable leather
chairs. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a placid lake where the
occasional trout broke the surface to slurp up an insect. Bumwell sat at the
head of the table while Zipper took a chair to his right. “Now, what’s on your
mind, Hardy? Why did you insist on meeting first thing this morning?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I have an idea to run by you, sir. I think you’re
gonna love it. It has great growth potential and, quite frankly, it’s based on
a gift that just keeps giving.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Hmm…well you certainly have my attention, Hardy.
Let’s hear it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, so you know how our volume drops off after the
Super Bowl. Football fans are the best there is and they can’t get enough
action. But after the Super Bowl, things get quiet. Our revenue takes a dive.
March Madness is a nice bump, and the NBA is pretty solid, but nothing makes up
for the football action. And we all know baseball is a dud. Very few gamblers
want to bet on baseball.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, I’m with you so far.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“My idea could fill the gap between football seasons
and I think you are going to agree it has significant growth potential.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I’m listening.” Bumwell glanced at his watch. <i>Get
to the damn point, Hardy. I don’t have all day.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, here it is. We build a site to bet on the next
mass shooting.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What? You’ve got to be kidding me!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I kid you not, sir. We could lay out a sweet menu of
betting options for our clients. Like, how many days until the next ‘active
shooter’ event.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I don’t know, Hardy, they happen so often now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Or covering the spread on how many victims.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Hmm…that’s interesting.” Homer drummed his fingers on
the conference table.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“How ’bout the shooter’s weapon of choice?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Nah, ninety percent of ’em use that frickin’ AR-15.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“But we could give long odds on something <i>other</i>
than an AR-15. And how ’bout this—the venue. Is it a school, a church, a
synagogue, a shopping mall, a dance hall? Think of the possibilities, sir. The
list is endless.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I’m startin’ to feel you, Hardy. How about the
shooter’s choice of social media? Did he post his manifesto on FaceBook,
Instagram, Truth Social, or whatever—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“And don’t forget the potential parlays, like ‘I’ll
take more than ten victims, at a school, and YouTube for social media.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“By God, Hardy, I think you’ve got something.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Our tech crew could put up a site in no time,
including an app for the iPhone junkies.” Hardy was grinning ear-to-ear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You got that right. But what can we call it? How
’bout ‘Lone Wolf’. These whack jobs typically act alone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Sir, that’s an insult to wolves. I’m thinking we call
it ‘Lone Rat’. How does that grab you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I love it! ‘Lone Rat’ it is. Okay, okay…let’s slow
down a little. We want to do this right. Let’s call a meeting of the management
team to brainstorm ideas. Then we can meet with the statisticians and
odds-makers to make sure they can handicap this shit. After that, we’ll call in
the tech geeks and get the ball rolling. Oh, and in the meantime, I’d better
run it by legal. We need to make sure any exposure won’t break the bank.” Homer
leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Hardy Zipper…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, sir?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You are one hell of a guy! No wonder I pay you the
big bucks. The ball’s in your court, Zip. Now get the hell out of here and get
to work.” Zipper was halfway to the door when Bumwell jumped to his feet. “Wait
a minute! Here’s another one: they could bet the over-under on how many
senators and congressmen will offer <i>thoughts and prayers</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Brilliant, Chief! I’ll add it to the list.” Zipper
closed the door behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bumwell returned to his desk. On the monitor tuned to
CNN, the Sheriff of Dallas County Iowa stood in front of a bank of microphones,
about to convene a press briefing in a town called Perry.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-23906188674993477652023-12-20T11:11:00.000-08:002023-12-20T11:11:05.097-08:00<p> <i style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;">Author's note: The review that follows was posted in January 2020. I'm reposting it here in memory of Charlene Imhoff Dividson who passed away December 18, 2023. That's her in the picture below, second from the right--beautiful, talented, and a dear, sweet friend. Rest in peace, Sis.</i></p><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 22pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 22pt;">Remember When…</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">By C.W. Spooner</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sly walks in and says, ‘Does anybody sing harmony or are y’all going to sing melody?’”</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 3.25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 3.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Charlene Imhoff Davidson</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">That was the <i>In the Beginning</i> moment for a doo-wop group that came to be known as the Viscaynes, six kids from Vallejo, California. “Sly” was Sylvester Stewart, known in his community as a musical prodigy. Guitar, keyboards, horns—was there an instrument he could not play? And there was the voice that could hit the sweet high notes when they were needed.</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3z7OipiUKPqsRiXaS2RlUt7zFE2cYo2eRHTUD59SupWQ9GuuxANUG-ZEBwk0XI_gVV5XSP-i-7cY-UPnJ4PakNbNQsDyISN7V9AgQgGcSVQRagOCuBPx6CmvZOLDtdZ9EmrHcBR57bR9-/s1600/Viscaynes.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1450" data-original-width="1600" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3z7OipiUKPqsRiXaS2RlUt7zFE2cYo2eRHTUD59SupWQ9GuuxANUG-ZEBwk0XI_gVV5XSP-i-7cY-UPnJ4PakNbNQsDyISN7V9AgQgGcSVQRagOCuBPx6CmvZOLDtdZ9EmrHcBR57bR9-/s320/Viscaynes.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Frank Arellano and Charlene Imhoff had a group and showed up for talent contests. That’s where they first heard Sly, a classmate, Vallejo High Class of ’61. Frank asked for help to “get our harmonies together,” and Sly said “sure.” The group grew to six members, including Charlie and Verne Gebhardt and Maria “Ria” Boldway. They began to meet in the Gebhardts' rec room, equipped with a piano and encouragement from Charlie and Verne’s parents. Along the way, Mike Stevens joined to play piano. They’d stay in that room for hours.</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">All that practice paid off and they began to win talent competitions. In the spring of 1961, they auditioned for the <i>Dick Stewart Dance Party</i>, the San Francisco equivalent of <i>Dick Clark’s</i> <i>American Bandstand.</i> They were accepted. The television appearance and talent show wins led to recording sessions in San Francisco where they cut a series of 45-RPM sides, including “Yellow Moon.” That tune became a hit in the Bay Area, reaching number 16 on radio station KYA’s Top 60 chart.</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">This backstory is meant to call your attention to a reissue of those venerable tracks recorded in 1961. It is titled <b><i>The Viscaynes & Friends</i></b>, and it’s available on MP3, CD or vinyl. Amazon delivered my CD a few days ago and I’ve been spinning it ever since. Songs like "You've Forgotten Me," "A Long Time Alone," and "Heavenly Angel" take me back to a simpler, brighter time when absolutely everything was possible. My only complaint is that two of my favorites are missing: “Stop What You’re Doing,” and “I Guess I’ll Be,” both featuring Charlene’s clarion voice. You’ll have to go to YouTube to hear those two.</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">As we know, Sly went on to fame and fortune as the star of Sly and the Family Stone. But fame and fortune cuts both ways, especially in the music business. Sly has seen some very hard times, but the latest word is that things are a little better. Will there be a happy ending? Let’s hope so.</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">None of that dims the legacy of the recordings that will live forever with the release of <i>The Viscaynes & Friends</i>. There is a quotation in the liner notes that captures the pure joy of the ride home from a recording session. It could be attributed to any member of the group, because their collective memory is as tightly woven as their harmony:</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="color: #4472c4; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">“We did not come home until five o’clock, six o’clock in the morning, because we recorded all night. Coming home, it was the coolest image ever. I close my eyes and I can see it, all seven of us, in Mike Stevens’s dad’s convertible. We are coming across the Bay Bridge, and the sun is coming up, with the top down, singing to the top of our lungs. It was the coolest thing ever.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I highly recommend this album. Put it on, close your eyes, feel the wind in your hair, and watch the sunrise over the East Bay hills.</span></div><br /><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">PS: <i>This release of the "Complete Recordings 1961 - 1962" came out later and included Charlene singing lead on "Stop What You're Doing" and "I Guess I'll Be." </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMV_8vDcMBVwKubEXw6MUym7mXCHfG_RQ1uIRMOTz91sEU4z-RoEVlv3OIdgETWTCJ5HnMsuHvgjMNvZrIeBAYxsvD9UY23np8VwdpTp6VDrndkqUZrHkCKHiKraYom0uyboRwGQu4hjnYegUA-5AUXOmAOEt5YMHzvENHpDJ3XDqJ-FwlKedaEa_TaOF/s1087/Viscaynes%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="981" data-original-width="1087" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMV_8vDcMBVwKubEXw6MUym7mXCHfG_RQ1uIRMOTz91sEU4z-RoEVlv3OIdgETWTCJ5HnMsuHvgjMNvZrIeBAYxsvD9UY23np8VwdpTp6VDrndkqUZrHkCKHiKraYom0uyboRwGQu4hjnYegUA-5AUXOmAOEt5YMHzvENHpDJ3XDqJ-FwlKedaEa_TaOF/s320/Viscaynes%202.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">_____</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></i></span></div>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-88108245658533068062023-12-01T07:00:00.000-08:002023-12-01T07:00:06.373-08:00<p> <span style="font-size: 22pt;">Quick Eddie</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Part 2 of 2</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">T</span>hings were going like
clockwork that Saturday night. There had been some guys who wanted to try their
luck and ended up donating lots of money. Pete was sipping beer and going to
his flask and getting louder and louder. And finally, everybody was out but
Eddie and the money was all in. Pete tanked a few shots and Eddie won the big
pot. The beauty part was watching Pete just barely miss a critical shot or two.
Pete was a master.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’ve got five hundred dollars …”
Pete went into his big speech. And sure enough, a bunch of guys came to Eddie
and said they’d back him, and for him to kick Pete’s ass. The final game was
moving along with Eddie about to miss a critical shot by a fraction when he
heard Pete curse under his breath.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Jeezus, Mary and Joseph!” Pete
looked like somebody had punched him in the gut.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“What is it?” Eddie stood next to
Pete at the ball return.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“The house manager is up there
talking to a guy that looks familiar. I think I saw him in Walnut Creek when we
were there last month. Oh, shit! It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i>
him. We’ve been made.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie looked up and saw the manager
in earnest conversation with a tall, thin man wearing a plaid jacket. The
manager stepped out from the counter and began to talk to one of the men who’d
put money on Eddie.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Okay, kid, we’ve got to run for
it,” Pete said. “Head across the lanes to the pit area and out the back door.
My car is out there. You run for the bus station and I’ll take the car. They’ll
follow me and I can lose ’em. We’ll hook up later in Frisco. Go!”<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">With that, Eddie took off across
the darkened, empty lanes, heading for the back of the house, skipping over the
ball returns and trying not to trip in the gutters. Pete was right behind him,
change and keys jangling in his pants, huffin’ and puffin’, his big belly
bouncing along. They blasted through the back door and Pete headed for his car.
Eddie sprinted around the building and across Sonoma Boulevard to the bus
station. He peered through the plate-glass window of the station and saw Pete
tear out of the parking lot and onto Sonoma, heading for Highway 40 and the
bridge. Sure enough, a group came charging out the back door and jumped into
two cars. They sped off after Pete.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He waited a few minutes to let
his heart rate return to normal, then he went to a ticket window and bought a
one-way ticket on the next bus scheduled to leave. It was heading to Oakland
and he knew he could get home to San Francisco from there. He boarded the bus
and sank down in his seat. He didn’t begin to breathe easy until the bus had
crossed the Carquinez Bridge. He glanced down at his feet and realized he was
still wearing his bowling shoes. His ball, his bag, his street shoes, and his
jacket were all back at the Vallejo Bowl. And his suitcase was sitting with the
desk clerk at the Casa De.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He made it back to San Francisco
the next day. Later he heard that Pete was back in town and they arranged to
meet. Pete had ditched the posse by heading off Highway 40, through Crockett
and down past Port Costa. It was all pretty funny and they had a good laugh
over their adventure. Except for one thing: Eddie couldn’t go back to Vallejo
and he didn’t know what to do about Jodie. It wasn’t long before his dilemma
was resolved. On December 7, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. A week later,
Eddie enlisted and shipped out for basic training at Fort Ord, near Monterey.
He never saw Jodie again.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie called Don over to settle his
bill. When the young man returned with his change, he had a question waiting
for him: “Donnie, why doesn’t a rooster have hands?”<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Don’t know, Eddie.” Don could see
it coming again.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Because chickens don’t have tits.” He let it sink in, then let loose his best Pete Pannel laugh and got up to
leave. “I’ll be coming through from time to time. See you later, kid.”<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Not if I see you first,” Don
mumbled under his breath.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie started for the door, then
stopped and stared at an empty booth in the corner. He hoped Jodie got
everything she wanted: art school, a career, a great guy, a bunch of little
green-eyed kids, and happily ever after. She was a great kid and nobody deserved
it more than her. She deserved better than Quick Eddie Clark.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">***</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">T</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">he door swung open
and a well-dressed woman with flowing brown hair walked briskly into the Ritz.
She waved to several of the regulars at the bar and they called out her name in
greeting.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Whoa, who is that?” one of the
barflies asked his friend. “What a knockout!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Forget it, man. The lady is all
class and she’s way out of your league.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Don exchanged smiles with the woman
as she sat down at the bar. He scooped ice cubes into a tall glass, dropped in
a wedge of lime and filled the glass with club soda. He placed the drink on a
coaster in front of his new customer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“How’s it goin’, Mom?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Good, honey. How’s your day?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Not bad. Hey, you wouldn’t believe
the guy I just had in here. What a piece of work! Oh, yeah…answer this: why
doesn’t a rooster have hands?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">_____</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-48348219125140336912023-11-29T14:16:00.000-08:002023-12-21T11:34:42.119-08:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 22pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Quick
Eddie</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Part 1 of 2</p><p class="MsoNormal">From <i>Children of Vallejo</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">T</span>he sun was breaking
through a thick gray overcast and it looked like it could turn into a decent
afternoon. Eddie Clark drove across the Carquinez Bridge, then took the Sonoma
Boulevard exit and headed toward downtown Vallejo. He had time to kill before heading
on to Napa. In fact, he had all Sunday afternoon and evening. His meeting
wasn’t scheduled until the next day. He had recently moved back to San
Francisco and been assigned a territory that extended into the North Bay.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie had not been in Vallejo in
nearly twenty-five years, since November of 1941, and he wanted to check out
some places he remembered. He approached the downtown area not knowing how much
might have changed. Then he saw the old Vallejo Bowl, still standing at the
corner of York and Sonoma. A little up the block and across the street was the
Greyhound Bus station. Things had been cleaned up and painted, but at least
these two landmarks were standing. <i>The scene of the crime</i>, Eddie said to
himself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He continued across Georgia Street,
the main drag of town, and up the hill to the Casa De Vallejo hotel at the
corner of Sonoma and Capitol. By God, it was still there too, and looked to be
in pretty good shape. As he passed the front of the hotel, he saw the coffee
shop inside the lobby on the street level. That’s where he’d met Jodie.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie turned left onto Capitol and
found a place to park at the curb. Just down the hill from the hotel was a bar,
now called the Ritz. He pushed open the door and went inside. It was dark, but
he could tell there had been changes—probably remodeled many times over the
years. There were a handful of patrons sitting at the bar or in booths along
the wall. He sat at the bar and waited for the bartender to approach.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hi, what can I get for you?” The
bartender was a young man and Eddie wondered for a moment if he was old enough
to serve drinks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Gimme a draft,” Eddie replied, letting his eyes take in the interior
as they adjusted to the light. The bartender returned and set his beer down on
a coaster. Eddie extended his hand across the bar. “Name’s Eddie. Eddie Clark.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The young man shook his hand. “Hi,
I’m Don.” Don sized-up the middle-aged man sitting across from him: slick hair,
slick clothes, too much jewelry. Had to be some kind of salesman. Or a pimp.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Donnie, tell me something, when is
a woman like a good draft beer?” Eddie smirked a little, waiting for the
answer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Don’t know,” Don replied. He could
tell a punch line was coming.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“When she’s got a good head and
goes down easy.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie let the line sink in then let
loose a laugh that was way too loud. Don laughed too, then glanced away, a
little embarrassed. He moved away to help another customer at the bar.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie sat at the bar and nursed his
beer. He was in no hurry today. He picked up a copy of the <i>Vallejo
Times-Herald</i> and thumbed through to the movie section. He noted that <i>The
Hustler</i> was back in the theaters again. <i>Great flick</i>, he thought. <i>Fast
Eddie Felson, Minnesota Fats. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. </i>Eddie
laughed out loud. That’s what he needed when he was hustling in bowling alleys,
a good nickname. <i>How about Quick Eddie? Quick Eddie Clark.</i> He wondered
how many people knew there were hustlers in bowling, just like pool, and lots
of other games. Any game where you could get somebody to put down a bet, there
you’d find hustlers making a living.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He remembered the sweet little
hustle he and Pete had going back in ’41. Pete Pannel! What a guy, may he rest
in peace. Pete was thirty years older than Eddie, big and barrel-chested with
his stomach hanging over his belt. Bigger than life, that was Pete. Eddie could
still hear Pete’s voice booming through a bowling establishment, challenging
anybody to bowl him for money. Then he’d bust out with that huge laugh of his.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie recalled how Pete could hold
a sixteen-pound bowling ball on his palm, let it roll down his forearm, pop it
up in the air with his biceps and catch it in his hand. He saw a lot of guys
wreck their arms trying to match that stunt. Pete was a powerful man, and a
great bowler. He taught Eddie everything he knew about the game—angles, lane
conditions, how to find the groove, how to adjust—but especially how to get
into the other man’s head. Pete was a master at that. He knew just where to
stick the needle.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Bowling was a different game then.
Lane conditions were rough, the pins were heavy, lots of variables to consider.
You had to “hit ’em to get ’em” in those days. Not like today, with these
plastic-coated pins flying around like ping pong balls. Hell, in the thirties
and forties, if a bowler could average 180, he was damn good. Now guys are
carrying 210, 220 averages like it was nothing. It’s a damn circus.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie looked around and he thought
about Jodie. They used to come in here for a drink. God, she was a doll! Auburn
hair, beautiful little figure, and light, light green eyes. Those eyes: that’s
what did it to you. What a doll.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He and Pete were working their
hustle down at the Vallejo Bowl when he met Jodie. He remembered how their
little game used to work. They’d pick a bowling establishment in one of the
smaller towns, well outside of Frisco. In any good house, when the league
bowlers wrapped up around midnight, the pot games would start. A bunch of guys
would get a couple of lanes, hire a pin setter and a scorekeeper, throw a few
dollars in the pot, then bowl winner-take-all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">There was nothing like it after
midnight in a good house, all the lights turned off except for the lanes where
the action was taking place. The bowlers, all kind of nervous and jumpy,
messing around with their gear. And there’d be a few people watching, enjoying
the action, maybe waiting to jump in when the stakes got high enough. Eddie
focused the picture in his mind, right down to the sign on the wall saying, “No
Gambling On These Premises.” It was a beautiful thing to see.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Well, the games would go on and the
stakes would go up. Pretty soon, guys would be tapped out and it would come
down to a couple of bowlers. Finally, all the money would go in the pot, and
somebody would walk away a little richer. By that time, the sun might be coming
up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie had seen men lose their
paychecks. They’d put up anything—rings, watches, golf clubs, pink slips—to
stay in the action, sure that in the very next game, they’d come out on top. It
was sad to watch sometimes. Unless you had an edge and knew you’d be the
winner. He never found a bowler in any one of the small towns they
worked—Orinda, Walnut Creek, Pacheco, Fairfield—who could beat him when all the
money was in. Hell, this was Eddie’s job! These other Joes had to put in fifty
or sixty hours a week on a damn shipyard or some other gig.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">So, Eddie would go into a town
first, start hanging around the lanes and getting into the pot games. After a
couple of days, he’d have a reputation built up. He was good and none of these
small-town guys could touch him. Then Pete would blow in on the weekend and
start shooting off his mouth about how nobody could beat him for money. The
hometown boys would find Eddie and the match would be on. Of course, nobody
knew they were connected. So, Eddie would win a few, and Pete would win a few,
and there would be other bowlers that would be in for a while, until they
tapped out. Finally, Pete would start talking up the stakes until the pot got
nice and big. He’d be drinking beer and going to his bag for a silver flask he
carried, and he’d be nipping at that flask and getting louder all the time.
There wasn’t anything in the flask but water. He’d scare off everybody but
Eddie, and finally, all the money was in. Pete would make a few mistakes and
Eddie would win. Then it was time for Pete’s big speech.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’ve got five hundred dollars says
you can’t beat me again,” Pete would bellow, and he’d flash a roll of bills.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hell, I don’t have that kind of
money,” Eddie would say.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“What’s the matter, kid? Tell him,
guys. No guts no glory!” Pete was something when he got going.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie would flash some anger then:
“You old fart, I’ve been beating your ass all morning, and I can keep on
beating your ass. I just don’t have that kind of money.”<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Five hundred dollars was a fortune
in those days. But sure enough, somebody in the crowd would offer to put up the
stakes for Eddie. It could be a bunch of guys going in together, or it could be
the manager of the house. They wanted to see Eddie beat this loudmouth drunk
and make a little money in the process.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Then the game would start and Eddie
would miss a shot or two and suddenly, Pete was the winner. And that was it.
