Turtle Rock

As I had mentioned earlier, Mom and Dad frequently invited their drinking friends from the bar to our house for bourbon socials or what so call BS gatherings. With a captive audience, Dad often boasted about a kid that was taken from the back hills, and in all likelihood, saved from a life of poverty. Entertaining himself just a few feet away, watching TV, was that little kid who periodically often overheard his dad’s intoxicated gloatings and his mom’s repeated attempts to quiet him which only fell on deaf ears. Even though he always responded by saying, “oh he doesn’t know who I’m talking about,” Mom would have her way.

Oftentimes, late at night, Mom stumbled into my bedroom, sobbing and drunk. I usually pretended to be sleeping. When she did wake me up, I would plead with her to please let me sleep, explaining that I had to get up and go to school in the morning. Sitting on the edge of my bed, however, she always leaned over me, hugging me while rambling on about how much she loved me. It was often hard to understand what she was saying, but she always wrapped it up by clearly stating, “some day you’ll understand.”

Now that I know the whole story, I often wonder if they had made a pact to tell me the truth before they both passed. Unfortunately, we never really know exactly when we will die nor the conditions we might suffer from that might make us unable to communicate before we take our final breath. They ultimately took their secret to the graves with them.

One time, Dad shared a story with me about the time he worked as a production assistant for one of the Hollywood studios. Approaching an intersection near the studio, he nearly hit one of the pedestrians crossing at the traffic signal. The near victim, portly man then approached him on the drivers’ side and leaning his arm on the rolled down window, proceeded to tell my dad that it was a good thing he didn’t hit him. Embarrassed, Dad responded very respectfully and apologetically. With a smile and quite possible the trademark flip of his tie, he told my dad to just be a little more careful before continuing on his merry way. That man was Oliver Hardy, actor and comedian, best known as the foil in the famous Laurel and Hardy comedy team. Although I found it entertaining, I never could bring myself to believe that story. He also told me about bowling with the great Boris Karloff and Bela Lagosi, best known for their portrayals of Frankenstein’s monster and Dracula, respectfully.

The Shepherds moved back to Ohio just before I began my senior year. Geno began college back there in the fall. Once again, that loneliness returned and began to settle in. My final year of high school football helped take my mind off of that but when the football season ended, I began to get depressed again. Right after one of my games near the end of the season, Pam caught up with me as I was crossing the playing field, on my way to the locker room. Surprised by her presence, I hadn’t seen her for quite a while as I had been in another relationship at the time. She then surprised me by saying she wanted me back. It was at that moment that I realized I still had feelings for her, however suppressed, but I also had serious feelings for the girl I was dating. We ultimately got back together for the last time.

The following January, I stood by Geno’s side as his best man when he came back to marry his girlfriend, Charmaine. I knew Charmaine, but only through her relationship with Geno. Shortly after the wedding rehearsal, all of us gathered for some refreshments and a little socializing. I must have said something that made her think that I was claiming to be catholic. Explaining that I was not, I told her that I began school in Japan in the catholic school which was the only one in the area where English was spoken. Suddenly surprised, she sat up and asked if that school was Cherry Blossom Elementary School. When I confirmed that it was, she asked if I was that little blonde boy that they threw the going away party for before he returned to the states. I was indeed, but told her that I thought they did that for everyone, she assured me that they did not. After all those years and half way around the world, there we were once again! What are the odds, right?

The following day went as planned. Well, almost! I had been paired up with Geno’s brother’s girlfriend in the wedding party. Pam didn’t appreciate that and she told me so. During the reception, Geno took me aside and informed me that Pam had too much to drink and was in need of some help. Also in attendance was his former boss from Taco Bell. Overhearing what was going on, he offered his car for her to sleep it off. I wondered if he remembered who I was at that point but kept it to myself. We opened the car windows for ventilation before putting her in the back seat so she would be comfortable before we all returned to the celebration. Later someone informed me that Pam had gotten sick on the back seat and carpet of the car. Aplogozing to the owner, I then got her cleaned up. He told me that he would take care of the mess in his car as I prepared to take her home. Geno later told me that the carpet in the car had to be professionally cleaned. What goes around, comes around, right? I now considered the score between that Taco Bell manager and me, settled once and for all!

