Posts

Showing posts from June, 2014

Medalist

Image
It was the bronze medal for the high bar from the 1952 Summer Olympics in Helsinki, Finland.  That's what everyone said.  And it belonged to one of the P. E. teachers, Mr. Thom.  They said it was on display in the P.E. office at Sun Valley Jr. High where he taught.  If you got Mr. Thom for P.E.  then you were in for some serious gymnastics from an Olympic medalist. In 7th grade, I had 1st period P.E.  Mr. Schorr was my teacher, but I got plenty of glimpses of Mr. Thom and a few of the medal in a window display near the Boys locker room.  That first year was uneventful, except for the time Ernest Takimoto forgot to put his shorts on and came to attention in his tightie whities.  We were all barely awake by the start of 1st period and Ernest paid the ultimate price. My 8th grade year began with new teachers and...of course...Mr. Thom The word gymnastics was enough to strike fear into my 13 year old self, but when coupled with the thought of Mr. Thom, it became sheer terror.  I

Snapshot

Image
Today I mark the 48th anniversary of my mother's death.  Over the years, I've noticed that by the middle of June, the date enters my consciousness and I begin to take notice.  It's been so many years but I still dream of my parents and of the house my small family and I shared for almost 20 years.  These constructs are with us for a lifetime. My mother was only 54 at the time of her death so it's inevitable how many medical advances have come along since she battled cancer.  Back then, the word was difficult t say, and coming out of the mouth of a doctor was as chilling as it gets. What I wonder about the most, however, is how her death has impacted my life and various decisions and choices I've made over the years.  I wonder if she would have been pleased with my girlfriends, wife(s) and some of the friends I've collected a an adult.  It's all conjecture, of course, but just being able to have those conversations would have been wonderful. I remember

Ben

Image
That summer of 1964 was particularly warm in Southern California.  One more semester of high school to go and then hopefully on to a state college.  I was looking forward to the local Catholic church's carnival and car raffle. (The Monsenior won the car every other year, I swear!) The playground of Holy Rosary school was transformed into booths and stalls with all the teddy bear games and dime pitching glassware you could carry.  There was cotton candy, sno-cones and, of course, lots of girls in small clusters to gawk at for my 17 year old friends and me. There was also news of the burgeoning civil rights movement. I knew about the literacy tests, the marches and demonstrations, the danger of trying to bring liberty and justice for all.  My history class the previous semester gave me the opportunity to study current events and my eyes opened to the reality of democracy, or the lack thereof, in America. When the three civil rights workers went missing in Mississippi, nobody expec

Sojourn

Image
It's almost light at 6:00 am.  We're driving south this morning.  Twelve hours on the road with about four planned stops.  We know the drill.  Portland to Berkeley and other parts of the Bay Area.  Must have made this drive at least 10 times in the last few years. I slowly drive down the street where I live and think about the cup of coffee that will give me enough courage for the next few hours of this sojourn.  The baristas at Peet's are like family.  They'll say good-bye, see you in a couple of weeks. The mist is lifting as I straighten out and drive up Hawthorne Ave.  Is someone in the middle of the street?  Am I seeing things?  Three small figures come into focus right on the white line.  I slow down and come face to face with three young deer looking at me, flicking their ears, all seeming to say, what are you doing here?  I stop and flick my headlights at oncoming traffic and soon about half a dozen cars in both directions are aware.  The three invaders (all doe

One More Time

Image
Three stories dominate this week.  A prisoner returns after 5 years in Afghanistan, another school shooting involving a disillusioned, mentally ill young man, and the improbable chance that an upstart 3-year-old colt with obscure breeding will break the 36 year-old Triple Crown drought. We'll save the optimism for last. With the release of Bowe Bergdahl in exchange for 5 Taliban prisoners held at Guantanamo Bay, the country seems to be at war with itself all over again.  Prisoner or traitor?  Did he desert, wander off, or simply convert?  What kind of shape is he in and what about that father with his sympathy beard?  No prisoner left behind, right...not so fast.  And then there is Idaho, Hailey, Idaho to be exact, a prettier place you couldn't find.  Cancelled the town celebration on the off chance that there is no hero and that some folks feared tens of thousands more crowding int the little hamlet of 7,000 to "express their opinions on the matter." Wars don&#

Jagged Grain

Image
I got to thinking about some of the artifacts I've kept over the years.  It's always a bit of a surprise when I open a drawer or lift the top off a storage box and find something that has followed me around for a few decades. Even thought I've been through spurts of downsizing and and purging, there are nevertheless some items that I can't seem to part with for an unknown reason or two. Items that remind me of the people I knew or of places lived.  Items that bring back a particular day or night. In many ways, I consciously save something for the sole purpose of looking back on it and the emotions embedded within. I have a woman's hair scarf worn the night I picked up a girlfriend at the airport.  I was 22, a college graduate with the draft lurking over my head and a partner who was willing to go the distance with me on this issue whatever and wherever that meant.  The blue/green checkered scarf seemed a beacon that night.  I never felt more alive, scared, and ho