They were careful not to be too greedy. After the big finale, it was time to
make an exit. Eddie would tell the men who put up their money he’d be back that
night with a new stake, and they’d all get their money back. He’d challenge
Pete to show up and try to take him again. Of course, Pete would accept, at the
top of his lungs. What a guy, Pete!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">They’d leave separately and Eddie
would beat it back to wherever he was staying and grab his suitcase. Pete would
be waiting for him in the car when he came out, and they were gone. It was a
sweet hustle, and they worked it through a bunch of small towns during the
summer and fall of 1941.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">That’s what brought them to Vallejo
that November. And that’s when he met Jodie. Eddie checked into the Casa De
Vallejo—everybody called it the “Casa Dee”—then walked downstairs to the coffee
shop. Jodie was working behind the counter. They were about the same age,
mid-twenties, and they hit it off right away. Her shift was over around 2:00
PM, and he asked her if she’d like to catch a movie. He had lots of time to
kill before he went to work around midnight.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">They saw a movie that first
afternoon, then had dinner together with a nice bottle of wine and ended up
back in his room at the Casa De. They made love until it was time for him to
head for the Vallejo Bowl, just down the street. <i>Just like that</i>, he
thought. She was a beauty.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He saw Jodie the next day, then the
next, and the day after that. He was really getting to know her. She wanted to
go to college to study art and was working hard, saving her money. Her father
didn’t think girls should go to college, so she got no help there. She was
about as nice a girl as Eddie had ever met, and smart too.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie remembered his room at the
hotel, looking out on Sonoma Boulevard, with the neon light from the hotel sign
turning everything kind of a rose color inside, and he and Jodie snuggling and
laughing after making love. There was an old steam radiator near the window for
heat and they’d turn it up to take the chill out of the room. Jodie would put
her underwear on the radiator to warm up a little before getting dressed. God,
what a girl!<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"> Well, Pete rolled into
Vallejo on Saturday and they were all set to do their thing that night. Eddie
checked out of his room Saturday morning and left his bag with the desk clerk.
His cover story with Jodie was that he sold bowling equipment, and that he had
to move on to his next customer. He made plans to come back and see her in
about a week. He wasn’t sure how he would work that out with Pete, but he knew
he wanted to see Jodie again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"> First, there was business
to take care of.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;">_____</p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;">Coming soon: Part 2. What happens to Eddie and Jody? Don't miss the conclusion of "Quick Eddie."</p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;">_____</p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-63150697481737493122023-10-13T12:15:00.000-07:002023-10-13T12:15:14.498-07:00<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22pt;">And Spare Them Not</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Part 2 of 2</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">M</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">ax walked into
Gordy’s Club, a working-class bar not far from the office building where he’d
reported to work for thirty years. He took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer,
and waited for Combs to arrive. It was mid-afternoon and the place was nearly
empty. He didn’t expect to see anyone he knew, not until after quitting time.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Roy Combs walked
in and stood near the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He
was about six feet tall with a solid build. He wore rumpled slacks and a short-sleeved
shirt that revealed powerful forearms. His hair was cut high and tight,
military style, and his expression was that of a pissed-off football coach. He
saw Max and nodded toward a booth against the wall. The men shook hands,
exchanged awkward small talk, then Max got down to business.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“So, what’s up,
Roy?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, here’s the
deal, Max. We are gonna need you to testify.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What? You’re
shitting me. I told you I won’t do that. You want me to get my family killed?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“We don’t have any
choice. The judge threw out Sonny’s confession.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“How the hell did
that happen?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sonny’s got some
young hotshot lawyer. They claimed the confession was coerced. The judge ruled
in their favor. It’s out.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Wait a minute…you
video tape those things, don’t you? You have it all on tape.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Combs looked away,
agitated. “We don’t have a tape. The camera malfunctioned.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Malfunctioned?
Malfunctioned my ass! What did you do, Roy? You didn’t tape it. You didn’t even
try—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Let it go, Max—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You beat it out
of him!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Combs glared at
Max, eyes blazing. “That little motherfucker spit in my face! Spit in my face,
Max, and called me a faggot. You’re damn right I beat it out of him.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And this is what
I fought for in Vietnam? Life, liberty, the Constitution, the American Way? So
that you can beat confessions out of gangbangers?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Don’t throw the
Constitution at me, old man. I served in Desert Storm. I put my life on the
line against Saddam’s Elite Guard. Don’t play ‘holier than thou’ with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The bartender called
in their direction, telling them to keep it down or take it outside. They
glared at each other, both of them breathing hard, their fists clenched on the
table. Combs broke the silence.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Look, we’ve still
got the gun. And we’ve got your testimony. The DA says he can get a
conviction.” He paused for few seconds. “One more thing…with the confession
thrown out, they set bail. Sonny and the other two are out on the street.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max felt sick, as
though he could vomit his beer right there on the table. He wanted to break the
longneck bottle over Combs’s head. “And what if I won’t testify?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Come on, Max. We
have your statement. We can subpoena you, treat you as a hostile witness, force
you to tell the truth. Or go to jail for perjury.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max had no way of
knowing if this was true. He stared at Combs for a long time. “You knew this
all along, didn’t you? That you’d force me to testify. You lying bastard! And
how long before Sonny finds out that I’m a witness?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I don’t know.
It’s in the DA’s hands. It’s called discovery. They have to let the defense
know all the evidence against him.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And what will you
do to protect my family?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“We’ll do what we
can, increase patrols in your neighborhood—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Increase patrols?
That’s it? That’s all you got?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey, it’s all we
can afford. Our budget is cut to the bone—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max bolted out of
the booth and headed for the door and the parking lot. He sat in his car for a
long time, his head resting on the steering wheel, fighting for composure. He
was still there when Roy Combs left the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was the same
dream, over and over again, through all the years since Vietnam. Max stood on a
muddy jungle road and watched the flamethrower reach out and ignite a hut. The
flames leapt into the sky, black smoke billowed upward, one hut after another.
Women and children streamed down the road, carrying a few meager possessions,
the children crying, the women wailing. No men. Where were the men? All dead,
fuel for the inferno? Or in the jungle, watching, waiting?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">This is what it
had come to in a country where you couldn’t separate the friendlies from the
hostiles, where the guy next to you died at the hands of a child with an
assault rifle, where you looked into the eyes of the people you were fighting
for and saw that sick, twisted mixture of fear and hatred. Why? Because you
were destroying their country with napalm and agent orange and carpet bombs and
your flamethrowers from hell.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The same dream,
over and over, until tonight. Tonight one of the children on the road turned
toward him and held out a plate of cookies. It was Ellie.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max usually jolted
awake from this dream drenched in sweat, his breath coming in great gasps. But
tonight was different. Tonight he could only lie there and cry. He was awake
for a long time then, trying to push the images and the questions out of his
mind. How could he answer for the things he had done, and how was he different
from Sonny? Who was that brilliant general who said, “Unfortunately, we had to
destroy the village in order to save it”? And how many villages had they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">saved</i>? He refused to remember; he would
not count them. And so the dream would come again and again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The District
Attorney’s office called to let Max know the trial date had been set. Jury
selection would begin in two weeks. They would meet beforehand to go over his
testimony and prepare him for cross examination. It had taken sixteen months to
reach this point, the wheels of justice grinding away, slow but relentless.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max was ready, at
least as ready as he could be, and he felt an eerie calm now that decisions had
been made and set in motion. His daughter and granddaughter were settled with
family in Minnesota, two thousand miles away. His house was nearly empty,
everything he owned donated or sold on this thing his daughter showed him
called Craig’s List. There were a few pots, pans, and utensils in the kitchen,
his meager wardrobe in the bedroom closet, his recliner in the living room,
along with a framed portrait of Stella on the fireplace mantle. His footsteps
echoed as he walked through the house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He filled his days
with routine. Two mornings a week, he attended minyan at the synagogue where
he’d been a member since the mid-seventies, and he observed Yahrzeit and
attended services to say Kaddish for his parents and for Stella. He read
voraciously, went to lunch at favorite cafés, and stopped by Gordy’s for a cold
beer or two. And of course, there was his beloved garden. This year’s crop of
tomatoes had been exceptional, even by Max’s standards. He’d given away so many
that he was sure the neighbors were sick of tomatoes. Some of the rest he’d
turned into soup and stocked his freezer with plastic containers filled with
the red-orange liquid.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He had sold his
bed, and now he slept in the La-Z-Boy. Among the stack of books next to his
chair was Stella’s dog-eared volume of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tanakh</i>
–<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Holy Scriptures</i>. In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deuteronomy 25:19</i>, he had underlined
these words: “…you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under the heaven.
Do not forget it!” And in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Samuel 15:3</i>:
“Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare
them not…” Amalek, who attacked from the rear, plundered the sick and the weak,
and murdered women and children.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max would not forget.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Propped against
the wall, just behind the chair, was his Winchester 11-87. The twelve-gauge
shotgun was a relic of his days as an avid duck and pheasant hunter. Max had
given up the sport when most of his hunting buddies either died or moved away.
Now the well-maintained 11-87 stood loaded and ready, one shell in the chamber,
four in the magazine. With the trial date set, he was sure they were coming for
him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The night they
came, Max was wide awake. Since the call from the DA’s office, he’d developed
the habit of setting an alarm for a little after 2:00 a.m. when the bars
closed, figuring they would get a load on before heading his way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The old black
Honda Civic with the faded paint job and bright chrome wheels rolled slowly
past the house, circled the block and rolled by again. Car doors slammed, Max’s
signal. He turned the recliner sideways and positioned himself behind it, one
knee on the floor, the shotgun resting on the arm of the chair.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Two figures walked
across his front lawn, up to the low shrubs that grew in front of the living
room window. One of them carried a heavy tool with a long handle. They peered
in through the window, and then, unable to see anything or anyone, they went to
the front porch. A sledgehammer blasted the wooden door frame to pieces,
splitting the stillness. The door swung open and the two men moved into the
room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, Maxie…old
ma-an…where are you?” The man in the lead called out in a sing-song voice. The
one behind him laughed softly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max squeezed the
trigger and the shotgun blast rocked the room. The first man flew back against
the wall and crumpled to the floor. A new shell was in the chamber and Max
pulled the trigger again. He saw a series of muzzle flashes and braced for the
shock and burn of the bullets heading his way. The shock and burn never
happened. The slugs slammed into the wall behind him. Both men were down on the
floor, moving, but just barely. Max stood up and walked the few steps across
the room. The second one through the door, the one who had returned fire, was
Sonny—Amalek himself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max waited, the
shotgun ready. Would someone from the Civic come running to provide backup? But
then came the sound of the engine racing as the car sped away. He looked at the
bloody mess on the wall and at his feet. Should he fire one more shell into the
chest of each man? No need. They were no longer moving.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He placed the
shotgun on the recliner and went through the kitchen and into the garage. He
retrieved a five-gallon can and brought it into the house. He would douse the
bodies and the walls with gasoline until the can was empty, then stand back and
toss a match into the room. The little wood frame house would be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">saved</i>, just like all those huts and all
those villages in Vietnam.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Instead, he stood
motionless, staring at Stella’s portrait on the mantle, tears clouding his
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He set the can on
the floor, pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911. The dispatcher
led him through a series of questions, confirming his name and address, and the
fact that two men had been shot while breaking into his home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m sending the
sheriff and an ambulance, Mr. Silver.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The ambulance
wasn’t necessary, but he didn’t argue. “Okay…and you should notify Sheriff’s
Detective Roy Combs. This is his case.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max traced the bullet
holes in the wall with his finger as he spoke to the woman on the phone. He
thought about Minnesota and his daughter and granddaughter. He could not wait
to be with them. Several questions played in his mind. It was late September
now: were the leaves there starting to turn color? Would they need to purchase
new clothes for the Minnesota winter? And what varieties of tomato grew there?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sirens grew ever
louder as the call ended.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Note:
Elvira Campos of North Highlands, California, was shot and killed as she sat in
the front room of her home on May 18, 2013. She was ten years old. This tale of
vengeance is for her.</span></i></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">_____</span></i></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-55231661887802929062023-10-12T13:03:00.000-07:002023-10-12T13:03:38.546-07:00<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22pt;">And Spare Them Not</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Part 1 of 2</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">from </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Like a Flower in the Field</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt; text-align: center;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;">M</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">ax Silver loved
the little piece of ground he called his tomato patch. Situated in one corner
of his backyard, it wasn’t much more than eight feet wide by twelve feet long,
but the production every year amazed him. Maybe it was the late morning and
early afternoon sun, or the yards and yards of steer manure he worked into the
soil every year. Whatever it was, from June through October the fruit just kept
coming. He loved passing out lunch bags filled with ripe tomatoes to his neighbors,
and they seemed to enjoy them as much as he did. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hey, Max</i>, they would say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how
are those tomatoes coming?</i> One neighbor, the house just across the street,
would turn the ripe fruit into salsa and share several jars every season.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Today he was busy
nipping and pruning and staking his thriving plants. It was late May and soon
the blossoms would turn into small green globes, and if left unsupported, the
weight would be too much for the vines to bear. The sun was nearly down on this
warm May day and he started to think about the cold beer waiting for him in the
fridge. His daughter and granddaughter were at the movies and wouldn’t be home
until well after dark. He’d be on his own for dinner tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max had lived in
the little wood frame house in a northern suburb of Sacramento for thirty
years. He and his wife Stella poured lots of love and care into the place, even
as the neighborhood began to decline. When Stella lost her battle with cancer
eight years ago, he carried on, even though the house was empty without her.
Then his daughter Marnie went through a divorce, and five years ago, Marnie and
his granddaughter Jessica moved in to fill a part of the gaping hole in his
life. Now all that love and care flowed in their direction.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He was gathering
his tools when he heard two sharp cracks and the faint sound of glass breaking.
Then two more cracks. Max was a hunter and Vietnam veteran; he knew it was
gunfire. He dropped his tools and hurried to the gate at the side of the house.
As he reached for the latch, he looked through the gate, and then froze.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">A young man
wearing a hooded sweatshirt crossed the street, headed toward a car parked at
the curb, a gun in his right hand down at his side. Max could see his face
clearly. He knew this boy: a neighborhood tough named Sonny. Years earlier, he
had played on a Little League team Max had coached. Sonny was a handful then,
difficult to control, impossible to teach, an all-around nasty little kid. And
now he’d graduated to firearms. The young man climbed into the car and the
wheels screeched as it tore away from the curb.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max left the gate
and backtracked to his patio. He kicked off his shoes as he entered the house
and hurried to the front room. The drapes were open and through the large
window he saw the house across the street and four round holes—the four shots
he’d heard—in the living room window. Now he heard screams and shouts emanating
from the home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The screams and
shouts continued and neighbors along the block came out on their porches to see
what was happening. Sirens pierced the gathering dusk. Something tragic was
unfolding and Max was a terrified witness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The neighborhood
swarmed with law enforcement. A half-dozen patrol cars clogged the street and
yellow crime scene tape stretched along the perimeter of the lot across the
way. Uniformed and plain-clothes officers moved about. Down the block, behind a
set of barricades, television trucks and their crews stood by. Max sat in his
La-Z-Boy recliner against the back wall of his living room. The house was dark.
No one looking in the window could see him sitting there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Okay, now what?
Should he simply walk out there and tell the deputies what he had seen? And if
he did, what then? His home and family would become the next targets. It would
be like hanging a bullseye on his front room window: shoot here. His cell phone
rang, startling him so that he jumped in the chair. It was his daughter Marnie.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Dad, what’s going
on? We can’t get into the neighborhood. There’s a line of cars here on Maple
Street and I see a sheriff’s roadblock up ahead.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“There was a
shooting—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“A what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“A shooting.
Across the street at the Preston’s house.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh my God! Was
anyone hurt?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I don’t know yet.
Look, don’t come home. Don’t even try to get in here. Take Jessica and go to
Aunt Millie’s.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But we don’t have
any clothes or—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s not safe
here, Marnie.” He could not hide the tremor in his voice. “Go to Aunt Millie’s.
I’ll pack a bag and get some things to you tomorrow.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But, Dad—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max stifled her
protests and ended the call.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The activity out
on the street continued and Max wondered what had happened and why. The
Prestons were good neighbors, never a problem. Their little girl, Ellie, was
ten years old, the same age as his granddaughter. The two girls played together
constantly, walked to school together, shared birthdays. Ellie was a sweet and
friendly child, round-faced and chubby, always smiling. She’s the one who
delivered the fresh salsa the Prestons made from his tomatoes, and she helped
her mother bake cookies for the Silvers at holiday time. Ellie had an older
brother—Max couldn’t remember his name. Was he the target? Gangs and drugs were
a reality in the neighborhood. Could it be gangbangers in some kind of turf
battle? If so, Max was not getting involved. Let them go right ahead and thin
out the herd.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">His hands shook as
he called his sister’s number. Before he could tell her that Marnie and Jessica
were on their way, she interrupted him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Max, are you
watching the news?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What? No. No I’m
not—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“There’s a report
about a shooting in your neighborhood. My God, Max, someone shot a little
girl.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“A ten-year-old
girl, Max. Someone shot her in the back of the head while she was sitting on
the couch watching television. She’s dead.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Millie continued,
recapping the news report. Max could hardly breathe. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh my God! Ellie? They shot Ellie! Oh God. The animals, the goddamn
animals. A little girl…a sweet innocent little girl.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max ended the call
with Millie after making her promise to keep Marnie and Jessica safe. He would
bring clothes and toothbrushes and whatever they needed tomorrow. As he put
down the phone, that telltale taste rose in the back of his mouth. He hurried
to the bathroom to toss the contents of his stomach, though all he could
produce was bile. He rinsed his mouth and splashed water in his face. His
friends often told him he resembled the actor, Charles Bronson. When he looked
in the mirror now, he saw a frightened old man.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max parked near
the phone booth adjacent to the convenience store. He turned the business card
over and over in his hand. The detective had handed it to him that morning at
the close of the conversation at Max’s front door. No, he had seen nothing,
heard nothing. He’d been in his garden out back. No, no one else was home at
the time. His daughter and granddaughter had been away at a movie.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">All the while, Max
scanned the street behind the officer. Who was watching, timing the length of
the conversation? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just give me your damn
card and get off my porch! </i>That’s what he wanted to say. And then the
detective was gone, the door closed with Max leaning hard against it, his heart
racing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Now here he was,
ready to call from a payphone, certainly not from his cell that could be easily
traced. He punched in the number and listened to it ring, again and again. An
operator answered and he asked for Detective Roy Combs. She patched him through
to Combs’s mobile number.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hello, this is
Detective Combs. Hello?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max held a folded
handkerchief over the mouthpiece. “Yeah, I may have—” He stopped and began
again. “I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> information about the
shooting on Chestnut Lane.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, let me get
my notebook. Now, sir, what is your name?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Before I say
anything, I need to know…can you protect my family, my home? You’ve seen what
these animals will do.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sir, I can’t
promise anything until you tell me what you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max slammed the
phone into its cradle, then picked it up and slammed it again and again. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sonofabitch, sonofabitch! They can’t protect
you, they won’t protect you. </i>He climbed back into his car and drove around
aimlessly, looking for a way out, but there were no options. Max had to tell
Combs what he saw, who he saw leaving the scene with a gun in his hand. He
couldn’t let Sonny get away with it. He pulled into a service station and
parked near a phone booth. Again, the operator patched him through.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Detective Combs
speaking. Who is calling, please?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Look, just tell
me you’ll <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">try</i> to protect my family.
That’s all I’m asking.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, sir, this
is Mr. Silver, right? Max Silver? You live across the street from the Prestons.
I spoke to you this morning. I recognize your voice, Mr. Silver.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max’s heart
pounded out of his chest again. He started to hang up, but what good would that
do? “Is there somewhere we can meet? Not at my house. Not in the neighborhood.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">They settled on a
small café a few blocks away. Max hung up the phone and then used the
handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He would tell Combs what he had seen. But he would not testify in open court, if it came to that.