Just before my high school graduation, Mom and Dad let me know that they wanted to send me to Virginia to visit a couple they knew in the navy and had kept in touch with over the years. To make it more appealing, they used the couple’s daughter, whose senior picture they had shown me about a month earlier. She and I were just a few weeks apart in age and they insisted we’d get along great together. I felt a bit awkward about traveling clear across the country to visit a family I didn’t remember ever knowing. On the other hand, they were close enough that they even named their daughter, Inga Jo, after my mom and her own dad. Apparently, they used to talk about raising us together but the navy had other plans and sent us to California via a short stay in Texas before that could happen.

However uneasy I may have felt about it, I did eventually agree and was on a plane not long after graduation for a week or so in Norfolk, Virginia. They were very hospitable. Inga Jo, a free spirit, was cute and and very friendly, although she seemed somewhat preoccupied much of the time as I had also witnessed some friction between her and her mom during my visit. Inga Jo was gracious enough to take me to a couple places, one of which was the local mall, where incredibly enough, I ran into a female classmate of mine.

Inga Jo introduced me to her surfer boyfriend who I felt her mother objected to. One evening, following a heated exchange between Inga Jo and her mother, she and her boyfriend took me to Virginia Beach. I didn’t let on that I overheard what had happened between Inga Jo and her mom just prior as I’m sure it was never meant for my ears. Entering her boyfriend’s van, much to my surprise, I immediately observed a waterbed in the back. Shortly after we left the house, the two of them began to have issues, but kept it low enough that I didn’t know what it was about. It was dark upon our arrival and after he parked the van, I excused myself to take a walk while they worked things out. When I returned, he quietly drove us back to Inga’s house.

After returning home to California, Mom and Dad were curious about my trip. I told them that Inga Jo’s parents were very hospitable and seemed happy to see me, adding that Inga Jo and her boyfriend took me to the beach and that on a different occasion, I ran into a girl I knew in school while at the mall. When all was said and done, they seemed pleased that I went and that I enjoyed myself.

In my search to find an apartment I realized how difficult it could be for someone who was still three months shy of his eighteenth birthday. After all, 21 was the age of adulthood back then and the only thing an 18-year old could lawfully do was fight in the Vietnam war which was quickly drawing to an end at that time. I really wanted to go over there and win that war that I believed our politicians had made such a mess of. A higher power, however, had a different plan.

After finally working out an agreement with a landlord near the downtown area, I returned to my job at McDonald’s about a mile or so from my new apartment. In a conversation with the manager, a retired navy chief, I mentioned that I now had my own place. He consequently helped me out by giving me more hours, working split shifts and subsequently started to train me for a possible career in food service management.

Mom and Dad eventually seemed to accept that college was not meant to be in my immediate future. The reality was that I really didn’t know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Whenever I returned home for a visit, they always mentioned college, but never made it an obvious bone of contention. There was no question that they couldn’t afford a college education and I understood that. In all honesty, I did not believe that working while attending college was a winning combination for me after the negative impact it had on my GPA in high school. Determined to avoid setting myself up for failure, I had already seen more failures than I wanted at that point of my young life. After all, I was now at the portal of my adult life and I was determined to be more realistic where my future was concerned.

We eventually reached an agreement in October that if I moved back home and go to college, they would not require me to work as long as I was attending classes. Satisfied with that arrangement, I gave my notice to my landlord and moved back home the weekend before Thanksgiving. Still undecided about a career field, I was going to begin classes before declaring a major.

Sunday evening, before I even spent my first night back home, Mom told me that I would have to get a job because they just could not afford all of it. Feeling immediately betrayed, I quickly became uncontrollably enraged. It took everything I had to keep from lashing out and hitting something or someone! I had just given everything up and moved back home only to learn they didn’t intend on keeping their part of the bargain. Rushing to my bedroom, I packed up all my clothes, put them in my car and told her I was on my way to Ohio and wouldn’t be back, slamming the door closed as I left. I didn’t know how much she would remember of that night as she was drunk when it happened. I don’t recall where my dad was at the time. My best guess was that he was either still at the bar or at work.