No way in hell would he testify.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">***</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sonny had been
easy to find, along with the two bangers who’d been with him that night. The
three of them were being held without bail pending trial. It turned out Sonny
had confessed, which was good news for Max. Roy Combs assured him he would not
have to testify. They had the confession, they had the murder weapon, and the
District Attorney was planning to seek the death penalty. Ellie was dead; no
way to change that fact. Even though the death penalty was a joke in
California, at least her killer and his pals would be going away for a long
time. Max hoped to see life return to normal—or near-normal—on Chestnut Lane.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">So why did Combs
want to meet with him now? Were there new developments in the case? Max checked
his watch. He did not want to be late for the meeting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Coming
soon: Part 2. What news does Roy Combs have for Max? And how will it change his life? Don’t miss the conclusion.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">_____<o:p></o:p></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-76535526287427770452023-09-03T14:59:00.003-07:002023-09-04T20:24:55.541-07:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 22pt;">Eureka</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">from </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Like a Flower in the Field</i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;">A</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> full moon hung
over the Trinity River Valley in Northern California. It made for a beautiful drive—the
moonlight on the water, the gentle slope of the canyon lined with pines, the
river like a rippling white ribbon. Ward glanced up from the winding road,
determined to print the scene in his mind. He’d never seen a picture so
perfect. He figured he’d be in Eureka around 10:00 p.m., get a room there and
take a long, hot soak in the tub and then a shower. After camping for five days
on the Trinity, a hot bath and a warm bed seemed like heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"> He had left Jimmy in
Junction City at Pat’s place. Jimmy would be heading home tomorrow, back to
Redding and down through the long valley to Vallejo. They had fished the
Trinity hard, from Weaverville to Junction City, with nothing to show for it
this year. Nineteen seventy-three was not a banner year for salmon. That didn’t
matter. October on the Trinity was reward enough: the clear, cold mornings out
on the water, the afternoon temperatures climbing into the eighties, the air so
fresh you could taste it, and then hanging out at the bar Pat owned where cold
beer and conversation flowed like the river itself. The fishing didn’t matter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">This was his last
trip with Jimmy, Karyn’s father. That’s what mattered. Karyn was moving on and
there was no way to change that. She was in love, and you can’t fight love. You
can’t say <i>don’t love him, love me</i>. It doesn’t work that way. It was good
of Jimmy to plan the trip, their last hoorah so to speak. They had fished the
Trinity for salmon every fall for a half-dozen years and this trip was a nice
nod to tradition. Jimmy was a good man, damn good, and he’d been a great
father-in-law. For the five days they were together, he’d never mentioned
Karyn, never asked about the break-up. Ward was grateful. He didn’t want to
talk about it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ward made it to Eureka on schedule and found a room at a motel on West Fifth Street. After the hot soak and shower, he felt like a new man. He was ready to find a friendly tavern and throw back a cold beer or two. The attendant at the front desk directed him to a place a couple of blocks over, an easy walk from the motel. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The night air was
cool, fog beginning to roll in across Humboldt Bay, when Ward reached the bar
situated on a corner. He was about to cross the street when a car came tearing
down the hill from his right and lurched to a stop at the curb. A girl with short
blonde hair leaned out of the passenger side window, laughing and shouting. The
driver, a woman who looked to be a little older, jumped out of the car and
helped the blonde out of the front seat. Together they stormed through the door
of the bar.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ward wasn’t
looking for excitement. He thought about turning around and heading back to his
room. Finally, he crossed the street and went inside. There were a handful of
customers at the bar and in booths along the wall. A small dance floor took up
the back of the room, a jukebox off to one side. He took a stool and waited.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The bartender was
busy with the two recent arrivals, especially the blonde girl. She was talking
loud, laughing, poking fun at him, and he was giving it right back to her. It
seemed they knew each other. She stood on her stool and leaned across the bar, showing
generous cleavage from a scoop-neck knit top, and demanded a kiss from the
barkeep. He grabbed a breast in each hand and planted a kiss on her lips, all
the while squeezing the ripe little peaches. The blonde girl found this
hilarious. What strange world had Ward stumbled into?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The bartender
broke away and came toward him. “Hey, buddy! What can I get you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Whatever you have
on tap. Hey, what’s with the wild child over there?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, don’t worry
about her.” He smiled. “Her sister is keepin’ an eye on her.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">So that was it:
little sister, big sister. Ward nursed his beer and tried to relax. He noticed the
girl glancing his way every now and then. After a couple of rounds, she was
starting to look pretty good. She was a little plump, spilling over her jeans
at the waist, but she had a pleasant face and large, expressive eyes. It really
was a nice face. You’d have to say pretty if you were being fair. She smiled at
him once when their eyes met and she had a nice smile, too. Another couple of
beers and she would look like a young Shirley Jones. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Partridge Family</i> theme played in his head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ward took some
change and wandered over to the jukebox. It was a good playlist and he dropped
in a few quarters and started to punch in his picks. And then the girl was
standing next to him, bumping elbows.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Why don’tcha play
‘Earth Angel’? I love that song.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sure.” He punched
in the letter-number combination, wondering at the choice, a song from the
mid-fifties. “Anything else?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">They scanned the
columns and made a few more selections. She was very young. Was she old enough
to be in this place? He got a strong whiff of cologne, mixed with the alcohol
on her breath, and he recognized the scent: it was Karyn’s favorite. What was
it called? Emerald, or Emeraude, something like that. This girl had bathed in
it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m Ward, by the
way.” He waited for her to respond. “And you are?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Umm, I’m Jane.
Call me Jane.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Jane Doe?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Nothing. Can I
buy you and your friend a drink?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sure.” She led
the way over to the bar. “This here’s my sister. What’d you say your name was?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Ward.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“This here’s Ward.
He’s gonna buy us a drink.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Big sister gave Ward
a critical glance and then nodded. She had no name she wanted to share. She was
drinking club soda. Jane ordered a 7-and-7. They sat through several rounds and
chatted about nothing in particular. Big Sister kept her eyes straight ahead,
chain smoking and sipping her soda. She had nothing to say. “Earth Angel” came
on the jukebox again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, come on,
let’s dance.” Jane grabbed Ward’s arm. “I love this song.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">They slow-danced
to “Earth Angel,” and then to two more ballads. By the third song, Jane was
wrapped around him and Ward couldn’t help but be aroused. He knew she could
feel it but she didn’t pull away. He was lightheaded from all the beer. Or was
it the cologne? As the music ended, she reached up to him, her lips parted, and
he kissed her long and deep. When she stepped back, there were tears in her
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey, what’s
wrong?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Nothin’.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Come on, I
thought we were having a good time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s not you,
Ned—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Ward.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Ward…sorry. I’m
thinking about my old man, my boyfriend. He’s doin’ six months in county. I
really miss him.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sorry to hear
that.” He started to ask <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">six months for
what?</i> but he didn’t want to know. “Come on, let’s have another drink. Maybe
you’ll feel better.” He led her back to the bar and ordered another round.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I really feel
bad, ya know? I miss him. He’s not a bad guy. He was always good to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, maybe he’ll
get out early, good behavior or something.” Ward glanced at Big Sister who gave
him a look that said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah, sure</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But I feel bad,
’cause while he’s been in there, I chippied on him. I chippied on him a lot.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ward thought he
knew what “chippied” meant, but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t want to ask. It
was time to take a trip to the men’s room and splash a little water in his
face. He excused himself and made his way down the narrow hall past the dance
floor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">As he washed his
hands, he noticed the condom vending machine mounted on the wall. He thought
about the kiss on the dance floor and imagined taking that warm young body to
his bed. He dried his hands, dropped in the required coins and stuffed the foil
packets into the pocket of his jeans.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">When he returned
to the bar, Jane was gone. Big Sis was there, chain smoking and fixing him with
a steady gaze. She turned on her stool to face him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Watch yourself, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ward</i>.” Her voice was calm and cool, but
she pronounced his name like an exclamation point. She was about Ward’s
age—mid-thirties—and though her hair was dark, the resemblance to her sister
was clear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You heard me.
Watch yourself. She’s just a kid, a kid with problems. The last thing she needs
is a one-night stand with a jerk like you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Look, I don’t
know what you think—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You think it’s
going to be easy, a sure thing. Right, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ward</i>?
You’ll just say, ‘Hubba hubba, baby. Let’s go back to my place. I’ll show you a
real good time.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No, I mean, come
on…” He glanced around as though looking for help. He could not look her in the
eye.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And what’s your
story, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ward</i>? Divorced? Separated?
Yeah, I noticed the little tan line on your ring finger.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He covered his
left hand with his right.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And now you think
you’re God’s gift to wayward girls?” She punctuated the question with a wry
smile.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Look, Big
Sister…sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“My name doesn’t
matter, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ward</i>. Let’s just say I’m your
conscience, here to make sure you do the right thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Which is?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Leave now, while
she’s still in the lady’s room. Go back to wherever you’re staying, watch some
porn, whack off, do whatever it is that you do. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">leave my sister alone</i>.” She let it sink in for a few seconds.
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell her you said goodbye, good luck, best wishes. All that
crap.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">There was nothing
more to say. He’d been busted and he was no match for this woman. He got up off
the stool, dropped a few dollars on the bar, and headed for the door, away from
this strange encounter in Eureka.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ward checked out
early the next morning. He popped the tailgate and tossed his bag into the back
of the compact wagon. As he stuffed his dirty clothes in among the camping
gear, he saw the shirt he’d been wearing the night before. He picked it up and
brought it to his nose. It smelled of cigarettes and cologne. He paused to play
back the events at the bar and felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Big Sister,
God bless her, had been right.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ward sniffed the
shirt again, then closed his eyes, and just for a moment Karyn was there. She
had not been with him all week on the Trinity, but now she was. He started to
say her name, but his throat tightened. He’d lost her, and now he was out here
on his own, acting the fool. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He wadded the
shirt into a tight ball and threw it—hard—into the back of the car. His shout
became a howl, echoing through the parking lot and down Fifth Street until the
air was gone from his lungs.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was time to
move on, time to forget, and that scent carried memories.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>_____</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-69738257248030518492023-08-20T07:49:00.000-07:002023-08-20T07:49:45.718-07:00<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22pt;">FISH
ON!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A real fish story<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 200%;">L</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">ook!”
Frank shouts. “Straight ahead, where the birds are!” Frank, our fishing boat
captain, shoves the throttle to full ahead and we race toward what boat
captains call <i>la mancha</i>—the stain—an area the size of a small arena where
the deep blue ocean has been churned to a white froth. “Oh man, there are some <i>big</i>
tuna breaking water, feeding on the surface.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfJ1_az8s-hsKQMXGHzuS20K3xLmDXBlm1cF90cXrhM9cCTWj9cQG_CBownHqz0V0igO8jb64HY_Zt-GDsig8EwVlmNpYjX-CpjpPBYxmuekdQDJ-nSbQHjvu_cASFPGC_yF8pug5PdPHC4e2pNT7Xy1Z4YJoczAMfjuJEoPKtoNKtQZ6m9q3zjLi-esrw/s640/IMG_4473.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center; text-indent: 48px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfJ1_az8s-hsKQMXGHzuS20K3xLmDXBlm1cF90cXrhM9cCTWj9cQG_CBownHqz0V0igO8jb64HY_Zt-GDsig8EwVlmNpYjX-CpjpPBYxmuekdQDJ-nSbQHjvu_cASFPGC_yF8pug5PdPHC4e2pNT7Xy1Z4YJoczAMfjuJEoPKtoNKtQZ6m9q3zjLi-esrw/w176-h235/IMG_4473.jpg" width="176" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I
can’t see the tuna but I definitely see the birds circling the area and diving
into th</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">e water. And </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">then the most amazing sight of all: spinner dolphins flying
into the air, turning a half-dozen rotations before falling back to the water.
Until this day, I’d never heard of a spinner dolphin, let alone seen one. And
yet there they are—one, two, three, and more—shooting into the air like prima
ballerinas.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We
are twenty-five miles off the west coast of Costa Rica, out of the harbor town
of Flamingo. Our party consists of my daughter Cheryl and her husband Bruce,
their sons Mason and Collin, my daughter Kim, and me. Cheryl and her family
have lived in Tamarindo for more than twenty years and are involved in several
business ventures there. Kim lives in Welches, Oregon, with her husband Cliff and
extended family. It’s my first visit to Costa Rica, a gift from my five
children in honor of my eightieth birthday, and this will be a day I’ll never
forget.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Bruce
and my grandson Collin are experienced spear fishermen. Captain Frank will try
to position the boat out in front of the dolphins and tuna. Then Bruce and
Collin will jump into the water with snorkel gear and spear guns and descend
about thirty feet below the surface. The dolphins will come racing by, followed
closely by a school of yellowfin tuna. The goal is to get a good clean shot at
a tuna, after which the speared fish will dive deep, taking with it a line attached to
a float. The fish will eventually wear itself out, the float will come to the
surface, and the catch hauled in. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We
speed along with forty, fifty, a hundred or more dolphins racing alongside the
boat. Bruce and Collin are in the bow, ready to go into the water. My grandson Mason
is busy capturing as much of the action as possible via his 35 mm camera and
his trusty smartphone. He is a skilled photographer, filmmaker and editor, like a young
Spielberg. In the meantime, Captain Frank’s deckhand has rigged two fishing
poles and cast them to troll behind the boat. Finally, Frank cuts the engine
and Bruce and Collin are in the water, dropping below the surface, hoping for a
clear shot as the tuna race by. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Fish
on!” Frank shouts. The rod nearest me bends at a ninety-degree angle and the
reel sings as the line races out. “Grab that rod, Chuck. Let it run if it’s
taking line, otherwise crank hard, reel it in.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I
go to the rod and begin reeling. The fish makes a couple of runs and I keep on
cranking. My arm is tiring and I think about giving up, handing the job to
someone else. But call it pride or call it <i>machismo</i>, there is no way I
can quit. I keep straining to gain line. Suddenly the fish comes into view. I’m
winning the battle. Now the deckhand moves in, a heavy glove on his left hand,
a long gaff in his right. He grabs the line with his left hand and pulls the
fish near the side of the boat. With his right, he makes a quick move with the
gaff and jerks the fish up into the boat. It flaps wildly on the deck, blood
splattering everywhere. In a matter of minutes, the deckhand has the yellowfin
safely in cold storage, surrounded by bags of ice. Our best guess is it weighs
about sixty pounds.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Bruce
and Collin swim back to the boat disappointed. The drop point must be precise to
find the tuna schooling behind the dolphins, and this time the positioning was
off. Captain Frank idles as the spearfishermen climb aboard. All the while, the
great gathering of fish and sea birds has moved on. The captain guns the engine
and off we go, his eyes alternating between his radar screen and the horizon. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrq3SIEAtZgT3aVR7N0nJ5KH1EP8utYVhpQYWOq2A1iXGUfJnlKS5BRt-CV5C1TOd35Tmi8AKjEap0NqK1DSDgcWpbJPwTiRrsvOpfaaB2EwwV3TCPqRjpHiRQTHEfKgSnDkMJTSKQRFq631CQeArpPzC7x_PWXCmDfNUg_0zYRJOoMtA6B1tgCc9maRMP/s2048/20230622_113253_47BD53.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrq3SIEAtZgT3aVR7N0nJ5KH1EP8utYVhpQYWOq2A1iXGUfJnlKS5BRt-CV5C1TOd35Tmi8AKjEap0NqK1DSDgcWpbJPwTiRrsvOpfaaB2EwwV3TCPqRjpHiRQTHEfKgSnDkMJTSKQRFq631CQeArpPzC7x_PWXCmDfNUg_0zYRJOoMtA6B1tgCc9maRMP/w224-h299/20230622_113253_47BD53.jpeg" width="224" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Finding
<i>la mancha</i> is a continuing challenge because the fish change direction
frequently. We spend most of the day dashing here and there, trying to relocate
our prey, successful on at least two more occasions. Late in the day the shout
of “fish on” goes up again. This time Cheryl takes the rod and begins reeling.
Aided by Collin, she lands our second yellowfin of the day. It’s a little
smaller than the first one, but a beauty, nonetheless. Bruce and Collin come up empty, unable to find their prey today, but we have two nice tuna to bring home. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It’s
time to head back to shore and we begin the long journey home. I think about
Cheryl and Bruce and the life they’ve built here in Costa Rica. Their
entrepreneurial ventures are too numerous to list here, but the current
flagship is their property management firm: Stay in Tamarindo. If you have an urge
to visit Costa Rica, maybe catch a tuna of your own, or visit a volcanic
national park, or catch a perfect wave on your surfboard, Stay in Tamarindo has
the ideal vacation rental for you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9u9GilyRqKrqB1Kw-rChv16-MJwfptfRlntexI9p1qOEHc3dxZGn4If2_dal9LKpgkDcIx8O0LnEsTCpthTB-ViW_gsxuqbESpaq6lEF_vXuY6xkg-TjbpvQpT7ULcDRRqFv_Gq2I1bT4EdHeWHAzvvgxPzYNn5_k-vWOFi1fJMWnela_BDavuc0VlzoR/s640/IMG_4393.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9u9GilyRqKrqB1Kw-rChv16-MJwfptfRlntexI9p1qOEHc3dxZGn4If2_dal9LKpgkDcIx8O0LnEsTCpthTB-ViW_gsxuqbESpaq6lEF_vXuY6xkg-TjbpvQpT7ULcDRRqFv_Gq2I1bT4EdHeWHAzvvgxPzYNn5_k-vWOFi1fJMWnela_BDavuc0VlzoR/w207-h276/IMG_4393.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> The
boat races on, the harbor coming into view. I think about Kim and the beautiful
life she and hubby Cliff have built in Welches, Oregon. Kim provided a
last-minute surprise, joining me in Los Angeles for the flight to Costa Rica.
She will be with us for the first week of my stay and it is a joy to have Kim
and Cheryl in one place at the same time. It doesn’t happen often enough. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">From
these two beautiful daughters, I count seven of my twelve grandchildren, plus five great grandchildren, soon to be six. </span><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> What did I ever do to be so blessed?</span><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Back
home, Bruce goes to work immediately to clean and filet the fish. Collin and
Mason jump in to make it a team effort. As Bruce carves off the filets, Collin
trims and cuts them into thick steaks while Mason packs and seals them in
freezer bags. Cheryl and Kim join the team, preparing rice, green salad, and other side dishes. My job is to hoist a cold beer and offer encouragement. Later that
evening, we sit down to a dinner featuring perfectly seasoned and seared tuna
steaks. It isn’t lost on me that these delicious steaks were swimming freely in
the deep blue Pacific earlier this same day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Through
all of this teamwork, Mason has been telling us about a documentary series narrated
by Sir David Attenborough titled <i>Our Planet</i>. One episode, “The High Seas,”
features a segment on spinner dolphins. After dinner, we gather in front of the
TV and Mason finds the episode we’re looking for. It is a fascinating
explanation of what we witnessed at sea.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It
turns out dolphins and yellowfin tuna feed on the same tiny species called lantern
fish, a species that thrives because it has no commercial value and is,
therefore, not hunted by the fishing fleets of the world. Yellowfin tuna follow
the dolphins because dolphins are like cowboys, herding the lantern fish
together into a compact school. The Attenborough team’s brilliant underwater
photography captures this phenomenon perfectly, the dolphins working to keep
the school together, the school of lantern fish looking like a giant balloon,
swerving and swirling, held tight by the hard-working cowboys, all the while
pushing the school toward the surface. Then, as though someone fired a starter’s
pistol, the feast is on. Dolphins and tuna attack the lantern fish in a feeding
frenzy, joined by sea birds diving from the air, creating the boil on the
surface of the ocean the fishing captains call <i>la mancha</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">As
for the spinner dolphins, according to Attenborough, they are very rare, found
primarily in two locations: off the coast of Costa Rica and around the Hawaiian
Islands. I am stunned! On a planet seventy percent covered by water, I spent
the day in one of the two places on Earth that spinner dolphins call home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">When
Sir David says goodnight, so does our intrepid crew. We’ve been up since four
in the morning, a very long day indeed. Still, it takes a while for my mind to
calm down and prepare for sleep. Every time I close my eyes, one, two, three,
or more spinners go flying into the air, and Captain Frank is shouting, “Fish on!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrEH2-EO1OHFkAYAqE-Z2q4gs9OD7YP5RRYJGsoGJqvPehlfM3FdhRJZVPYoTPTaLhdBU7ebsqb3T6h4f_SiEsFbBE1r02Jq2khU68RZ7nDNUT1VbgAgC3GdNo8oPng8W9-n0kHa46DANk3It3hfsMRTVhNsWc3Hb2qP3IMarcB39YIZSssA_00KFkBlX/s640/20230620_170711_6CC0C7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrEH2-EO1OHFkAYAqE-Z2q4gs9OD7YP5RRYJGsoGJqvPehlfM3FdhRJZVPYoTPTaLhdBU7ebsqb3T6h4f_SiEsFbBE1r02Jq2khU68RZ7nDNUT1VbgAgC3GdNo8oPng8W9-n0kHa46DANk3It3hfsMRTVhNsWc3Hb2qP3IMarcB39YIZSssA_00KFkBlX/s320/20230620_170711_6CC0C7.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Me, Cheryl, Collin, Mason, Bruce, and Kim</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p>_____</o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p></div>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-87968820382251126042023-08-15T12:49:00.002-07:002023-08-15T14:06:53.851-07:00<p> <span style="font-size: 22pt;">Aspiration</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>from <i>Children of Vallejo</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 22pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I</span>’m
not going to tell you my name, or where I live, or even what part of the
country. If I did, you’d probably say, “See, I told you those people are crazy.”
I don’t think we’re any crazier than anybody else. I think everybody has a
story to tell, and sometimes it isn’t pretty.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent3"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> I
guess my story starts with Momma. She got up one Sunday morning when my little
sis and I were still in grade school and she said, “It’s Sunday morning and
these children belong in church.” With that, she cleaned us up and marched us
off to Sunday school and that’s where we’ve been nearly every Sunday since.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Daddy never
goes. Oh, he may go on Christmas, or maybe Easter, and he always plants his
vegetable garden on Good Friday. Other than that, he doesn’t hold much regard
for organized religion. He likes to read the Sunday paper and have a cup of
coffee, and maybe catch an early football game on the TV. Most of all, I think
he just enjoys having the house to himself. That’s his idea of a good Sunday
morning.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Our little
church is about the prettiest one in town. It sits back off the street with a
nice green lawn on three sides and parking out back. The old plaster walls are
painted white-on-white and the roof is Spanish tile. There is a steeple up
front with a little cross on top, and down both sides of the building are
pretty stained-glass windows. The pews inside are sturdy oak and can hold about
one hundred and twenty souls, and if you can sit there and not be inspired by
the light coming through those windows, well then, you’re probably at home
watching football like my daddy. The social hall is downstairs and has a full
kitchen, and along the south wall are the classrooms for the Sunday school.
Reverend Parsons says our church is “the perfect marriage of form and
function.” I think he’s right.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I used to fight
with Momma every Sunday because I didn’t want to get out of bed early and get
dressed up and all. I wanted to stay with Daddy and maybe watch some football.
But Momma wouldn’t hear of it. She’d pull me out of bed by the ear if she had
to.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">When I was about
to start my sophomore year at the high school, things started to change. That’s
when I began to notice Nola Belle Whitt. Nola Belle is a widow woman, about
thirty-five or so. She lost her husband in the Korean Conflict. We’re not
supposed to call it a war. Anyway, she is a long-time member of the
congregation and a real dedicated Sunday school teacher. Nola has a daughter, Lola
Mae, who is a senior at our high school. Some folks say it was a mean trick for
a woman named Nola to name her daughter Lola. But it isn’t too confusing, so
long as we use both names: Nola Belle and Lola Mae.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Nola Belle is
about the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. She has short brown hair, and soft
brown eyes, and the nicest smile. And she is a kind person, too. You can tell
just by talking to her. And, oh, does she have a shape on her! It is the best
I’ve ever seen. I mean, I’ve seen movie stars in the magazines and all, but
none of them has a shape to compare to Nola Belle Whitt. It’s a shape that can
keep you awake at night, take my word for it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lola Mae is
another story. She is pretty enough I guess, kind of a young version of her
mother, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Lola Mae is a moody, stuck up,
snotty brat of a girl as far as I’m concerned. I see her every day at school,
and every Sunday at church, and do you think she ever speaks to me? I’m just some
lowly sophomore runt and she’ll never let on that she even knows me. There’s a
word for girls like Lola Mae. Starts with a “B,” but I won’t repeat it here.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Anyway, start of
sophomore year, I finagled things so that I could be Nola Belle’s assistant
with her Sunday school class. I just help keep the kids in line and help with
class projects and such. I can’t wait to get to church on Sundays, just to be
in the same room with Nola Belle. She has a good job over on the shipyard and
she always dresses real nice. In the winter, it’s really pretty sweater sets,
and in the warm months, it’s nice cotton dresses with those scoopy necklines.
No matter what she puts on, it always shows off her shape. And that perfume she
wears: just a touch, but boy does she smell nice.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I love being in
the classroom with Nola Belle, being close to her, helping her with the kids,
brushing against her from time to time. And she is so sweet, too. Once she
reached up and touched my cheek and said, “You know, sweetie, there is
medication that can help with your breakouts. Lola Mae uses it. I’ll get some
for you, if you like.” And she did, and it helped. At first I was embarrassed
that she noticed, but after I thought about it, I realized how sweet it was for
her to even care. She is just that kind of person.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Well, one fine
spring day Joe Don Jackson showed up at our church, driving his jet-black 1956
Chevy Bel Air hardtop. Joe Don is big, real big, like a football player or
something, and nice looking too, if you like that type. He has dark hair and a
big smile with these gleaming white teeth, and all the ladies immediately went
into a twitter. He has this way of looking them in the eye and smiling the big
smile and making whoever he’s talking to feel like the only person in the
world. But I saw something else: most of the time, those bright blue eyes were
darting around the room, like he’s expecting somebody to jump him or something.
Real shifty-eyed, if you know what I mean.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Reverend Parsons
welcomed Joe Don with open arms and introduced him to the entire congregation.
It wasn’t long before Joe Don was in tight with the Men’s Club. He became a
regular usher and passed the plate every Sunday. I heard that collections went
way up, cause all the ladies liked him and all the men were a little scared,
him being so big and all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">That was all fine
with me, until I saw that he had his eye on Nola Belle Whitt. Right then and
there I took a strong opinion of Joe Don Jackson, and it wasn’t a high one
either.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">A few weeks
later, it was all through the congregation that Nola Belle and Joe Don were
“seeing each other.” I think we all knew what that meant. Sure enough, you’d
see them after services, downstairs in the social hall, holding hands and
smooching and stuff. And him all the while with those shifty eyes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">One Sunday after
services, we were heading for the parking lot in back of the church and I
realized I’d left my bible in the Sunday school room. I didn’t want to leave it
there all week, so I told Momma I was going to get it and I’d be right back. I
went downstairs into the social hall and started across to where the classrooms
are located. All the lights were out, but there was some daylight from the
ground-level windows along the side of the building. As I got close to the
classroom, I could hear a voice and I realized it was Nola Belle. She was
saying, “Oh … Oh God … Oh God,” and I thought something must be wrong. The door
to the classroom was open about halfway and I started in to see what was the
matter. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. At the far end of the room, there was
a countertop and sink, and Nola Belle was perched up on the countertop, her
legs wrapped around Joe Don’s waist, and him with his slacks down around his
ankles.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I stepped back
out of the doorway and pressed myself against the wall, gasping for air. It was
like somebody punched me in the gut and I couldn’t breathe. Then I heard Joe
Don calling, “God, oh God …” I couldn’t stand to listen, so I ran out into the
social hall and waited for them to finish. Finally, I heard Nola Belle’s heels
clicking on the wood floor and she and Joe Don came out of the room. I started
toward them as if I just got there.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh hi, honey.
What are you doing down here?” She gave me that sweet smile of hers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I forgot my
bible,” I said, and nodded at Joe Don as I passed. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I went into the
room and found my bible, right where I’d left it. I stood there for a while,
looking at that countertop and thinking what an asshole Joe Don Jackson is,
doing it right here in the church. But then I thought, well, if God gave us
these feelings, then maybe church is as good a place as any. At least that
shifty-eyed sonofabitch could have locked the door. Right there I started to
cry, and I really wasn’t sure why.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Not long after
that, Nola Belle and Joe Don announced that they’d gone off to a Justice of the
Peace and got married. All the church ladies were disappointed because they
didn’t get the chance to put on a big wedding, but they consoled themselves by
throwing a real nice reception in the social hall. I didn’t want to go, but
Momma insisted. We all brought presents and the happy couple greeted us at the
door. It was nice, with punch and cake and lots of little sandwiches with the
crust cut off. I thought the cake was first rate.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">After a while,
Joe Don came over to me and struck up a conversation about fishing. I told him
I’d been out to Lake Chabot a few times but had no luck. He started giving me
lots of pointers and told me how he usually caught his limit out there. He said
he’d take me some day, maybe after church, and show me how he did it. I could
see how people were drawn to Joe Don, what with all that charm going for him.
Pretty soon, he wandered off and went to talk to Lola Mae.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lola Mae was
sitting by herself and looking real pouty, but I noticed something new about
her. Her shape was really coming in. She was going to be just like her momma,
maybe even prettier. But that didn’t matter, cause she was still a stuck up
snot. So, Joe Don walks over and starts chatting her up, and all the while his
shifty eyes are scanning the room. All I could think of was him with his pants
down to his ankles.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">A few Sundays
later, I was up and showered and ready for church and I went into the kitchen
to get a piece of toast and some orange juice. There was Momma, still in her
housecoat, standing by the sink taking deep drags on her cigarette. Daddy was
at the kitchen table with his coffee and his Sunday paper.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hey, Momma,” I
said, pouring myself a glass of juice. “Why aren’t you ready for church?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“We’re not going
today,” she said, blowing the smoke out hard, the way she did whenever she was
mad.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Really? Why
not?” I was looking forward to seeing what Nola Belle would be wearing that
morning.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Go ahead,”
Daddy said. “Tell him why.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hush up,” she
said, and blew another hard stream of smoke.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I stared at
Momma and she finally stubbed out her cigarette and looked me in the eye. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It seems that
Joe Don Jackson got caught taking money from the collection plate. Seems he’s
been doing it for some time.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I turned away
from her so that she couldn’t see me smile.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Tell him the
rest,” Daddy said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">She paused for a
second and then went on. “It seems that Joe Don and Lola Mae have run off
together. She left a note for her momma saying they was in love and they’re
going off to Nevada somewhere to get married.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“But how can
they do that?” I said. “He’s already married to Nola Belle.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It seems the
two of them wasn’t married after all. They was just living over there to Nola’s
house like … like …”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Like a bunch of
bunny rabbits,” Daddy said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I said hush,
Harlan!” Momma was angry with him now. Daddy just chuckled and went back to his
newspaper.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I took a long
drink of juice and smiled again. <i>Well, she’s quit of him now, and that’s a
good thing.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">When Nola Belle
finally came back to church, all the ladies rallied around her. They hugged her
neck and kissed her cheek and gave her tissues to dab her eyes. Let’s face it:
it was the most exciting thing to happen in that church since the foundation
was poured.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Me, I took a
different track. I bought Nola Belle a card at the supermarket where I work
after school. It said something about “you got a friend,” or some such. I
signed it and slipped it in her purse one Sunday. I know she found it, though
she never said anything. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">One of my
friends called her Nola Nitwit one time and I punched him real hard in the arm.
“What was that for?” he yelped. I told him nobody was going to talk bad about
Nola Belle when I was around.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">So that’s my story. I’m her friend
and protector—for now. I’m getting my driver’s license real soon, and I’ve got
some money saved up. I’m going to get me a nice hardtop, or maybe even a
convertible. She’ll take notice then.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">_____</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-73528912229529406912023-07-24T20:07:00.000-07:002023-07-24T20:07:31.885-07:00<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22pt;">Chasin’ the Bird</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Part 2 of 2</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;">T</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">he trauma center
waiting room was a busy place, people coming and going, families huddled
together, speaking in hushed tones. Periodically a doctor would appear through
the wide automatic doors, find the appropriate family members and give them a
brief status report. The reactions ran the gamut, from smiles and laughter and
hugs for the doctor, to choked sobs and tears.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom and Della
waited, trying their best to remain calm. Mrs. Kemper had come by but had to
leave after several hours. They would call her as soon as they had news to
share. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The automatic
doors swung open and a young man in scrubs came into the room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Mancini?” He
called out in a firm voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom went to where
the doctor was standing, Della close behind. “I’m Dominic Mancini.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Mr. Mancini, I’m
Dr. Fleishman. I’m a trauma surgeon. Your brother sustained a knife wound and a
laceration to his liver. The knife entered his right side, about right here.”
He pointed to a spot on his torso. “It was a serious wound but we were able to
repair it. No other organs were hit. He lost a lot of blood but they got him
here quickly.” The young physician continued, describing the post-surgical
protocol and the fact that the next forty-eight hours would be critical.
Dominic retained just one detail: Vinnie was alive. The doctor finished his
report. “Do you have any questions?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Dr. Fleishman…”
Dom took a deep breath. “What are his chances?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I won’t
sugar-coat it, Mr. Mancini. The surgery went well, but a lot of things can go
wrong. I’d say his chances are fifty-fifty. As I said, the next forty-eight
hours are critical.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">They thanked the
doctor, marveled at his youth and professionalism, held on to his hand a little
too long, and then watched as he turned and exited the way he had entered. Dom
and Della fell into each other’s arms, tears flowing freely, damp spots
collecting on shoulders. For now at least, Vinnie was alive.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was one of
those glorious September days in The City, not a cloud in the sky, the temperature
expected to reach the low eighties. The Giants would pack Oracle Park for the
umpteenth consecutive sellout and the 49ers were poised to open their
season with great expectations. All around town, people shed their jackets and
scarves and ties and took their lunches outdoors to the parks, squares, and
plazas. Out on the bay, sailboats moved in graceful white clusters around
Alcatraz and Angel Island. It was the time of year San Franciscans cherish.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dominic Mancini
had little time to enjoy the season. He was on a mission. He walked all around
Union Square, then down Stockton Street past the entrance to Macy’s. Nothing
there. He made his way back to the Powell Street turntable and waited for a
cable car. It was after Labor Day and Dom was able to board without the crush
of tourists. The bell rang brightly as the car rolled up the street past the
St. Francis Hotel, then farther up the block to the Sir Francis Drake, the
doorman standing outside in the traditional British costume. At the crest of
Powell Street, passengers jumped off for The Top of the Mark. Soon came the
left turn onto Jackson, past the Car Barn and Museum. He looked and listened
closely. Still nothing. The car turned right and climbed to the top of Hyde
Street where it paused for the magnificent view of Alcatraz and the bay. Some
riders stepped off for the photo op while others boarded for the trip down the
hill. The car moved forward, tipped dramatically, and down the hill it rolled,
intersection after intersection, a long series of steps. Dom could smell the
wooden brakes burning as the gripman worked to control the car.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom got off at
Aquatic Park and looked around. Nothing. He thought about stepping into the
Buena Vista for an Irish Coffee but decided to walk over to Ghirardelli Square
instead. As he approached the corner of Beach and Larkin and the stairs that
led to the fountain plaza, he saw a small crowd gathered around a street
performer and he heard the sound of the alto saxophone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom stood at the
back of the crowd and listened. He recognized “Cool Blues” and “Parker’s Mood.”
Vinnie had it right. This man was channeling Charlie Parker.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">A song ended and
the musician announced he’d be taking a break. People pressed ahead, dropped
change and bills into his instrument case, and moved on. Dom stepped forward
and smiled as the aged Black man poured a cup full of steaming liquid from a
thermos bottle. The man paused, lowered his dark glasses, and looked at Dom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well now, there’s
a familiar face.” He wore faded denim pants, battered work boots, and a
cable-knit sweater that had no doubt been white once upon a time. A black
fisherman’s cap covered most of his gray hair.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hello.” Dom
smiled again. “I think you know my brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, I’ll be
damned. Mancini, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, sir. I’m
Dominic.” He extended his hand. “Vincent is my brother.” They shook hands
firmly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Ha! Vincent? I
always called him Dago Red. No offense.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“None taken. He
always called you Bird.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The old man grew
serious. “You know, your brother is my hero. Saved a whole day’s worth of
earnings for me. Ran those kids off and they didn’t hardly get a dime.” He
paused and searched Dom’s eyes. “Well now…well, well, well…I am afraid to ask.
How is my friend Dago Red?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom felt a lump in
his throat, but he managed to get the words out. “He’s going to be fine. He’ll
be coming home in a few days. We expect him to be back at work by Halloween.
Thanksgiving at the latest.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh my, my, my,
that is good news. Good news indeed! Tell him Emerson Jones said ‘Hello and God
bless.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Mr. Jones, would
you do me a favor?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Why sure. What
can I do for you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I want to make a
video for Vinnie. Would you play ‘Star Eyes’?” Dom took his smart phone from
his pocket and opened the camera.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The old man smiled
as he picked up his instrument. He moistened his lips, wet the well-trimmed
reed, and began to blow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-43251208211457302882023-07-23T13:06:00.001-07:002023-07-23T13:07:45.575-07:00<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22pt;">Chasin’ the Bird</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Part 1 of 2</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">from <i>Like a Flower in the Field</i></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">D</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">ominic buried his
face in the pillow, hanging on to the last vestiges of a good night’s sleep. He
had a rare Monday off, a “use it or lose it” vacation day. Della came into the
room and sat down on the bed. She leaned down to kiss him on the temple and he
had to smile. There she was, showered and dressed, makeup expertly applied, her
dark curly hair framing her face. God she was cute. Dom was wide awake now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, baby, I’m
off to work.” She fiddled with an earring, adjusting the clasp.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You sure you have
to go? You smell so good I could eat you up.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hmmm, hold that
thought. I’ve got meetings scheduled this morning. I’m going to be late as is.
What are your plans for the day?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom rolled over
and clasped his hands behind his head. “I’m going over to Vinnie’s place, see
if he needs anything.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay. Tell him I
said ‘Hi.’ You know, we should have him over for dinner. He hasn’t been here
for a while.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah, but you
know how he is. He’s got his routine. Goes to work, comes home, has something
to eat, listens to his jazz, and goes to sleep. He doesn’t like change.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You know, Dom, I
don’t think your brother likes me. I think that’s part of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Nah, he’s just
shy, especially around pretty girls.” He squeezed her knee and she jumped a
little.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Stop it. I’m serious.
I don’t think Vinnie likes me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom started to
protest, but he could see the concern on Della’s face. “I’ll talk to him today.
If there’s a problem we’ll work it out. You know Vinnie—he’s an open book. And
I’ll invite him for dinner. Okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay. Let’s do it
Friday night. I’ll make lasagna. Oh, I gotta go. Give Vinnie my love.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">She was off the
bed and headed for the door before Dom could grab her and convince her to stay.
There was nobody like Della, at least no one Dom had ever met. Smart, feisty,
funny, ambitious. He’d already made up his mind to put a ring on that finger,
and soon, before she could discover all of his faults.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He checked the
clock on the bedside table. Only 7:35. He’d told Vinnie to expect him by 10:00
and it was just a short drive from Dom’s apartment near the Panhandle of Golden
Gate Park; plenty of time to shower and shave and make a plan for the day.
Vinnie loved it when Dom came with a plan.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Vincent Thomas
Mancini was thirty-nine on his last birthday, three years older than Dom. Vinnie
had intellectual disabilities. The doctors said he was “somewhere on the
spectrum,” that long arc of autism and other developmental issues that
continues to evolve. He lived independently in a rented room in San Francisco,
just a block or two from the cable car barn. He had the upper floor of a home
owned by a widow, Dorothy Kemper, who kept an eye on him, packed a lunch for
him to take to work, and put a hot meal on the table most evenings. Vinnie
worked four days a week in the mail room of an office down on Market Street,
and he took great pride in his job. It gave him a little spending money and,
even more important, a sense of independence. Their parents had left an estate
large enough to provide everything that Vinnie needed—room and board, clothes,
medical insurance—all the necessities of life, including the means to continue
building his collection of classic jazz CD’s. No iPod or downloads for Vinnie.
He liked to hold a jewel case in his hands, with its colorful cover art and
liner notes tucked inside.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom bounced out of
bed and headed for the bathroom. Being late for Vinnie was not an option.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Vinnie opened the
door as Dom was walking up the marble steps to Mrs. Kemper’s place.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey, Dominic,
what’s up? Ten o’clock, right on time.” He gave Dom a bear hug, lifting him off
the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Ow, Vinnie,
you’re gonna break a rib.” They laughed as Vinnie put him down. “Hey, I brought
something for you. Wanna see it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“For me? Oh yeah,
let’s see.” He was excited now. Vinnie loved presents.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom handed him a
CD that he’d found online: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cal Tjader
Sextet – A Night at the Black Hawk.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, man! Thanks,
Dom. I don’t have this one. I’m going to listen to it tonight. This is great.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Seeing Vinnie
smiling, excited, and happy gave Dom a good feeling. They’d both inherited
their mother’s curly red hair and when they were younger, people often mistook
them for twins. Mom was in her forties, their father in his fifties, when the
boys were born. Heart disease had claimed both parents when the boys were in
their mid-twenties.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“So, Vinnie, I
figure we’ll make a list and go to the Safeway down in the Marina. And if you
need anything, you know, clothes or socks or underwear, we can go downtown to
Macy’s. And we’ll get some lunch while we’re out. How’s that sound?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Vinnie was busy
reading the back of the CD. “What? Oh yeah, Dom, that’s great. Let me put this
away and I’ll grab my jacket.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He trotted up the
stairs to his room leaving Dom in the entryway. This home was perfect for
Vinnie, just a block from the cable car line. He could ride that venerable
antique everywhere he needed to go—downtown for work or shopping around Union
Square, down to Aquatic Park to enjoy the waterfront, or over to Fisherman’s
Wharf for seafood, and then back home to Mrs. Kemper’s. As Della would say, it
was “very San Francisco.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Vinnie came down
the stairs, his jacket partly off one shoulder. Dom helped him straighten it
and zip it to the collar. It was August and a cold wind was whipping through
the streets of the neighborhood. If you wanted summer in San Francisco, you had
to wait for September and October.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The brothers
smiled across the table at the Washington Square Bar & Grill—the Washbag as
Herb Caen dubbed it—the fabled restaurant at the corner of Powell and Union.
Vinnie loved the filet of sole with lemon-butter-caper sauce. They both ordered
the sole, plus a 7-Up for Vinnie and a glass of Chardonnay for Dom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“So, Vinnie, how
was your week?” Dom knew what the answer would be, a variation on the same old
theme.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh it was great,
Dom. I caught Miles Davis at the Black Hawk. Turk and Hyde, ‘The Jazz Corner of
the West.’ What a dump!” He laughed out loud. “Two sets, both of ‘em great.