Driving directly to Pam’s house, I told her what happened and that I was moving to Ohio. I explained to her that Dad Shepherd had told me on numerous occasions that if I ever wanted a good job, it could be found there. Naturally, she became upset and said she worried I wouldn’t come back. She still had two more years of high school but I promised her I would come back for her. It seemed like an eternity as we poured out our emotions to one another that night. Before leaving, we promised to write each other every day.

More to come…

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Junior high school consisted of grades 7 through 9. Mrs. Weathersby was my English teacher in the 7th grade. Explaining that everyone has a story to tell, one of our first writing assignments was to write our autobiography and bind it with a homemade hard binding. My initial reaction was that she didn’t know how unextraordinary my life was at such a young age. I was just an average guy! I get up in the morning, eat breakfast, go to school, go back home, have dinner, clean up, go to bed and start all over the next morning. Chapter 1 First Grade. Chapter 2 Second Grade. So on and so forth. What could I possibly have written that would be so different than any of my classmates?

There’s very little I remember about my composition, except that I gave one chapter the title of “Yuk Stew!” about the time my dad made stew when we were camping at Prosser Resevoir near Truckee, California, where we spent our annual summer vacations. Geno always came with us so I had someone to do things with. I don’t remember the grade I received for my work, I never even received any royalties for it! There ought to be a law, right? Her hand written comment, however, did stick with me over the years. It stated that she believed I was a good writer and that I should never stop writing. While wondering how many others she said that to, I also have more recently wondered what she would have thought had I written what I know now.

The truth is, I never had much to say and I despised writing except for a little poetry which wasn’t for anyone else to read. I closely guarded my personal, affectionate feelings and how lonely I felt growing up an only child, however, I must admit that the loneliness seemed to wane as my friendship with Geno and his family grew. Whenever we were assigned to write fictional short stories, my subject matter and story telling style was often influenced by the Twighlight Zone TV series. All the while, I continued to clown around a lot with my friends, doing a lot of loud, demonstrative stuff that Robin Williams became famous for, years later. I was sure that no one ever imagined that I was truly a lonely boy under that happy facade.

Geno and I received an invitation to go swimming at a local woman’s house across town by one of our mutual friends. I don’t recall that the woman was married nor did I ever witness any of her family around while we were there. With a gorgeous and beautifully maintained home, she also had quite the setup in her back yard which was mostly cement around a built-in pool and very little grass. What impressed me most, nevertheless, was the large red coke machine in her covered patio adjacent to the pool. I never knew anyone else with their own Coca Cola machine! We had so much fun that we returned a number of times for a summer cool down and clowning around in the pool until one day, Dolly came out while we were enjoying a break in the shade, sipping our cokes. She had obviously been watching us from inside her house and proceeded to suggest that we try out for some of the live stage productions at the nearby MIRA Theatre, assuring us that we would fit right in with everyone else there. Unfamiliar with it then, that changed over the following years. That’s when we first learned she was the theater group’s President or CEO. When we declined, she added that she thought we would have a lot of fun there. Speaking for myself, I had such a fear of public speaking that it controlled any desire I may have had to get up on stage and perform in front of a live audience. I mean, there’s nowhere to hide if you bomb! After all, it took every nerve I could muster to even speak before my classmates in a classroom setting. Geno, on the other hand, had enough to keep him busy as he was an exceptional trumpet player in the school band. It was obvious that he was going places!

It was in the 8th grade as I recall that a cute girl in school caught my eye. When I learned she lived around the block from me, I started going over to her house to get to know her better. A few weeks later, she introduced me to her younger sister. That was the beginning of the end of my initial infatuation with the first one. I found myself more attracted to the little sister although I don’t think she felt the same attraction for me then. After all, she was in the 6th grade and probably unaware of boys at that age. Now in junior high school, it felt somewhat uneasy having feelings for anyone in elementary school. I waited patiently until the following year when she had done some growing up and seemed ready for a relationship. A 9th grader going out with a 7th grader seemed much more appropriate and we ended up dating off and on throughout junior and senior high school.