Miles is the best...”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">There was a time
when Dom would have tried to correct his brother, to explain patiently that the
Black Hawk closed decades ago and Miles was dead and gone. What Vinnie had done
was sit for hours in his room, his headphones in place, listening to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Miles Davis – In Person at the Black Hawk</i>,
a classic recorded in 1961. But Dom had given up on corrections. If Vinnie
believed he was there, hearing Miles in the flesh, so be it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“So, it was a
great show. How was the crowd?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Out the door and
around the block, man. SRO! But listen, Dom, the best thing all week was Bird.
Bird is here in San Francisco! I heard him, man, several times.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom was sure
Vinnie was referring to another CD, one of many Charlie “Bird” Parker
recordings that he owned. “Oh really? Where is he playing?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“He’s all over,
man. I heard him up in Union Square, then over by Macy’s, and then down by the
Buena Vista. Playing all his classics, ‘Star Eyes’ and ‘Confirmation’ and
‘Yardbird Suite.’ Never better, Dom. You’ve never heard ‘Star Eyes’ so
beautiful. You gotta come with me. We should go find him—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah, Vinnie. But
not today. Maybe another time. Okay?” Dom paused a moment. “Hey, Della wants
you to come over for dinner on Friday. How’s that sound?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Vinnie looked
away. “Yeah, okay, dinner on Friday.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Vinnie, what’s
wrong? Is there a problem?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No, Dom. No
problem.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Vinnie, look at
me. Let me see your eyes.” Dom waited until his brother turned toward him.
“Della is afraid you don’t like her. Tell me the truth, Vinnie. Are you okay
with Della?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah, she’s
great, Dom. It’s just, well you know…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Come on, Vinnie,
tell me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“We don’t do
things together…like we used to.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Is that it? I
don’t spend as much time with you as before?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah, I guess.”
Vinnie looked away again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Vin, look at me.”
Dom waited. “Hey, you’re my big brother and I love you. We’ll work this out.
All right? We’ll work on it. I promise I’ll do better.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It wasn’t long
until Dom had Vinnie smiling again, back to his tale of Charlie Parker alive
and well, playing on the streets of the city they loved. Dom was relieved, and
he knew Della would be too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dominic unlocked
the door, Vinnie close behind him, stuck his head in and called, “Hey Lucy, I’m
home.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Della’s voice rang
out from the kitchen: “Ricky you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my
mind…Hey Ricky, Hey Ricky.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was their riff
on the Weird Al Yankovic parody, always good for a laugh. Della came out to
greet them, a smudged white apron tied around her waist.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hi, Vinnie!” She
gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. He flinched a little. “I hope
you’re hungry. I’m making lasagna, from your mom’s recipe.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh hi, Della.
Yeah, Mom’s lasagna, thanks for having me over.” Vinnie avoided eye contact.
Then he remembered the bouquet of flowers in his hand, purchased with his
hard-earned money from a stand on Powell Street. “Oh, these are for you, Della.”
He held them out proudly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, thank you,
Vinnie. How sweet!” She started to kiss him again but hesitated. “I’ll put
these in a vase.” She hurried away to the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom took his
brother’s jacket and flashed a thumbs-up. Vinnie smiled. This was a good
beginning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The dinner
conversation followed the usual pattern, each party recounting the events of
the week just ended. When it was Vinnie’s turn, they were not surprised—at
least not at first.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I saw the
Cannonball Adderley Quintet, live at The Jazz Workshop. It was great. What a
crowd. You could barely get in the place. They played Bobby Timmons’s ‘This
Here.’ Great tune, man. It’s gonna be a hit. Guaranteed.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Vinnie went on to
describe the entire performance, which Dom had heard before. The live recording
from 1959 was one of Vinnie’s favorites. With barely a pause, he segued into
his next story and his enthusiasm cranked up a notch.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“…and Bird is
still here, Dom. He’s still in San Francisco, playing all over town. You’ve got
to come with me, Bro. You’ll love it. All the classics, ‘Moose the Mooche,’
‘Scrapple from the Apple,’ ‘Ko Ko.’ And you’ve never heard ‘Star Eyes’ played
like this—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Vinnie, wait a
second. Are you saying there’s a guy playing on the street that sounds like
Charlie Parker? Is that it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah, man, it’s
Bird, here in The City by the Golden Gate, Baghdad by the Bay, don’t call it
Frisco—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, okay, calm
down. I promise we’ll go real soon. All right? We’ll chase down the Bird.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The conversation
moved on to other topics. Vinnie loved the lasagna, and the bouquet of flowers
was lovely in the little vase. Dom would count this evening a success.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey Lucy, I’m
home.” Dom came through the front door with the usual greeting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Della came out of
the kitchen quickly, holding the cordless phone toward him. “It’s the police,”
she said, her face drained of color.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dom took the phone
from her. “Hello.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Mr. Mancini, this
is Sergeant Donlan, San Francisco Police. Sir, your brother was stabbed in an
altercation in Union Square. He had a card in his wallet listing you as an
emergency contact. He’s been taken to San Francisco General, the trauma
center.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh my God! What happened?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“He was listening
to a street musician and three young males came along and started grabbing
money out of the man’s instrument case. Your brother charged them and threw a
body block that knocked two of them down. The third one stabbed your brother
with a switchblade. The three of them ran off.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“How is…” Dom
choked on his words. “Is Vinnie okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I can’t answer
that, Mr. Mancini. I suggest you get to the hospital as soon as you can.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Della grabbed her
coat and purse. They locked the front door and ran for Dom’s car. Fog crept
over the hills, about to engulf the neighborhood as they sped toward S.F.
General.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Coming soon: Part 2. Don't miss the conclusion...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-82508722351044985322023-07-12T10:15:00.000-07:002023-07-12T10:15:39.478-07:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 22.0pt;">Tool Six</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Part 2 of 2</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18.0pt;">A</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">lex sat in the
coaches’ office adjacent to the Men’s Gym, waiting for his 7:15 AM appointment
to arrive. Big Denny Thornton had called him at home and insisted on meeting
first thing Wednesday morning. He was ten minutes late. At last the door pushed
open and Thornton Sr. walked in. “Big Denny” was an appropriate tag for this
man. He towered over Alex and he was built like an NFL lineman. His bald head
glistened under the fluorescent lights. This was the first time Alex had seen
him without a baseball cap. Thornton sat down in the chair on the other side of
the desk. Neither man offered to shake hands.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Good morning,
Coach. How was your evening?” Thornton’s voice dripped sarcasm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I think you know
the answer, Mr. Thornton. Look, I am really sorry. I just lost my cool. Did
Denny tell you everything that happened?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well, yeah.
Sounded to me like just a little horseplay. Ya know, boys will be boys.” Big
Denny smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Anyway, I am
sorry, and I intend to speak to Denny and apologize face to face. I hope we can
put this behind us.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah, I’m sure
you do. You know, Alex, hitting a student-athlete is a pretty serious thing.
Know what I mean?” He waited quietly, fully in charge now. “That sort of thing
can cost you your coaching position, probably even your job. You have a wife,
two little girls, a mortgage. This is not a good time for a teacher to be out
of work. Am I right?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alex could feel
the blood rushing to his cheeks. “Okay, Mr. Thornton. What is it that you
want?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Big Denny smiled
again. “Well, now that you ask, the Major League Baseball draft is coming up in
early June. My son, as I’m sure you know, is not college material. His dream,
his best shot, is to be drafted by a major league team. If he goes high in the
first round, the signing bonus will be pretty sweet. It’s what we’ve been
working for since I signed him up for T-ball.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“And? What do you
want from me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Scouts will be
calling you, asking for your input. They don’t want to talk to Walker anymore,
they all know his situation. But they will listen to you, Alex. What you say
can go a long way. Know what I mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“And just what
would you like me to say?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thornton opened a
manila folder he’d carried in with him, removed a neatly printed sheet of paper
and placed it in front of Alex. It was a bulleted list of talking points and,
as Alex skimmed it quickly, it became clear that the purpose was to paint
Dennis Thornton, Jr. as a person of the highest character, a paragon of virtue.
Regular church goer, Sunday school teacher, regular helper at the local rescue
mission, volunteer for the suicide prevention hotline. The list went on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alex dropped the
list on the desk and locked eyes with Big Denny. “Is any of this real?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now, Coach, you
know as well as I do that perception is reality.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah, well let me
share my perception, from what I hear around campus. I hear your son likes to
smoke a little weed while he enjoys a cold beer or two. And I hear he pays a
couple of bright kids to write his papers for him. And then there’s the big
one, the girlfriend who was a little bit pregnant, which I’m told you paid to
take care of. You want me to go on?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Big Denny’s smile
was gone. “Now you listen to me, you little pissant!” He paused to regain
composure. “You just keep this list handy when you talk to those scouts. And…nobody
in the principal’s office or the school district ever has to know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that you whacked my kid upside the head with
your damn scorebook and called him a son of a bitch.”</i> He lowered his voice
and continued. “Do we understand each other?” Alex did not respond. “All righty
then. Thanks for your time, Coach. Let’s stay in touch.” He pushed back the
chair, rose and left the office.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alex stared at the
piece of paper Thornton had left. So that was it. Just say all the right things
when scouts called and life would continue apace. He could keep his teaching
position, succeed Walker Bateman when he retired, and have a long and fruitful
career at Valley Vista High.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It wouldn’t be the
first time he’d gone with the flow, or just turned his head. He’d been well
aware of Denny’s party boy behavior and his academic short cuts, yet never said
a word. Hey, if the kid could throw shutouts and his batting average hovered
around .450, why rock the boat? And what about Coach Bateman? Alex had gone
along with the tacit agreement among the coaches to let Walker ease into
retirement. And had he done enough to help the old man, other than an attempt
to connect him with an AA sponsor?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The phone rang,
startling him out of his stupor. It was Leo Haynes, head of scouting for the
Chicago Cubs, one of the true gentlemen of the grand old game.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Alex, my young
friend. It’s Leo Haynes. How the hell are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Just fine, Mr.
Haynes. How’s everything with you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Top of the world,
Alex, top of the world. And how is my old friend, Walker Bateman?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“He’s…well, I’m
sure you know this. Walker has been better.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes, that’s what
I’ve heard. Very sad. I have tremendous respect for that man. He is one of the
giants. Please give him my best regards.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll do that,
sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Listen, Alex, I
don’t want to take up too much of your time. I need to talk to you about young
Denny Thornton.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alex glanced down
at the list on his desk. “Well, what can I say that you don’t already know?
He’s the real deal, Mr. Haynes. A genuine five-tool player. There isn’t a thing
he can’t do on a ballfield.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ah, yes, yes
indeed. But that’s not what I need to know. What is the young man like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">off</i> the field? What kind of student is
he? What kind of a citizen? Let me shuck it right down to the cob, Alex. If I
convince the Cubs to spend a million or two to sign this young man, will I
regret it? Is he likely to buy a Corvette and get arrested for driving a
hundred miles an hour while under the influence? Is he likely to wind up
punching out drunks in strip clubs? Or cold-cocking his girlfriend in full view
of the security cameras, like whatshisname, the football player? I know all
about the five tools, Alex. I need to know about Tool Six. Character! He either
has it, or he does not. That’s what I need to know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And there it was,
right to the point. Leo Haynes was living up to his impeccable reputation.
Straight questions requiring straight answers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Mr. Haynes,
listen, something urgent has come up. I’m going to have to call you back. Can I
catch you around noon? Or maybe early afternoon?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hmmm…okay, Alex.
I’ll look for your call around noon today.” He gave Alex his mobile number and
hung up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alex walked out of
the office, down the hall, and out onto the quad that stretched from the Men’s
Gym to the stately Main Building. He watched the students coming and going,
laughing and talking, on their way from one class to the next. Several of them
called out to him with a cheery “Hi, Coach.” He loved this old campus with its
eclectic mix of buildings that ranged in style from classic Spanish-Moorish to
the ultra-modern Science Building. From the day he decided to become a teacher,
his dream had been to wind up right here at Valley Vista High. He was living
his dream.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The sun in his
eyes felt like God’s flashlight. What had Leo Haynes called it? Tool Six?
Haynes certainly had it. Walker Bateman had it too, in spite of his present
condition. Alex thought back to his teenage years when it seemed he’d
constantly been at war with his own father. Coach Bateman had always been there
for him, counseling him to be patient and to see things from his father’s point
of view. Alex’s dad did not understand the obsession with sports, or his desire
to become a teacher. Dad’s vision was of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alex
Wayne</i>,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> M.D.,</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alex Wayne, Esq</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He remembered
Coach Bateman’s words: “Be a scholar. Be a learned man. Whatever you choose to
do, work hard and be the best you can be. Your father will be proud.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alex took his cell
phone from his pocket and dialed his wife’s number at work.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hi, babe. How’s
it going?” Jill’s voice was bright and positive, as usual.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oh, it goes.”
Alex could not match her upbeat mood.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“What did Big
Denny want this morning?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Not much. Just a
little blackmail.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Really?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah. I just need
to tell the scouts that his son is a saint and no one will ever know about the
incident on the bus.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">They chatted a
while longer, rehashing their discussion from the night before, a discussion
that had extended into the early hours of the morning. Jill closed the
conversation with conviction.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Do what we agreed
to, Alex. We’ll get through this together.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alex looked at the
phone for a few seconds before he dropped it back into his pocket. He went back
into the gym, down the hall and into the office. He paused to look at one of
the framed pictures that covered the walls. It was the varsity baseball team
from his senior year, 2001. In the yellowing photograph, Alex was standing in
the back row, next to Walker Bateman. A hell of a lot had happened since that
picture was taken, events that put his little dilemma into perspective.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was 8:15 now.
Hopefully the principal would be in his office. Alex looked at the phone on his
desk. He picked up the handset and punched in the four-digit extension.
Principal Albert Mullins answered on the second ring.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hello, this is Al
Mullins.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Good morning,
sir. This is Alex Wayne.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hey, good
morning, Alex. Congratulations on that league championship!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thank you, sir.”
He took a quick breath and continued. “Sir, the reason I’m calling, I have
something important to tell you, something you need to know. Can I stop by your
office for a few minutes?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oh uh, let me
check my calendar.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alex turned toward
the picture on the wall as he waited. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Be
the best you can be? I’m trying, Coach. I’m trying.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">_____</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-21706488311537955002023-07-11T09:31:00.000-07:002023-07-11T09:31:36.062-07:00<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22pt;">Tool Six</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Part 1 of 2</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">from </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Spitball, The Literary Baseball Magazine</i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;">A</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">lex Wayne stood in
the third base coaches’ box and flashed the simple sign that said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hit away. </i>The batter, Denny Thornton,
nodded and grinned. With the count two balls and no strikes and the bases
loaded, the pitcher had to come in with a strike. No way would he risk walking
in the go-ahead run, even if it meant pitching to the league’s best hitter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The pitch was on
the outside corner at the knees, not a bad pitch at all. Denny dropped the bat
head on the ball with his beautiful compact swing and drove it into deep right
center. The ball clanged off the chain-link fence as the outfielders chased
after it. All three base runners scored and the Valley Vista High Braves took a
four to one lead. Denny stood on second base pumping his fist and soaking up
the glory while six or seven scouts in the grandstand scribbled rapidly in
notebooks and on scraps of paper. It was a familiar scene, one Alex had
witnessed many times over the past three seasons.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The next batter
popped out to short left field, ending the top of the seventh inning. Now the
Braves needed just three more outs to clinch the league title.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alex looked around the dugout and then
climbed the steps to scan the bleachers and the grandstand. Where the hell was
Walker Bateman, the Braves head coach? He remembered seeing him leave the
dugout after the top of the fourth inning, no doubt heading to the men’s room
to take a nip from the flask he carried. These absences were becoming more
frequent and lasting longer. Alex had grown accustomed to taking over and
managing the team until Coach Bateman resurfaced. He decided to let his
pitcher, Teddy Sullivan, start the bottom of the seventh, but at the first sign
of trouble he would have to make a change, with or without Bateman. A three-run
lead could evaporate in an instant in high school ball.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Damn, Walker. Where are you? </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Alex scanned the
area again. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The league championship on
the line and you take a powder.</i> It was a sad state of affairs for a man who
was a legend in the high school coaching ranks. Walker Bateman had sent many
players on to success at the college and pro levels. Now he was in his last
season, sliding into retirement at age sixty-five. It was only the last few
years—Alex tried to remember when, exactly—that Coach Bateman’s drinking had
gone off the rails. He’d always been known to enjoy a drink, but his wife
Martha had managed to keep him in line. When he lost Martha, he lost control.
His players, who once revered him and were proud to report they played for
Walker Bateman, now referred to him (behind his back, of course) as W.B. It
stood for whiskey breath.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The umpire called
“play ball” and the bottom of the seventh got underway. Teddy Sullivan promptly
walked the first batter on five pitches; he was running on fumes. Alex called
time and walked slowly out to the mound. The infielders trotted in to join the
meeting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, Teddy.
We’re gonna make a change. You pitched a great game, son.” Teddy handed Alex
the ball. “Denny, I want you to close it out for us. Teddy, you’ll go to
shortstop.” He handed the ball to Denny.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Denny Thornton
lifted the ball above his head and looked toward the grandstand where his
father was sitting next to the group of scouts. All eyes in the group around
the mound turned toward Dennis Thornton Sr., “Big Denny” as he was known,
who—after a dramatic pause—flashed a thumbs-up. The pitching change was
approved and all the scouts scrambled to break out their radar guns.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, Coach. I
got this.” Denny flashed his cocky grin and got ready for his warm-up pitches.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The players
trotted back to their positions and Alex headed for the dugout. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Geez, what if his old man said no? What
then? </i>He had encountered obnoxious, intrusive dads before, but never anyone
quite like Big Denny Thornton. The man was intent on reliving his glory days
through his son.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Little Denny got
the first hitter to pop up to second base and then struck out the next two with
his low-nineties fastball. Game over and a league championship for the Braves!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The players
celebrated around the mound and Alex let them enjoy the moment. Then he rallied
them to line up and shake hands with their opponents. As he chatted with the
opposing coaches, he could see Big Denny holding court with the scouts up in
the grandstand, basking in his son’s latest moment of triumph.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Alex directed the
team to pack all the gear and load it onto the bus for the two-hour trip home.
He assigned two of his seniors to make sure everyone got a sack lunch and a
carton of milk, and then he turned his attention to finding Coach Bateman.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey, Teddy.” The
player trotted to his side. “Do me a favor, hustle over to the men’s room and
see if Coach is in there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, sir. No
problem.” Sullivan jogged away in the direction of the low concrete structure
that housed the restrooms. He entered the men’s room and a few seconds later,
emerged and gave an urgent wave. Alex double-timed it across the grass to where
Teddy was standing. “He’s in the stall, Coach. I think he passed out.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, thanks. Go
on back to the bus, and don’t say anything. Okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sure, Coach.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He knew it was
pointless to ask the young man to conceal the situation. The team was
well-aware of Walker Bateman’s problem. Alex went into the men’s room and bent
down quickly to see that someone was, indeed, sitting in the stall. He banged
on the door, loud enough to draw attention. “Coach? Coach Bateman? You okay in
there?” No response. He repeated the pounding and called out again. Still no
answer. Alex was worried now. He saw that the sink was situated next to the
stall and that he could get a foot on it and hoist himself up to look over the
partition. As he pulled himself up and looked down at the man sprawled across
the toilet, Bateman’s eyes snapped open.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Jeezus! What the
hell are you doin’ up there?” He looked at Alex as if he were a crazy man—or a
pervert.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Game’s over,
Coach. Time to get on the bus and head for home.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, hell. Did
we win?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah.
Congratulations, Walker. Another league championship.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Bateman unlocked the
stall door and walked out on shaky legs. He was tall and lean and his face was
deeply tanned from too many hours in the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Are you going to
be okay, to walk to the bus?” Alex resisted the urge to take his arm and steady
his progress.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hell yes, I’m okay.”
He straightened his cap and adjusted his thick wire-rimmed glasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did Sullivan finish the game?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No. I brought
Thornton in to close.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And his old man
approved?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yep. Gave us a
big thumbs-up.” Alex smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“That son of a—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Come on, Walker.
Let’s go home.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">And with that,
they started across the grass to where the bus sat waiting at the curb, the
engine running, the entire team watching their progress. Alex held great
affection for this man who had been such an important part of his life. He felt
a lump in his throat as they moved carefully toward the bus. It was the longest
walk he could remember.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The bus rolled
along the freeway heading north through the light traffic on a Tuesday evening.
The sun was setting on this early-May day and Alex hurried to finish posting
all the stats in the official scorebook before darkness fell. Walker Bateman
leaned his head against the window and snored softly. Alex thought back to the
years when he had played varsity ball for Coach Bateman. What a great experience
that had been. In his mid-thirties now, Alex still maintained contact with many
of his old teammates. They had taken great pride in wearing the Braves’
uniform.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">There were just
two more games left in the season and then Coach Bateman would fade into the
history of Valley Vista High, leaving behind a trophy case full of memories.
Alex had been assured that he was in line to succeed his old coach and mentor.
This had been his dream since coming onboard six seasons ago as assistant
coach. He flexed his neck and shoulders and then reached back with his left
hand to massage the knotted muscles. The stress of the game and finding the old
man passed out in the men’s room had taken its toll.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He thought about
the handful of scouts at the game that day, guys he’d known for a long time,
several of them going back to his playing days. How did they stand the constant
travel, running around the countryside, everyone looking for the same thing?
They all wanted a genuine, blue-chip, five-tool player; a kid who could run,
throw, field, hit, and hit with power. Those elusive five tools!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">You wouldn’t think
it would be that difficult to find, given the number of kids playing the game,
and yet it was hard, damn hard. They generally settled for players missing one
or more of the big five, hoping they would grow and develop power, or learn to
hit the curve ball, or suddenly gain a step or two of foot speed. The search
went on and on, looking for the next Mike Trout, or the next Bryce Harper.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Now the scouts
were sure they had found their man and his name was Dennis Thornton, Jr. No
question about it, at six two, one hundred and eighty pounds and still growing,
young Mr. Thornton was a five-tool guy. But in Alex’s mind, a question mark
remained. Would he become the next Mike Trout? Or would he squander his talent
and opportunities on—what had Tug McGraw called it?—“wine, women, and bong”?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Alex closed the
scorebook and tried to relax.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey! Hey, knock
it off back there!” The bus driver was staring intently at his rearview mirror,
shouting to a group of players seated near the back of the bus. “Come on, you
guys. Knock it off.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Alex spun around
in his seat in time to see wadded-up lunch bags and milk cartons flying back
and forth across the aisle. “Hey, you heard the man. Cut it out.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The trash
continued to fly along with the laughter and shouted put-downs. Alex jumped up
from his seat, the large scorebook still in his hand and strode toward the back
of the bus. The trash fight stopped quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Look, you guys
are going to pick up all this crap. Nobody gets off the bus until it’s cleaned
up. Got it?” Alex waited a few seconds and then turned around—just in time to
be hit in the forehead by a tightly wadded lunch bag thrown by none other than
Denny Thornton. The young man broke into his patented grin.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Alex drew the
scorebook back with his right hand and slapped a hard backhand against the side
of Denny’s head. “You son of a bitch!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was dead quiet
on the bus. The right side of Denny’s face turned bright red. The grin was
gone. “You callin’ my mom a bitch, Coach?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Alex froze for a
moment, then turned to the young men seated around him, ignoring Denny
Thornton. “You guys heard me. I want this mess picked up before we get off the
bus.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He moved back down
the aisle and took his seat behind the bus driver. He closed his eyes and tried
to calm himself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh my God! What have I
done? </i>Coach Bateman continued to snore in the seat next to him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Coming soon: Part 2. What is Tool Six? And does Alex Wayne have it? Don't miss the conclusion.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-19962199225763665082023-06-11T16:12:00.000-07:002023-06-11T16:12:46.940-07:00<p> <span style="font-size: 22pt;">Terry</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>from <i>Children of Vallejo</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 22.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">W</span>e had a fine bowling
team back in the fifties. We’d travel around to tournaments all over the place,
including some of the big ones: Frisco, LA, Reno, Vegas. Terry O’Hara was our
captain—a great guy and a solid bowler. He had a sanctioned 300-game and the
American Bowling Congress gives you a big, fat ring for that. He made it a
point to wear the ring whenever we traveled to tournaments out of town. We
never won much of anything, but we had our share of good times, and then some.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> The trip that none of us will ever forget was to San Francisco in ’55.
We checked in at the tournament site, got settled in our hotel, then went out
to dinner at Lefty O’Doul’s down on Market Street. There we ran into a bunch of
guys we knew from past events. We had a few cocktails and that got the ball
rolling, so we invited everyone back to our hotel. Before long we were all
packed into Terry’s room and the party was in full swing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Around midnight, the hotel sent up
their security guy. He said we had to quiet down or they’d throw us out. We
took a liking to this kid right away and it only took a few minutes to convince
him to join the party. About 2:00 AM, the S.F.P.D. showed up at the door and
they weren’t nearly as friendly. To calm things down, Terry went into his
repertoire of Irish ballads. He had a tenor voice like an angel. We sang along
some, but mostly we just listened. He finished up with “Mother Machree.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh,
God bless you and keep you,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mother
Machree.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Hell, there wasn’t a dry eye in the
room.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Then Terry stomps over to the
window at the back of the room, throws it open and says, “Ah, to hell with it!”
He climbs out on the ledge and jumps off. Mind you, we’re on the fourth floor!
You never saw a room full of drunks sober up so fast in all your life. We ran
to the window expecting to see Terry splattered all over the pavement four
stories down. But there he was, a little below the ledge, arms spread wide and
a big grin on his Irish mug. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Ta Da!” he says.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">See, he’d checked it out earlier
and found that the hotel was built up against the side of a hill. The drop was
only about five feet. Well, we hauled him back into the room and had a great
laugh, except for a couple of guys who were really mad. One of them took a
swing at Terry, said he nearly gave him a heart attack. It all ended with
handshakes and hugs.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We lost Terry to a car accident a
few years later. At his wake, I was asked to tell the story of the Frisco trip.
I gave it my best, with a few flourishes thrown in. It got a huge laugh and
everybody said it was pure Terry. I think he would have been proud.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">If I could sing a lick, I would
have closed with “Mother Machree.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">_____</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-92149006085384630922023-06-05T13:11:00.000-07:002023-06-05T13:11:51.040-07:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 22pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Innocence<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>from <i>Children of Vallejo</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">S</span>arah listened to his acceptance speech at the convention
and thought it was the best she’d heard. She followed the campaign closely and
was struck by his ready wit and his grace under pressure. And of course, she
thought he won the debates hands down.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> None of this prepared her for his inaugural address. When he said “…
the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans …” she knew he was
speaking to her. When he said “… ask not what your country can do for you, ask
what you can do for your country…” she felt the goose bumps break out all over.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> In November of 1963, Sarah was a Peace Corps volunteer working in a
remote village in Kenya when she heard the news from Dallas. Until that day,
she believed with all her heart that her generation would change the world and
make it better, and she fought hard to hold onto that belief. Then came the war
in Vietnam, and the burning ghettos at home, and the violent anti-war protests,
and more assassinations. First, Martin was shot dead, and then Bobby. The
decade that began with such promise now had a single, enduring icon: a body
bag.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Sarah came home and married well
and settled into her life as a wife, mother, and schoolteacher. She was
thrilled by the bright and eager faces and the boundless energy that filled her
classroom every day. Her station wagon was always loaded with kids, carpooling
from one event to another. It was a full and busy life. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> But in the quiet times, alone with her thoughts, she felt despair
settle in like a fifty-pound weight on her chest. Her despair was for the
children and their future. Her belief in a better world died, finally, with
Bobby Kennedy on the kitchen floor of the Ambassador Hotel in 1968.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">_____</span></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-24130551355453210422023-05-11T13:32:00.001-07:002023-05-11T16:40:19.458-07:00<p> <i>Author's note: My friend, Dillon Mini, would have turned 82 on May 17. Growing up together, we were truly like brothers. </i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 22pt;">Remembering Dillon<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>from <i>Yeah, What Else?</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">The facts are straight forward:
“Dillon James Mini, 73, passed away on Monday (September 15, 2014) after a long
illness.” The obituary doesn’t contain a lot of detail, but it doesn’t need to.
Not for me. For me, the details are all in my mind, like a shoebox full of old
snapshots that you have promised to organize—someday. I am going to open that
shoebox now and let them come tumbling out.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Here’s one of
Dillon and me walking down the Jennings Street hill, heading who-knows-where,
maybe to my house down on Russell Street, or down to the playground at Steffan
Manor. It’s summer and Dillon just turned eight, and I’m six, looking forward
to my seventh birthday in September. This was the day we swore to each other
(probably a pinky swear) that we’d be best friends forever. We kept that vow
for a long, long time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Here’s a picture
of his dear parents, Dillon H. and Bernice. I remember the first time I knocked
on their front door to ask if Dillon could come out to play. My orthodontist
had fitted me with an elaborate headgear contraption that looked like a canvas
helmet; it had a metal chin cup attached with rubber bands, and it was designed
to pull my jaw back and correct a severe under-bite. Mrs. Mini answered the
door and I think she was shocked to see me there, looking like a little alien.
Over time, the Minis became second parents to me, and what beautiful people
they were. Mrs. Mini was one of the all-time great cooks, at least in my book,
and she loved feeding me. And Mr. Mini was always playful and funny, teasing me
gently, making me laugh. I’m not sure why, but they liked me and treated me
like a son, taking me along wherever they traveled.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Here is a good
one. It’s a picture of Bruce Bigelow with Dillon and me on the day Bruce moved
into the neighborhood. Dillon and I saw him playing in the yard there on the
corner of Buss and Russell, and we went over and introduced ourselves. Bruce
was about eight at the time. It was the start of a three-way partnership that
would last most of our lifetimes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">This next one is
priceless. It is from the sports page of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Times-Herald</i> and it’s our City Championship baseball team –
Underweight Division. There’s Dillon with the catchers gear falling off his
body, always too big for him; and Bruce, Jerry Warren, Andy Carlson, John
O’Neil, Mike Kennedy, and of course, Jake Catado, our GVRD playground leader at
Steffan. What a great guy! Jake, if you’re reading this, you should know that
we all loved you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">God, what fun
that was: hanging out down at Steffan, going out to the ball field to practice,
traveling across town to play other schools. We’d pile into Jake’s old Chevy, a
dozen of us or more, and sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” or “John Jacob
Jingleheimer Schmidt” all the way across town. It was pure fun. No pressure, no
expectations, just the love of the game and each other.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Here is a great
shot: Dillon, Bruce, and me on Little League opening day, 1952; Dill and Bruce
wearing their Steffen’s Sport Shop uniforms and me with Ed Case’s Minit Men
across my chest. It was the first Little League in Vallejo and we were part of
a group of sixty kids that got it started. It was an experience none of
us—Dillon, Bruce, Jerry, Roger Ashlock, Frank Bodie, Eddie Hewitt, Joey Butler, Tom
Case, Al Manfredi, Jim Eaton—I could go on and on—will ever forget. In fact, we
still rehash the old play-by-plays when we get together.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">This next
picture makes me smile. There we are on somebody’s lawn, surrounding a big,
handsome collie named King. King belonged to Gary and Lennie Price and he had
some sort of tumor that had to be removed. So, we went out mowing lawns to
raise money for the vet. Someone called the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Times-Herald</i>
and we wound up on the front page. Several readers offered to pay for King’s surgery,
so we didn’t have to mow many lawns. Was the lawn mowing Dillon’s idea? Or was
it Roger’s?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Later that
summer, we all took a hike out to Blue Rock Springs, then up over the hills to
the old, abandoned mercury mines to go exploring. Gary fell down a mine shaft.
He was lucky to survive. We never went hiking out there again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">This next one is
a classic: Dillon in his football uniform at Hogan Junior High. Yeah, football.
You see, Dillon was always small for his age. As an adult, he was maybe 5’6”,
120 pounds. But in the ninth grade, he still had some growing to do. All of his
young life, people would tell him “…you’re too small to do that.” Whether it
was baseball, football, bowling—it didn’t matter. So naturally he set out to
prove them all wrong.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I remember going
out to watch the team practice on the Hogan field. Bill McGrath was a tenth
grader, the star of the team, and he was built like a tank. Coach Pelligrini
was running a drill where there were two lines about ten yards apart: ball
carriers and tacklers. When you came to the front of the line, he’d toss the
ball to the ball carrier who would take off running. The tackler’s job was to
bring him down. They had to stay in a narrow lane marked by two blocking
dummies. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and sure enough, Bill and
Dillon wound up facing each other, Bill the ball carrier, Dillon the tackler.
They went at each other and Dillon hit Bill hard, just above the kneecaps. Of
course, he just bounced off and Bill ran on through, but everybody who
witnessed it came away with great respect for Dillon Mini. He had more guts
than anyone out there.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Here’s a picture
of Dillon as student body president at Hogan in the tenth grade. He wrote a
column for the school newspaper titled “Pres Sez.” If you had asked me then
(1957), I would have predicted that Dill would have a career in politics.
Prominent family name. Good looking guy. Intelligent. Great personality. He was
a natural.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Here’s another
good one. It’s our bowling team down at Miracle Bowl on Tennessee Street. We
were all in high school at the time. Miracle Bowl sponsored us and the idea was
that we’d travel around and bowl junior teams from other towns. There’s Dillon,
Bruce, me, and Buddy Whisenhunt. Buddy was a lefty and a terrific bowler. Bruce
and I were just okay. The traveling team idea never jelled, but we had fun
while it lasted. Dillon would go on to become one of the best bowlers in
Vallejo. He had several three-game series in the 800s and his press clippings
could fill a scrapbook.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Oh my, here’s a
stack of photos from Tahoe. In the early fifties, the Minis bought a cabin near
the South Tahoe Y. They would always spend the last two weeks before Labor Day
at the cabin, and they’d invite me to join them. I treasure the memory of those
summer days. Here we are trout fishing on the Upper Truckee River; playing
miniature golf down by Bijou; exploring the woods behind the cabin; playing
hours and hours of ping pong in the garage; and hanging out on the beach at
Camp Richardson. And here are the Silveiras who eventually built a place up
there: Manuel & Mildred, plus Marie, Mike, and Marty. What a great family,
and what a dear friend Marie was. And here are Mr. and Mrs. Bradley with Jerry
and Russ. We had a lot of fun with the Bradley boys.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">One time Jerry
Bradley Sr. checked us all into the movie theater at Harrah’s. We were supposed
to stay there until an adult checked us out. The movie stunk so we snuck out
and hit the streets of Stateline—me, Dillon, Jerry, and Russ. (I think Marie
was babysitting for Mike and Marty.) It was all cool until one of us decided to
drop a quarter in a slot machine just inside the door of Harrah’s. We got
busted and they paged Mr. Bradley to tell him his kids were loose on the
street. With firm conviction he said, “They are not! I put ‘em in the movie
myself.” We caught a lot of flak over that one.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">There are about
a thousand pictures from Tahoe in my memory bank. We’ll have to look at all of
them someday.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">This next shot
is a beauty. It is a picture of Dillon as a member of a wedding party. He looks
great in the white dinner jacket and the black tux pants. What a handsome guy! Our
friend Charlie Gebhardt sang at that wedding. I remember he muffed the first
verse of “The Lord’s Prayer” and had to start over. Dillon cracked up laughing.
Charlie made it through on the second try without a hitch.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Here is a
picture of Dillon putting out a For Sale sign in front of my mom’s house in
1975. We had to move her into an assisted living facility and Dillon handled
the sale. He was in the real estate business for a number of years, though I
couldn’t tell you exactly how many.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">This next one
hurts. It’s a picture of Dill and me sitting on a couple of bar stools down at
Teeters, a joint near Georgia Street and the freeway. The place eventually
changed names but we kept our same old stools. Whenever I would drive through
Vallejo, usually on the way to The City, I’d stop at Teeters to see Dillon.
Nine times out of ten he was there. We would throw back a few tall cold ones
and rehash all the good old times.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">How stupid of
me! Why didn’t I jerk him off that stool and drag him out of there? Would it
have made a difference? Would it have changed anything in the later part of his
life? I guess I’ll never know. As my sons would say, “That’s on you, Dad.
You’ll have to wear that one.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">The next picture
is bitter-sweet. A bunch of us got together to visit Dillon in the group home
where he spent his days before he moved into hospice care. I think it was 2011.
There we are: Jerry Warren, Roger Ashlock, Russ Sturgeon, Gordie Maki, Sargent
Johnson, Dave Plump, and me. We took him to the Sardine Can for lunch. I think
he really enjoyed getting out with the guys. He was able to walk, slowly, with
a walker, and he smiled and laughed and conversed with all of us, at least a
little. I hope it was a good day for him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Here are a few
pictures I’d like to erase. On my last visits with him, he was barely able to
walk, and our conversations consisted of his one-word responses to my
questions. It was just a matter of time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Ah, now this
last picture is real. It’s not just in my mind. It shows Dillon bowling, at the
foul line delivering the ball, rolling what I’m sure was a sledgehammer shot to
the 1-3 pocket. Yes, I know the photo is old and battered, but I want you to
see it through my eyes. Look at the form. Look at the concentration. You can
almost feel the fire in his belly. He was some competitor, my friend Dillon.
And there he is at the very top of his game.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">This is the way I will remember
him. He was beautiful. Wasn’t he?<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bPvQkQefw2xzVk1ZxB1GiIK96jmB7UCf7rSprbXdlJozs0jpQ_9yQwi9VaFeSsX_r65DIU0PGQr7Iq6FCaB-htLDUlAxIgDToGqAMNrcG-os_YLS9s80u5DtA7cjjBJIvE40mKX6gnMmNOvChGIj1nQgtKVTMP3bfILByvrXQutYwJ8rNfxljzBCeg/s1777/Dillon.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1777" data-original-width="1181" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bPvQkQefw2xzVk1ZxB1GiIK96jmB7UCf7rSprbXdlJozs0jpQ_9yQwi9VaFeSsX_r65DIU0PGQr7Iq6FCaB-htLDUlAxIgDToGqAMNrcG-os_YLS9s80u5DtA7cjjBJIvE40mKX6gnMmNOvChGIj1nQgtKVTMP3bfILByvrXQutYwJ8rNfxljzBCeg/s320/Dillon.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">_____</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-40867701021142531862023-04-29T09:23:00.001-07:002023-04-29T15:34:11.497-07:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 22pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Mr.
George</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">from <i>Children of Vallejo</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 22pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">T</span>he only sound was the thump, thump, thump of
the basketball echoing off the walls of the deserted gym. Nick set himself at
the free throw line, bounced the ball three times and let the shot go toward
the basket. The ball clanked off the rim and bounded away to the left side of
the court. Nick sprinted after it, then shot a short jumper that also missed.
He chased the ball again and then returned to the foul line to start the
process all over again. He was rusty and most of his shots missed the mark.
After all, this was baseball season and he hadn’t touched a basketball for a
couple of months. Baseball practice had ended an hour ago and all of his
teammates had long since showered and left for home. This was a Friday night
and the locker room had emptied out quickly. But Nick was in no hurry. In fact,
he was putting off heading for home as long as possible.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"> The door to the locker
room swung open and Coach Wight stuck his head in. “Shane, come on. Get your
shower and let’s get out of here. It’s Friday night!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"> “Okay, Coach,” Nick
replied. He grabbed the basketball and headed for the door. Coach waited until
he was in the locker room then hit the switch to douse the lights in the gym.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"> “Are you okay, Nick?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah, Coach. I’m good.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Well make it fast. I need to get
home.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Nick showered and dressed quickly.
He packed his gym clothes and baseball gear in a small duffle bag and headed
for the exit, exchanging waves with Coach Wight as he left. It was a warm April
evening and the sun had dropped below the horizon as he headed across the
campus toward Georgia Street. Hogan Junior High was situated at the corner of
Georgia and Rosewood, about a half-mile from home. Nick headed west on Georgia
toward the corner of Russell Street. It was a short hike, requiring only a few
minutes, but again he found himself slowing his pace, taking as much time as
possible.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He was mad at himself, upset over
the fact that he still cared so much. He was fourteen years old and a guy his
age shouldn’t care so much about a pet dog, especially a mangy little mongrel
like George. But he couldn’t help it. He had raised George from a pup and the
little mutt had been part of the family for eight years. Now he had been
missing for five days and Nick was beginning to believe that he’d never see him
again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">This wasn’t the first time George
had taken off and been gone for a day or two, but never for this long. It was
the family’s practice to let George out at night to wander around the
neighborhood, lifting his leg on every bush, tree, and fire hydrant. He would
be gone an hour or so and then come trotting up the walk and scratch at the
front door to be let in. Once or twice a year, he would stay out—AWOL as Nick’s
father put it—and come limping home a day or two later. Nick’s friend Brent
would always say, “He’s just out chasin’ the ladies. When he gets hungry, he’ll
come home.” And sure enough, he always did. It never occurred to the family
that perhaps George should be neutered.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">George was a gift from Nick’s
cousin Dorothy who owned a female Doberman mix named Penny. Penny had black and
tan markings and a sweet disposition, and as is often the case where there are
no children in a family, she was pampered like an only child. When Penny turned
up pregnant, Dorothy promised Nick the pick of the litter. The father, as it
turns out, was a little terrier mutt and the family joke was that he had to
stand on a box to get the job done. There were six puppies in the litter, three
males and three females, and they were immediately dubbed “Doberman-Terriers,”
as though this was a reasonable and customary pairing. Of course, Dorothy
promptly named all six puppies: Suzy, Bubbles, Annie, Humphrey, Max and Mr.
George.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">George was black with white boots,
a white belly, and a white tip on his tail. But his distinguishing
characteristic, the one feature that separated him from his brothers and
sisters, was a right ear that flopped over while the left ear perked straight
up. Nick knew at first sight which puppy he would take home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He taught George every conceivable trick—sit up, shake hands, roll
over, play dead, and so on—and did so with ease. Nick attributed this to native
intelligence. The fact was that George would do anything for a Hartz Mountain
Dog Yummy. One day Brent’s father Cal was watching Nick put George through his
paces. Cal said yeah, that’s nice, but he’d seen a friend’s dog who would
balance a treat on his nose until told to get it, then flip it up in the air
and catch it on the way down, and could George do that? After they left, Nick
went to work and within ten minutes, George had the new trick mastered.