Geno and I had so much in common. We both shared a love for music, sports, movies and of course, girls. Not necessarily in that order, but I’ll let you figure that out. We especially enjoyed the sword and sandal movies such as Hercules. So inspired, we even started working out together in his garage when his dad bought him a small 110 pound weight set. He was tall and lean and I was nearly as tall but just the opposite body type. His gains were realized faster than mine but we both achieved some pretty satisfying results. Long before Arnold Schwarzenegger arrived on the international bodybuilding scene and becoming a household name, Steve (Hercules) Reeves was our inspiration.

I began to spend more of my weekends with Geno and much less time in the movie theaters. With an affinity towards those low budget strongman movies on TV, we probably spent as much time watching the low budget horror films whenever they were on. Hammer Productions was relatively new then but we loved them as well. Horror was suddenly in living color, a welcome contrast to the black and white films that we normally watched. Edgar Allan Poe was also at the top of our list. American International Studios produced a series of films that made his stories come to life with the prince of macabre, Vincent Price. What a time to be a young teenager in America!

While we both enjoyed a natural talent for sports, I was never going to be a star athlete by any means. While in junior high school, Geno convinced me to try out for the track team with him. We had played a lot of softball and touch football together on the street in front of our houses but I was pretty nervous about the thought of trying out for any organized athletics. I wasn’t a runner and I felt like a lead balloon when it came to the high jump and long jump events. Geno suggested shot put and discus. Much to my surprise, I not only made the track and field team, I even lettered while not being very good at it.

Dad convinced me to try out for the basketball team just to stay in shape, if for no other reason. Surprisingly enough, I made the team, albeit not as a starter. Despite not being very good, I did, however letter once again.

Only the ninth graders were allowed to be on the school’s flag football team. After making the team, I earned a position on the starting team and went on to earn a letter for football as well, making me a three-sport letterman. My greatest achievement, however, came on the field, scoring three touchdowns in a single game. It was a record that held for several years.

At the end of the season and the school year, the football coaches from the local high school paid us a visit to explain their top rated football program to those students who were interested in becoming a Vallejo High Apache, a proud nation rivaled only by the school spirit. They had built quite a reputation throughout Northern California as they had just completed their third consecutive undefeated year and were ranked number 12 in the entire state of California. Unlike most of the others who would be trying out, I had no experience playing organized tackle football. Many, if not most of the others, had played on youth football teams prior to high school. That would be my greatest challenge, but I felt I was up for it.

The spring semester ended and it became a very busy summer for me. To this very day, I don’t know how we fit everything in. Geno’s family was planning a month-long trip back to Ohio and Kentucky to visit family. Geno had spent the last two or three summers on our camping getaways so his parents decided that I should go along with them on this very special family vacation. Mowing lawns and performing a couple other odd jobs in the neighborhood provided me with some spending money to take with me. When the time had come, the seven of us filed into their station wagon and off we went. Dad Shepherd and Geno’s older brother did the driving for the most part. Mom Shepherd didn’t drive. Dad Shepherd took the first shift at the wheel. A somewhat experienced driver by that time, Geno’s older brother was second in the rotation. We drove straight through until reaching Colorado at which point Geno, with his learner’s permit, drove that last couple hours to the motel under the watchful eye of his dad. I seem to recall that it was in Denver, but I can’t be sure of that. We all had time to clean up and get a good night’s sleep. Well rested and fresh the next morning, we then drove the remainder of the trip straight through to Dayton, Ohio where Dad Shepherd’s family lived. After a week or so in Ohio, we drove south to Kentucky to visit more family there. Almost instantaneously, I fell in love with Ohio and the hills of Kentucky. I never felt more at home as I did there in the bluegrass state. Unable to explain it, I truly felt like it was where I belonged and did not want to leave. After returning home, I presented Mom and Dad with a few souvenirs I had picked up along the way. It was then that I told them about the special connection I felt with the mountain people and country of Kentucky but was unable to explain it. They got rather quiet and never offered a reason why I may have felt that way, but once again, I now can only imagine what was truly going through their minds.