Anything for a Yummy!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Nick reached the corner of Russell
Street and turned left toward home. Just one short block to go. He thought of
the rainy-day game he and George had devised and played over and over again.
Nick would toss a Yummy into his bedroom at the back of the house and George
would scamper after it, slipping and sliding on the waxed linoleum floor. In
the meantime, Nick would head for another part of the house to hide and wait
for George to come and find him. As smart as he was, George had no sense of
smell, and it would take several minutes for him to find where Nick was hiding.
It was a great way to fill a rainy afternoon.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Whether it was hide and seek,
chasing after a tennis ball in the backyard, or trotting alongside Nick as he
ran around the block, training for whatever sport was in season, there was no
better companion than George, and that’s the way it had been for nearly eight
years.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Nick was close to home now and he
began to brace himself for the worst. George had a wicker basket bed that sat
in the front room at the base of the window where he could look out through the
glass and monitor everything that passed on the street. He was always waiting
there for Nick to come home from school in the evening and he’d race to the
door for a tail-wagging greeting. Nick knew if he headed up the walk and didn’t
see George waiting in the window, it was over: after five days, it would be
time to give up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He reached the house near the end
of the block and headed for the front door. The front window was empty. Nick
opened the door and quickly headed toward his room at the back of the house.
His father sat in the front room reading the newspaper, but Nick passed through
without speaking. His mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner and again he
passed by without a word. He entered his room and closed the door behind him,
then dove onto the bed and buried his face in the pillow. He tried to tell
himself that he was too old for this, that he shouldn’t be crying over a
mongrel dog, but that didn’t stop the tears. Several minutes passed before he
could compose himself. He rolled over on his back and dried his eyes. He would
have to pull himself together before sitting down to dinner with his parents.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Nick heard his father’s footsteps
approaching the kitchen, and then his baritone voice speaking to his mother. “I
don’t want that dog in the house until he has a bath. Make sure Nick bathes him
first thing in the morning.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“I know, Daddy, we’ll tell him at
dinner,” his mother replied.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Nick jumped off the bed and raced
for the door of his room and from there to the kitchen where his mother stood
over the sink. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> “He came home today, honey. Just came dragging up the front walk. He’s
in the garage. He’s filthy dirty and he’s going to need a bath—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Nick didn’t wait for his mother to
finish. He went to the garage door and flipped on the light switch as he opened
it. And there was George, curled up in his bed in the garage, too tired to do
anything but thump his tail weakly as Nick came toward him. He knelt beside the
bed and looked at the exhausted little mutt. His white markings were nearly
covered in mud, there appeared to be dried blood near his left ear, and he
smelled like an outhouse.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“God, look at you … you little shit
…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>where have you been? … chasing the
ladies, just like Brent said … I should beat the snot out of you … I thought you
were dead … you’re not goin’ out at night like that anymore, do you hear me? …
no more … I thought you were dead …” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Through this monologue, tears clouding his eyes, Nick was gathering
George onto his lap and into his arms. His father would be angry and he’d have
to change clothes and scrub down before dinner, but he didn’t care. He wondered
if there were any Yummies in the house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi3hr8aHW8KIAuJPaAoLIbx8pfD5WsX638w9Cejs4UkFj65TquAe2LR1Tg2oXgBxJTnC3jx8zG2QF9jIFLf4HWStG7HWeGoZ0MCrUOXNR3bQMDDFC79M1KMgnLuK3qxQLm56FtIah4pFj5zPeOB2DnXUbajn6af221LKTztZcXhlPRaz4TWDlLIEI7OA/s1380/Mr.%20George.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1380" data-original-width="927" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi3hr8aHW8KIAuJPaAoLIbx8pfD5WsX638w9Cejs4UkFj65TquAe2LR1Tg2oXgBxJTnC3jx8zG2QF9jIFLf4HWStG7HWeGoZ0MCrUOXNR3bQMDDFC79M1KMgnLuK3qxQLm56FtIah4pFj5zPeOB2DnXUbajn6af221LKTztZcXhlPRaz4TWDlLIEI7OA/s320/Mr.%20George.jpeg" width="215" /></a></div>_____<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-6684279348346129972023-04-07T11:00:00.001-07:002023-04-07T13:15:18.115-07:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 22pt;">The Rites of Spring<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p>from <i>Yeah, What Else?</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“<span style="font-size: 18pt;">I</span> got the best shit
in town. Nobody’s got shit like I got shit. I tell you, it’s the best shit in
town.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He was a wiry little man with a
thick salt-and-pepper moustache and he wore bib overalls and a railroad cap. He
spoke with a heavy accent, which my mom identified as German. His dump truck
looked like it was built by hand on a very old Ford chassis. The mechanism that
lifted the bed was a jerry-rigged cog and chain contraption that he cranked by
hand, and the sides of the bed were made of two-by-fours and plywood. Onto this
strange looking rig, he could load ten yards of steer manure, which he
delivered to our house on Russell Street every spring.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The delivery generally took place
on a weekday when my dad was at work, so my mom took care of having the load
dumped in our driveway and paying the man for his goods. Mom loved to tell the
story and I always thought she was exaggerating. That is until I witnessed it
several times when I was home on spring break. That gentleman really could go
on a five-minute rant about “…the best shit in town.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My dad’s vegetable garden was his
pride and joy. He was an Arkansas farm boy and I suspect that gardening put him
in touch with his roots. We had a narrow strip of grass that ran along the back
of the house, ten feet wide at the most, then the rest of the yard—maybe fifty
by sixty feet—was given over to vegetables. Dad raised several varieties of
lettuce, squash, and beans. There were root crops like carrots, radishes, and
turnips. He also raised Swiss chard which was one of my favorites. But without
question, he poured the greatest measure of his love and labor into his prized
sweet corn.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Dad favored a hybrid variety of
corn called Golden Bantam. Over the years, he experimented with others, but
always came back to that one variety. He would plant a couple of long rows, let
it get well up out of the ground—maybe six or eight inches—then plant another
couple of rows, and so on. The happy outcome was that we’d have sweet corn
ripening and ready for the table all summer long. It was the staple of our
summer diet: whatever else was going on the table, it would land there next to
the sweet corn.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I have to admit this turned me into
a sweet corn snob. My dad taught me that when corn is picked, the sugar in the
kernels begins to convert into starch. If it sits around for a while, that
wonderful sweetness is lost, and all the butter and salt in the world will not
make up for it. I rarely buy corn at the supermarket because I know it just
won’t measure up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">So, the wiry little German man
would deliver ten yards of steer manure to our driveway and that weekend, my dad
would begin the process of carting it back to his garden plot, one wheelbarrow
load at a time. He’d spread it out over the fallow ground and then begin
digging it into the soil by hand, a process that would take most of a Saturday
or Sunday afternoon. He’d stop every now and then for a cold beer, or to scoop
up one of our cats and scratch its ears, but he’d always finish the job by
sundown. A shovel was the only tool he needed. Dad was past his sixtieth
birthday when we finally convinced him to hire someone with a rototiller to do
the job.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Why am I telling you all this?
Well, it’s almost time to head over to my favorite garden supply store and load
the trunk of my Honda with eight or ten bags of steer manure. This I will
spread on my four-by-twelve-foot tomato patch and then dig it into the soil
with my trusty shovel. It doesn’t take more than an hour or so, but I’ll manage
to stop for a couple of beers. And my beloved cat, Sophie, will be hanging
around, keeping an eye on the proceedings. Maybe this is all a guy really
needs: a piece of God’s good earth, a sturdy shovel, a loyal cat, and a couple
of beers chilling in the fridge.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I’ve had good production from
several varieties—Early Girl, Better Boy, Sweet 100, to name a few—but my
all-time champ is the Lemon Boy, a nice big yellow tomato. Good old Lemon Boy
just seems to love my little piece of ground.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Here’s a little bit of irony: for
all my dad’s expertise and hard work, he could never grow a decent tomato.
Maybe he just overwhelmed them with care. They always seemed to turn out with
thick white cores and they were virtually tasteless. One summer, our neighbors,
the MacLaughlins, drove to Oklahoma to visit family. They planted some tomatoes
before they left and told my dad that if he watered them, he was welcome to
whatever fruit developed. These poor neglected plants—unstaked, untended,
unloved—produced the biggest and best tasting tomatoes ever grown in Vallejo.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My dad swore he’d never plant
another vine, which leads me to wonder if he would have admired my tomatoes as
much as I admired his corn. It’s something to ponder.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">At any rate, in a week or so I’ll
make my annual trek to the garden shop and load the trunk with bags of steer
manure. I can’t say it’s the best shit in town, but my Lemon Boy sure seems to
like it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">_____<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-okWa4KgfDSzV2VXjGMP-GvujM87znOLo2BHEj8p_CDgYIktO3Cm7BqvaRTwcPOYZsjiE-BFle-hlxlMxvjSj0hpGX2OdNrOKd60lbXxHxtwpkDmEHEYx1Ada2tM9M07x-v6Jo1YMV3OqF9pmRnTPJo-7reAxRtKlNMPGIYF-QpCSdw290J2a6ee9A/s2076/Dad2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2076" data-original-width="1429" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-okWa4KgfDSzV2VXjGMP-GvujM87znOLo2BHEj8p_CDgYIktO3Cm7BqvaRTwcPOYZsjiE-BFle-hlxlMxvjSj0hpGX2OdNrOKd60lbXxHxtwpkDmEHEYx1Ada2tM9M07x-v6Jo1YMV3OqF9pmRnTPJo-7reAxRtKlNMPGIYF-QpCSdw290J2a6ee9A/s320/Dad2.jpeg" width="220" /></a></div> Charles Sr., my dad, c. 1940<div> _____<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p></div>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-73864217908270724492023-03-27T11:41:00.001-07:002023-03-27T11:56:20.564-07:00<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eddie</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">from <i>Like a Flower in the Field</i></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">E</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">ddie walked up to
home plate, his eyes focused on me all the way. I stood in the third base coach’s
box and looked in at him—all five feet and ninety pounds—and tried to think of
something I could say as his coach, something that might actually help. It was
the bottom of the sixth, two outs, bases loaded, and we were down by one run.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Eddie was small
for a twelve-year-old. Several of his teammates towered over him and outweighed
him by thirty pounds, but he was a good kid, a good teammate, always smiling,
full of fun. It had been a pleasure to have him on my team. We’d had a good
year, good enough to play in this post-season Tournament-of-Champions. And now
here we were: our last at bat, one run to tie, two to win, or we could simply
go home, the season over for another year.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I motioned for
Eddie to come to me, and I met him halfway. I put my right hand on his shoulder
and bent down to talk to him, mouthing the clichés that have served coaches so
well since the time of Abner Doubleday.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, Eddie, just
relax, take a deep breath, get a good pitch to hit, put your best swing on it.
Okay? No worries. Hey, it’s just a game. Right? Have some fun—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">At that moment, in
the middle of my inane monologue, I put my left hand on Eddie’s chest. His
heart was jumping into my hand—<i>thump, thump, thump</i>—like someone beating
a bass drum. It stopped me cold.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’d grown up
playing baseball from the time I was seven years old, and I knew what the
pressure was like, especially when the adults tell you it’s a “big game,” and
your parents are in the stands, and there are hundreds of people watching,
yelling, shouting your name. I knew all of that. But I’d let myself forget.
That is, until Eddie’s heart was in my hand. I said the only thing that came to
mind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey, just give it
your best. Whatever happens, it won’t change the way I feel about you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Eddie turned and
headed back to the plate. I’m sure his heart rate was accelerating. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I wish I had a
happy ending for you, a miracle line drive to left center bringing in two runs
for the win. But that’s not what happened. Eddie struck out.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I trotted in to
scoop him up and carry him the few steps to the dugout, tears beginning to well
in his eyes and mine. I can’t remember what I said, but I know it didn’t help.
Nothing would have helped.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">That was a long
time ago. A lot of seasons have come and gone since then, for me and for Eddie.
He grew a little, packed on some muscle, and became an all-conference rugby
player in college. But I would bet Eddie remembers that baseball game like it
was yesterday, just as I will always remember his heart leaping into my hand.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-24700099964077063742023-03-09T21:20:00.002-08:002023-03-10T07:15:42.134-08:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 22pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Weekend Warriors</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Excerpt from <i>Bro. Dick … a remembrance</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I</span> went to a play
recently. It was the Sacramento Theater Company’s production of Steinbeck’s <i>Of
Mice and Men.</i> There was no curtain to raise for the opening scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, the houselights dimmed to black, the
stage lights came up, and George and Lenny entered stage left.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">That’s sort of what it was like for
Mom and me when we knew my brother Dick was coming home for the weekend. On Thursday after
school, I would go into what wife Barbara calls my Suzy Homemaker routine:
vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing the bathroom and mopping floors. Mom would make a
long list and head off to the commissary on the shipyard to shop for the weekend.
She’d stock the house with fruits and veggies, snacks and drinks, and all the
fixings for a special Sunday dinner. By the time Friday evening rolled around,
the house was in tip-top shape and the cupboards and fridge filled to
overflowing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My brother would arrive from
Sacramento around 7:00 p.m. Mom and I would be sitting in the living room,
trying to act nonchalant, but glancing out the window every minute or so to see
if he was safely home. Dick would come up the walk and into the house, and then
it was like the stage lights coming up: our weekend could begin.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Through the daylight-saving months,
he’d drop his bag in his room, grab a cold Hamm’s from the fridge, and we’d go
outside to inspect the yard. Landscaping became our ongoing project after our father
died. Dad had kept about three quarters of the backyard for his vegetable
garden and there was no way Dick and I were going to maintain that tradition. So,
we planted grass, which came up thick and green, a tribute to the thousands of
yards of steer manure Dad had worked into the soil over the years. We built
brick planters around the foundation at the back of the house and filled them
with exotic plants from the Vallejo Nursery over on Springs Road. We kept some
flowerbeds for annuals and rotated them according to the season. As I said, it
was our project.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The purpose of the Friday night
inspection was to see how things were going and to map out the work that needed
to be done. Saturday was generally devoted to yard work: mowing, trimming,
pruning and planting. One favorite thing to do was to cruise over to the
nursery and browse through the rows of trees and shrubs and flowers. We tried
lots of things that didn’t work out, but it never dimmed our enthusiasm. I have
to say we kept the place looking pretty spiffy. And we had pet names for our
favorite plants. A fruitless mulberry tree became a <i>mulless fruitberry</i>.
We couldn’t remember the name of one of the plants, but the tag on it said,
“prune heavily,” so we just called it the <i>prune heavily</i>. You get the
picture.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I would go out with my friends on
Saturday night, to a movie or bowling or a dance at the High School. Dick
occasionally had a date with a girl in town named Laurie. She was very pretty
and the family got its hopes up that this would be the girl, but I don’t think
it ever went beyond casual dating.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We’d wind up back at the house
around midnight and then the fun would begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’d hustle over to a place called Red’s on Solano Avenue to pick up a
pizza and then gather around the table in our dining room. My friends Dillon
Mini, Bruce Bigelow, and Jim Decious would join us. Mom always had something
fresh-baked for us to chase down the pizza. Then we’d clear the table, break
out the Tripoli board and launch into a spirited game. Tripoli is a board game
that I guess can be described as part poker and part gin rummy. Anyway, the
game would rage on until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I’d take a break from the game at
times and go into my bedroom, which was right off the dining room. I’d turn on
the radio real low and pick up an all-night jazz station out of the Bay Area.
But I always left the door open. It gave me a good feeling to see and hear my mom,
my brother, and my friends talking and laughing and having a good time, with
Dizzy Gillespie or Gerry Mulligan & Chet Baker providing the soundtrack.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">A typical Sunday involved going
over to the high school courts to play hours and hours of tennis. Usually this
was just Dick and Bruce and me, but sometime the other guys would join us. My
brother was a good tennis player, gliding around the court with that long
stride of his. In fact, we were all pretty evenly matched which made for good
competition.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">After tennis, we would head home to
shower and clean up in time for Sunday dinner. Mom’s specialty was a sirloin
tip roast with mashed potatoes, pan gravy, lots of fresh veggies, and chocolate
devil’s food cake for dessert. After that we’d collapse in the front room and
wait for the Ed Sullivan Show to start.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">That was a typical weekend with the
Spooners.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> When Ed Sullivan said goodnight, it was time for Dick to
pack his car and head back to Sacramento, and time for me head for my desk and
make a half-hearted attempt to do the homework I’d been putting off all
weekend. As he left the house and went down the walk to his car, it was like
the stage lights dimming in the theater. For Mom and me, it wouldn’t be as
bright again until the next time he came home.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">_____</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-4575570487668560832023-03-02T11:13:00.005-08:002023-03-02T15:29:55.826-08:00<p><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Note: Frank A. Bodie and I met in 1952 when we were drafted onto the same Little League team. We reconnected in 2008 and became close friends. The two of us collaborated on this story, which revolves around the question: did my uncle, Pat Pieper, know Frank’s grandfather, Ping Bodie? They were part of the Major League Baseball community in Chicago at a time when that community was very small. With fiction, anything is possible. And so we decided they not only knew each other, they were good friends. My dear friend Frank passed away in March 2017. This story is dedicated to his memory.</span></i> </p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22pt;">Pipe Dream</span></p><p style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">from <i>Like a Flower in the Field</i></span></p><p style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt;">W</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">hat?! You met Babe Ruth?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yep. Met him
twice.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">My grandfather sat
back in his favorite chair, his legs up on the ottoman, puffed on his pipe and
gave me a wry smile. I had just mentioned that I’d met Bill Gates once, at a
bridge tournament in Sacramento. I’d played my Bill Gates card and Gramps
topped me with two Babe Ruths.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Grandpa, why
haven’t I heard this story before?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, Lonnie … I
guess you never asked.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He smiled again,
obviously enjoying the moment. My grandfather, Alton Blaire Jacobs, was a
storyteller. He loved nothing more than to hold you spellbound while he spun a
good tale, and he loved to take his time, every sentence punctuated by a few
puffs on his favorite pipe. In fact, when you see “…” below, you can read “puff
puff puff.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Now I was hooked.
I had to hear this story. But Gramps was having fun, toying with me, waiting
for me to ask.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, Gramps,
you’ve gotta tell me. I’m all ears. How did you meet Babe Ruth?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well … the first
time was in Chicago, October 1, 1932. I remember that date because it was the
evening after the third game of the 1932 World Series. I was just a kid,
working as a busboy at a restaurant called The Ivanhoe … It was just a few
blocks south of Wrigley Field at Clark and Wellington.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah? So what
happened?” It was clear that breaks to puff on his pipe were going to be a
major feature of this yarn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well … I was near
the front desk, it was still early, the dinner crowd wouldn’t start showing up
till seven or eight, and this man came through the front door with a big grin
on his face. He was about five nine with a powerful build, wearing a dark suit
and a gray fedora, and he clapped a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Son, is Frank
Pieper here?’ You see, Frank ‘Pat’ Pieper was the maître d’ at The Ivanhoe … He
was also the field announcer for the Chicago Cubs and the Cubbies were playing
the Yankees in the ’32 Series. I said, ‘You mean Pat Pieper? Yeah, he’s in the
back. Can I give him your name?’ He grinned and said, ‘Yeah, tell him Francesco
Pezzolo is here to see him.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Gramps paused
again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And? What then?”
I felt like I was pulling teeth.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well … I went
into the back room where Pat was getting ready, going over the reserved tables
and such, and I said, ‘Mr. Pieper, there’s a Francesco Pezzolo here to see
you.’ He said, ‘Francesco Pezzolo? Well I’ll be damned, it’s Ping! Ping Bodie!’
Pat hurried out to the front, me right behind him, and he and Ping hugged each
other like long lost brothers. They were laughin’ and cuttin’ up and I couldn’t
help but smile to watch them … It turns out that Ping started his major league
career across town with the White Sox back in 1911. He was with the Sox through
1914, and the two of them, Pat and Ping, got to know each other. Pat started
with the Cubs as a vendor at the West Side Grounds in 1904.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But wait, who was
Francesco…whatshisname?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Ha! You see, Ping
was born Francesco Pezzolo and grew up in San Francisco. Now, Bodie,
California, was a rowdy mining town in the eastern Sierras with nearly as many
bars and brothels as citizens, a real tough place. Apparently this made a big
impression, because Francesco Pezzolo changed his name to Frank Bodie. ‘Ping’
was his nickname for the sound of his fifty-two ounce bat when he connected
with a baseball.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay. So where
does The Babe come into this?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Be patient,
Lonnie. I’m gettin’ there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">My grandfather’s
pipe had gone out, and he took a minute to refill and light it. He always
bought a special blend of tobacco from a local shop and it had a sweet,
pleasant aroma that filled the room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Where was I? Oh …
so, it turns out after Ping left the White Sox, he eventually signed with the
Yankees. Played with the Yanks from 1918 to 1921. He was Babe Ruth’s first
roommate. His first roommate, Lonnie! And Ping’s the one who gave him the
nickname ‘Bambino.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“That’s amazing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So … Ping was in town for the World Series as
Babe’s guest, and he was at The Ivanhoe looking for a place where Ruth and some
of the guys could take their wives for drinks and dinner. Ping wanted to know
if Pat could handle a group of eight or ten later that evening. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember now, this was right at the end of
Prohibition and alcohol was still illegal. But … The Ivanhoe had a cellar
speakeasy known as The Catacombs, one of the best stocked joints on the North
Side.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Geez, Gramps! You
worked in a Chicago speakeasy during Prohibition?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yep. Served
everybody from the mayor to the police commissioner at one time or another …
So, Pat said, ‘Hell yes, tell The Babe to come on down. I’ll take good care of ’em,
even if they are the Yankees.’ They had a good laugh over that one, talked for
a while longer, and then Ping said goodbye … Well, Pat sent me off to make sure
we had plenty of the best Canadian whiskey and good local beer, and to set up a
private room down in The Catacombs where Babe’s group wouldn’t be bothered.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Gramps took a few
puffs and looked off into space. I was on the edge of my chair. “So? What
happened then?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well … It got to
be nine, nine thirty, and Pat was gettin’ worried. We were primed and ready.