More than 50 eager and able guys tried out for the high school junior varsity football team. More than ever before, we were told. My chances of making the team seemed miniscule at best after the three rounds of cuts that the coaches promised would happen before the final roster was complete.

The rigorous training began with double sessions in a very hot spell that we were having. I didn’t let that slow me down and gave it my very best. When the first round of cuts was posted on the bulletin board in the hallway, everyone rushed to see if they were going to make the second round of training. Everyone, but me, that is. Not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know how I might react to seeing I got cut. Waiting until the list had been posted for a while and feeling sure that everyone else had seen the list, it was now my turn. The hallway was vacant as I slowly approached the bulletin board. Taking a deep breath, I nervously looked the list over. There it was! Ted Haskins. I was still on the team but the road ahead was long and increasingly more difficult to survive. Although jubilant, I managed to remain calm and copecetic on the outside as I walked away like I expected to make the team in case anyone was watching. When the second list was posted, I followed the same routine before and after learning of the results. A couple more weeks of rigorous workouts ensued followed by the third and final cut. With even more trepidation, I began the long-mile walk down the hallway to the bulletin board. Hardly able to contain myself , I not only made the roster, but I subsequently became an alternating starter in the line up. I was already liking high school before attending my first class!

Following the end of our successful football season. I got a job at the local Taco Bell where Geno had already been working for a young female manager. During the job interview, I told her that my work hours would have to coincide with his because I wasn’t old enough to drive yet. She said she was alright with that and just like that, I had my very first real job.

One Saturday afternoon while Geno and I were at work, a customer came to the window and ordered frijoles among a few other items. The manager was back in her office. Geno was preparing the food on the stove in the back. I was the one who took the customer’s order. That customer mispronounced frijoles as “freeholes.” Hardly able to contain myself after he left with his order, I went to the back and told them what he said. They both broke out in laughter, but what surprised me most was when she said that I should have told him that he’d have to go around back because we don’t serve those up front. That was the moment I felt that I had been accepted as a member of her team.

When the high school football season began, the Taco Bell manager rewarded me with a sabbatical of sorts and said I was welcome to return to work after the season ended.

Following the end of my junior varsity season, I reported back to Taco Bell only to learn that she had been replaced by a new manager who wouldn’t honor the agreement. I never worked one hour under the new manager, but he told Geno and the few other employees that he fired me because I ate too much. I didn’t take it too hard, but I didn’t like hearing how he explained my firing to the others. I would however settle the score later, but for the time being, I sought employment at McDonalds only a block away. They were glad to have me, and gladly gave me space to continue playing high school football. The management there was all about their employees, their education and whatever else went along with it. I enjoyed the atmosphere of working there and ended up working there five months after I graduated.

I continued to struggle academically but managed to keep my GPA high enough to stay on the team. Football was the only reason I stayed in high school. Having enough credits to graduate mid term my senior year, I expressed that desire with my parents. After several conversations with them, they convinced me to stick it out one more semester and graduate with the rest of my class as they put it. I honored their request, however, my heart truly wasn’t in it. My GPA suffered as a result and I was absolutely miserable during that spring semester. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I really wasn’t smart enough.

More to come.

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Part 2

I’m going to take this moment to mention something that I should have shared in Part 1.

While in Texas, where we spent our first Christmas, Mom and Dad were so excited over their first Christmas as a family now complete, they propped their new baby boy up on the couch with a couple cushions, carefully placed a sampling of gifts and snapped a couple photographs to mark the occasion. A copy of one of those pictures went out with every Christmas greeting card they mailed to friends and family. Mom, of course wrote the date on the back of the picture with my name, Teddy, after her late brother.