The kitchen was alerted. Pat had his best waiters standing by. He’d even called
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sun Times</i> to let their
man-about-town columnist know that the Yankees would be coming to The Ivanhoe.
Finally, a little before ten, there was a big commotion in the foyer. The Babe
and his group came on like Gang Busters. I’ve never seen an entrance like that,
before or since. I tell you, Lonnie, it was something.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Is that when you
met him?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No … that came
later, when Babe was looking for the men’s room and I showed him the way. I
told him I was a big fan, even though I was for the Cubs in the Series. He was
in a great mood, with the Yanks up three games to none, and he just laughed and
shook my hand, asked me what I was up to besides working at The Ivanhoe. I told
him I was a student at Northwestern, working my way through college. Boy, was
that the right thing to say. After that, every time I came near their table, to
refill water glasses or pick up plates or something, they were stuffing my
pockets with dollar bills. It turned out to be the best payday of my young life.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“So who was there,
in Babe’s party?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“There was Babe
and his wife Claire. And Ping Bodie, of course. Lefty Gomez, Tony Lazzeri,
Frankie Crosetti, and their wives. Bodie, Lazzeri, and Crosetti were all from
San Francisco, and Gomez was also from the Bay Area. Those guys all came up
through the Frisco Seals in the Pacific Coast League.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“That’s some group.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And ya know, for
all the stories about Babe Ruth and his shenanigans, they were a well-behaved
bunch. Oh, they were tellin’ stories and laughin’ loud, but nobody was out of
line, Lonnie. Not a one.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But didn’t they
have a game the next day?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, yeah. But
that didn’t bother ’em. And you know, the Yanks won the fourth game to sweep
the Series. But I’m just getting to the best part, Lonnie … There were some
guys from the press that dropped by during the evening to have a drink and hang
out with The Babe. One of ’em was Joe Williams who was with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York World Telegram.</i> He came over to
talk with Pat, and I was there stacking plates. He said, ‘Hey, Pat, what about
Ruth’s home run in the fifth?’ Pat said, ‘Hardest hit ball I’ve ever seen at
Wrigley, Joe.’ Williams says, ‘Yeah, but did you see him point to the stands
before the pitch?’ ‘Hell yeah, I saw it! I had the best seat in the house. I
not only saw him point, I heard him barkin’ at Guy Bush in the Cubs dugout. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s two strikes, but watch this, you
s.o.b</i>. Charlie Root came in with a fat one and wham, it was gone.’ Williams
said, ‘Wait till you see my write-up tomorrow morning, Pat. Ha! I tell ya, this
story has legs.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“So what did
Williams write, Gramps?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“The headline was
‘RUTH CALLS SHOT AS HE PUTS HOME RUN NO. 2 IN SIDE POCKET.’ And that’s how it
was christened the Called Shot Home Run. I picked up the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">World Telegram</i> at a newsstand near the ballpark the next day, and
if I had any sense, I would have saved it, Lonnie. There’s always been
controversy. Some folks say Babe called his shot, others say he didn’t. But
I’ve always believed Pat Pieper’s account. You know his station with the brand
new public address system at Wrigley was on the field, next to the backstop on
the third base side. He really did have the best seat in the house.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“So that was the
first time. When was the second time you met The Babe?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You know, Lonnie,
all this talk is makin’ me thirsty. There’s some Canadian Club in the cabinet
over there. Will you join me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sure, Gramps. How
do you take it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Two fingers,
three rocks. Glasses are in the kitchen, ice is in the freezer.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He smiled as I
hurried away to fix the drinks. It wasn’t surprising that I hadn’t heard this
story. My grandfather finished his career with McDonnell-Douglas in St. Louis
in the late seventies. He decided that Chicago was home and that’s where he
retired. I’d grown up in Southern California, and though we saw him and Grams
two or three times a year, I’m sure there were a hundred tales I hadn’t heard.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I brought the
drinks into the living room and settled in to hear the rest of the story. He
raised his glass to me and did his Bogart impression, always good for a laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Here’s looking at
you, kid. Now, where was I?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You met Ping
Bodie and Babe Ruth on October 1, 1932, Joe Williams coined the phrase Called
Shot Home Run, and Pat Pieper swears he not only saw it, he heard it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yep, that pretty
well sums it up, all right … So, move ahead to March 1948. The Babe had been
retired for a dozen years or so, and he’d been diagnosed with throat cancer.
Hollywood was rushing to make a movie of his life, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Babe Ruth Story</i>,
starring William Bendix. I was working for Douglas Aircraft in L.A. at the time
and I’d kept in touch with Pat Pieper over the years, birthday cards, Christmas
Cards and the like. Pat was taking a vacation trip to California before the
start of the ’48 season and he got in touch, invited me to join him for lunch
at the Brown Derby on Wilshire. And guess who else was coming to lunch?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah, go on.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Ping Bodie, who
was working as an electrician at Universal Studios, and The Babe himself. He
was in L.A. to visit the movie set.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Geez, unbelievable.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yep … Well, we
met at the Brown Derby and Pat and Ping looked great. Healthy, full of P-and-V.
But Ruth looked bad. He was a big man, you know, six two, two fifty. But he
looked smaller, he’d lost a lot of weight, and his voice was just a rasp.
Still, he had that mischief about him, always ready for a laugh. I mostly kept
my mouth shut and listened to the three of them tell stories. But I did get in
a question. I said, ‘Babe, what do you think of William Bendix playing you in
the movie?’ He laughed and said, ‘Hell, they got the homeliest guy in Hollywood
to play me. Am I that ugly? Don’t answer that!’ We were all laughing then.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Go on, Gramps.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, The Babe
left the table for a few minutes and I asked Ping what it was like to be his
roommate. Ping said, ‘Oh, I never saw much of the Bambino. He always had
somewhere to go, somebody a lot prettier than me to be with. Hell, I mostly
roomed with his suitcase.’ That’s a great line, eh Lonnie? I laughed hard at
that one.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And then?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“That was about
it. We were standing on the sidewalk out in front of the Derby and Ping said,
‘Where you headed now, Pat?’ Pat said, ‘Up to Northern Cal. I’ve got three
sisters living up there in a shipyard town called Vallejo.’ Ping said, ‘The
hell you say! My son and his family live there. He works on the shipyard.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Wow. What a small
world.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Small indeed,
Lonnie … We said goodbye to Ping and Babe and watched them walk away toward the
parking lot. But I had one last question. I said, ‘Pat, did Babe really call
his shot off Charlie Root back in ’32?’ ‘Oh hell yes, Alton. Just like I’ve
always said. And don’t let anyone tell you different.’ Then Pat turned to look
at me. He winked and said, ‘Ya know, if you want to be remembered, it’s best to
be on the right side of a great story.’ Well … I walked Pat back to the
Ambassador Hotel, which was just down the block, and said goodbye. That was the
last time I saw him, though we stayed in touch. He was with the Cubs until he
passed away in 1974.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“That’s quite a tale,
Gramps. And it’s all true?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Just like I told
you, Lonnie.” He smiled and winked. “The right side of a great story.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">That visit with my
grandfather took place in 1999 when he was eighty-seven years old. I’ve checked
everything he told me and I can’t find any holes. It’s all plausible. Just four
guys—Ping Bodie, Pat Pieper, Babe Ruth, and Alton Jacobs—and some shared
history. So I tell my grandkids, “You know, I met Bill Gates one time, at a
bridge tournament in Sacramento. But your great grandfather met Babe Ruth.
Twice!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Believe me,
they were impressed—with Bill Gates.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-51520767895444851522023-02-25T18:41:00.000-08:002023-02-25T18:41:10.243-08:00<p> <span style="font-size: 22pt;">Sandlot</span><span style="font-size: 22pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">from <i>Children of Vallejo<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">B</span>efore there was
Little League, there was sandlot ball, played at the schools and playgrounds
around town run by the recreation district. Jake Catado was our sandlot coach
and we all loved him. He was a college student in his early twenties, and you
will never meet a guy with a sunnier attitude. With Jake, it was all about
having fun. He’d just roll out the bats and balls and let us play.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> We’d hang around the playground on summer days, playing ping pong or
paddle tennis, or just goofing off. If enough guys showed up, we’d head out to
the baseball field to play over-the-line, or workups, or three-flies-up, all
just games we made up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The best part was traveling across
town to play some other school. We’d all pile into Jake’s old Chevy sedan,
about a dozen of us, including two in the trunk, and hit the road. It wouldn’t
be long before we’d be singing at the top of our lungs: “Ninety-nine Bottles of
Beer on the Wall,”<i> </i>or “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt<i>.</i>” We’d
even sing on the field: <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Good morning to you / Good morning to you</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>We’re all in our places / With sunshiny faces...<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">On the way home, we’d stop
somewhere for Cokes. God, it was fun.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Then came Little League and our
coaches didn’t want us playing on the sandlots anymore. Now we had uniforms,
and batting helmets, and rubber spikes, and official umpires, and parents,
parents, parents. We were up to our eyeballs in parent involvement. You rode to
the games with a knot in your stomach, afraid you’d mess up, maybe disappoint
your dad.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It made you wish you were back in
Jake’s old Chevy, singing “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IhVcyV1KrLwOd5lZkiNsnBLRo9p02hVXi64P7E1ETH1bZdcKGsoJ6bpBJgm609z2oFgYhjTbyPXldIk32C0LZyTbM2XoWE1b8CMwvJQrGN6_KjV_nj9WpVEiYqUlh70fSn1ELBgO0ix6-iJFgrpHFxxoDQIja3oKN2DjyXtyjGY2qFtPBG1338EnyQ/s1501/City%20Champs2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1192" data-original-width="1501" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IhVcyV1KrLwOd5lZkiNsnBLRo9p02hVXi64P7E1ETH1bZdcKGsoJ6bpBJgm609z2oFgYhjTbyPXldIk32C0LZyTbM2XoWE1b8CMwvJQrGN6_KjV_nj9WpVEiYqUlh70fSn1ELBgO0ix6-iJFgrpHFxxoDQIja3oKN2DjyXtyjGY2qFtPBG1338EnyQ/s320/City%20Champs2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">_____</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-72054131409313775182023-02-20T12:45:00.000-08:002023-02-20T12:45:17.238-08:00<p> <span style="font-size: 22pt;">A
long way back to the top…</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Excerpt from <i>Bro
Dick – a remembrance<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I </span>don’t know precisely
when my brother Dick discovered skiing, but I do know where. It was at Strawberry up on
Highway 50. I know this because he immediately stuck a picture postcard of
Strawberry Lodge in the corner of the mirror in his bedroom, right across from
the picture of Teresa Brewer, his ideal woman. I doubt that they still have an
operating ski lift at Strawberry, but the lodge with its gables all along the
front roofline is still there. It didn’t take long for my brother to figure out
that there were far better places to ski, resorts like the old Sierra Ski Ranch
and Sugar Bowl, or Alpine Meadows and Heavenly Valley. He was hooked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We should have saved his first set
of skis because they would be considered antiques today. They were made of
wood—I think it was hard maple—and the bindings were a lever and cable
contraption where the cable wrapped around a deep groove in the heel of your
boot. It was amazing that anyone could ski with this equipment and not end up
with knee surgery.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As technology progressed, Dick
upgraded his equipment and spent all the time he possibly could on the ski
slopes. He once told me that when the snow was good, the weather decent, and
the crowds small, skiing was the purest form of fun. Experience taught me that
he was right.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I had my first taste of skiing on
the bunny hill at Heavenly Valley with my friend Dillon Mini. He had tried it a
few times and told me that all I had to do was bend my knees, lean forward a
little, and try not to fall down. And that’s exactly what I did, zooming from
the top of the lift to the bottom in a perfectly straight line. No one said anything
about turning.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I’ve never taken a lesson, but when
I started tagging along with Dick, he took me aside at the bottom of the hill
and gave me a few pointers on some fundamentals, like side stepping, and
snowplowing, and how to make basic turns. Then he took me up to the top of the
hill and said, “Just follow me and do what I do.” My brother was a smooth,
controlled, elegant skier. He made it look easy. It seemed like he was always
in control, and I can’t remember him taking a bad fall, though I’m sure it
happened. I did my best to keep up with him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Our favorite place to ski was
Heavenly Valley. The hill is so massive and the view from the top of the main
lift is breathtaking. We never tried to ski the face, mainly because I wasn’t
up for it, but there were numerous trails to take from the top that provided
all the challenge we needed. The great thing about Heavenly as far as I was
concerned was that you spent most of your time on the hill and less time in
line for the lift. It could take a half hour or more to ski all the way down
from the top before you had to queue up for the lift.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I have to confess that we got into
the habit of doing something that is a no-no. We’d drop down off the groomed
ski run and blaze trails down through the trees and the virgin snow. More than
once we got ourselves way down into a canyon and had to come sidestepping back
up to the main trail. Dangerous stuff, but man was it fun.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We were skiing at Heavenly one very
clear cold day and after several runs down the mountain, we went into the
warming hut at the top of the main chairlift to thaw out for a few minutes. We
ordered cups of steaming hot chocolate and sat down at a table next to a window
on the west side of the hut. The afternoon sun was streaming through the window
and the chocolate was delicious and before I knew it, I felt my eyes growing
heavy. I looked across the table at Dick and he was nodding off too. He grinned
at me and motioned toward the door. We finished our chocolate and headed back
out to the mountain. If we’d stayed there another five minutes, we’d have been
sound asleep. That was nearly fifty years ago, and I can still see my brother
sitting across the table from me in that warming hut. It was one of the best
days ever.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Dick had a couple of dreams, all
wrapped around his love of skiing. The first was to finish his bachelor’s
degree and I think he lacked about sixty units to reach that goal. He worked
out a plan to attend the University of Utah in Salt Lake City where he could
live with our Aunt Teresa and Uncle Dude. Aunt Teresa adored my brother and was
excited to have him stay with their family. The skiing tie-in was the
magnificent powder snow at resorts nearby such as Alta. For my brother, it was
like going to school in paradise. Unfortunately, he could never convince the
good folks of Utah that he was a resident, and the out-of-state tuition was a
deal breaker. He completed one year at Utah and then returned to California.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The other dream was to have a neat
little A-frame ski cabin somewhere in the Sierras. In the mid-sixties, my
brother got really close to realizing this one. He bought a lot at a newly
developed ski resort called Bear Valley and started pouring over plans and
architectural drawings. We even took a late summer trip to Bear Valley to check
out the site. Some of Dick’s friends from work came along and we camped at a
lake near the resort. On one of the days we were there, we found ourselves
standing at the top of what would be the main chair lift and we decided to hike
all the way down the hill that would be the primary ski run. As we started down
the trail, there was a neat little sign that said, “It’s a long way back to the
top.” We just laughed and went on.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">If memory serves, it took about a
half hour to get to the bottom of the hill, and about two hours to work our way
back up. The sign wasn’t kidding. When we got back to the top, Dick popped the
trunk of the car and unloaded what he liked to refer to as a skier’s lunch. He
had packed salami and crackers and two kinds of cheese. There were grapes and
plums and nectarines. There was a cooler filled with ice-cold soft drinks and
beer. And, of course, Mom had sent along homemade chocolate chip cookies. I
swear food never tasted so good.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Dreams have a way of changing. My
brother never did build that cabin and he wound up selling the lot, but it was
a sweet dream while it lasted. Our cousin Margie was an accomplished artist and
Dick asked her to paint a picture of the Bear Valley ski run from photos he had
taken. That oil-on-canvass hung on the wall of his home for many years. I’m
sure it’s still around somewhere. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We should have had Margie add that
little sign: “It’s a long way back to the top.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">_____</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8449616843065861750.post-27579424162392771582023-02-14T09:43:00.001-08:002023-02-14T10:35:45.412-08:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 22pt;">Remember the Firebirds</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">T</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">he patio table was
loaded with chips, dips, salsa, bite-size veggies, and a fresh guacamole that
was very special. A large cooler held a variety of beverages on ice. A local
pizza parlor was standing by, ready to deliver its finest when halftime rolled
around. It was Super Bowl Sunday and a half-dozen friends were gathered to
enjoy the spectacle on large, flatscreen television sets, including one
outdoors on the patio. Nick Shane sat at the table, an ice-cold lager in hand,
enjoying the guacamole and the California sun peeking in and out of puffy
clouds.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Got everything
you need, Mr. Shane?” Ted smiled and clapped a hand on Nick’s shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m good, Ted.
You’re a stellar host. Thanks for having me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey, <i>mi casa
su casa</i>. Know what I mean?” The young man laughed and scooped salsa onto a
tortilla chip. “You and Del are always welcome.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Nick’s son, Del,
approached the table. “You okay, pops? Behavin’ yourself over here?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah, just
sitting here trying to remember a Super Bowl from a long time ago. I think it
was 1971. What was that, Super Bowl V?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Really? What’s up
with that?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“The pregame
hoopla was different back then.” Nick paused to sip his beer. “I remember they
played a documentary film, about an hour long. I’m pretty sure it was 1971.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah? What was it
about?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“All about the
Pottstown Firebirds.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Del and Ted
laughed and glanced at each other. What was Del’s old man conjuring here?
Several guys came to the table to fill small plates with snacks and join the
conversation. They were all in their forties. Nick was the odd man, having
recently celebrated his eightieth birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Is this a real
thing, Dad? Or are you spinning some fiction here?” Del smiled, wondering how
many beers his father had downed. Game time was still thirty minutes away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, it’s real all
right. The Firebirds were a minor league football team in Pottstown,
Pennsylvania. They played in—I’m trying to remember—I think it was the Atlantic
Coast League. I think that’s right. Can’t remember how many teams, but they
were made up of former NFL players, former high school and college kids hoping
to move up, and guys who just couldn’t give up the game.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Minor league
football? Really?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah. Anyway, the
Firebirds were a colorful bunch of misfits, led by a head coach—can’t remember
his name—who didn’t wear sox or underwear. There was a defensive lineman who
was a hippy and lived on a commune. Another lineman who was a poet and had a
drug problem. And a quarterback who called himself The King. Jimmy ‘The King’
Corcoran.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And all of this
was in a documentary?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yep. Produced by
NFL Films, if I remember correctly. So, the Firebirds were having a great
season in 1970, fighting to go undefeated and win a championship. At that time,
no pro team at any level had gone undefeated.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Need another
beer, Mr. Shane?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sure. Thanks,
Ted. So, here’s the conflict—The King was almost un-coachable. He was a total
narcissist. Had to be the center of attention at all times. And he and the head
coach were in a constant battle. The coach wanted a disciplined offense,
primarily a strong running game. The King wanted to open it up and pass, pass,
pass.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But they’re
undefeated?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Right. I think it
was the final regular season game, very close, right down to the last minute. The
Firebirds were deep in the other team’s territory, and they just needed to keep
the ball on the ground for one more play, then kick a field goal for the win.
Coach sent in a running play. The King thought he saw a crack in the defensive
alignment. He called an audible at the line of scrimmage and threw a pass. It
was intercepted. The Firebirds lost. The undefeated season was gone. Even
though they went on to the championship game and won, they finished the season
with one loss.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Wow! How did the
coach take it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“He went nuts. It
was his chance for immortality. The first undefeated season ever in pro
football, even if it was minor league. He benched The King for the championship
game. They won with a backup quarterback. I think I remember the coach’s name.
It was DeFillipo. Don or Dave DeFillipo.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Dad, are you sure
this isn’t some dream? You know you need to lay off the spicy food.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, I’m sure.
The NFL should replay the damn thing. It was a great film. But don’t take my
word for it. Remember what Casey Stengel used to say…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh boy. Casey
Stengel? And what did Casey say?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“He liked to say,
‘You could look it up.’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, Dad, we’ll
ask Siri. I think I’m switching you to water.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was time for
the coin flip, followed by kick off. The group started to move inside, fresh
drinks in hand, excited for the start of the game. Super Bowl Sunday. Almost a
national holiday, even in Pottstown, PA.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">_____</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>C.W. Spoonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16758109679852679308noreply@blogger.com5