What I wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall as they convinced all of Dad’s brothers and sisters, 14 of them, to never reveal to me that I was not their biological son. Mom’s only sibling, had died years before and I doubt that they ever told her parents the truth.

I don’t remember much about my third grade experience except that I was just one of the students who opened the brand new Dan Mini Elementry School. Everything was brand new, inside and out and it was within walking distance for me. I could not only walk to and from school, but I could walk home for lunch if and when I wanted to. My first teacher there was Miss Hart, a very young and pretty black woman who on the last day of school informed us that she was to be married during the summer and would retire to become a housewife. There were several tears shed that day in the classroom as she was so very well liked. I remember her kneeling down to console my classmates who were visibly upset.

Growing up in Vallejo, California, I spent many of my weekends in the two movie theaters downtown. The El Rey showed new release movies and the Crest Theater showed second run movies. Mom and Dad dropped me off on their way to the bar and always picked me up following the double feature. It wasn’t unusual for me to go to the El Rey for the Saturday matinees, then to the Crest the following day. I just loved the movies and the palatial theaters back then were magnificent! The total experience seemed so magical to a little boy like me. Mom was always sure to give me enough money for admission and some treats to enjoy during the intermissions. It’s still a thrill going into the old restored theaters throughout the country even now. It never fails to bring back memories of that little boy standing at the candy bar, ordering an orange soda and a candy bar before returning to his seat and waiting for the next feature to begin.

It was in the fourth grade that I remember multiplication being introduced into our mathematics itinerary, beginning my academic struggles. As Mrs. Lubovich handed out the multiplication tables, 2 to 9, she said to take it home and memorize it. I’m sure she spent some time explaining it, but I don’t remember that. Pretty basic and simple stuff for a fourth grader, right? Not for this one, however. I had a dreadful time with it. I didn’t understand it and I suppose that’s why memorization of the table was so difficult for me. No one will ever convince me that skipping a grade was not at least partially responsible for that.

Mom tried her best to help me at home, but I truly don’t think my brain was ready for it. No matter how she tried to make sense of it for me, I just didn’t get it! We were expected to have as much as possible memorized upon returning to school the following day. Returning to school the following morning, I felt stupid and embarrassed as I saw my classmates recite the tables with little problem and I had very little memorized. I never felt so inadequate before or since. That was the only subject that I had problems with and it was only the beginning. I began to lose interest in school as a result. I did, however, move on to the fifth grade after that year and eventually memorized it, but it was still a while longer before I finally understood it.

I was eleven years old when on Friday, November 22, 1963, Mrs. Edwards opened the classroom door to let her class in after lunch recess. This hour was always our art class period. We hadn’t been working on our assignment very long before the school janitor entered the room. With a deliberate stride, he crossed the back of the room and down the opposite side. Upon reaching the front of the classroom, he once again turned left and approached Mrs. Edwards, seated at her desk. My desk was right in front of hers and I had the best opportunity to hear what he whispered to her. Pausing what I was doing, I realized that this was a rare occurence. I didn’t hear him very clearly but I did hear enough to know that someone had been shot. I’ll never forget the shock on her face as she asked him to repeat what he had said. I thought I heard him say that the President had been shot, but I was sure that I hadn’t heard him correctly. I quickly reasoned that he said the principle had been shot. After all, I thought he was a mean old man who didn’t like kids, so he naturally had more enemies than President Kennedy. Even after the janitor repeated what he said, I was still in disbelief. She just sat there, obviously shaken as he exited the classroom. Wiping the tears from her face, she stood up and asked for everyone’s complete attention before telling the class that the President of the United States had been shot. A sudden quiet smothered the room until a few moments later, when one of the kids blurted out that he was glad because he didn’t like the President. Everyone quickly lashed back with raised fists and expressed objections to his insensitive remarks and Mrs. Edwards explained how inappropriate and disrespectful his behavior was. She opened the class for respectful discussion.

I don’t recall much being said at home about it, but I could see that Mom and Dad were both upset. As usual, the television wason, however, the only thing on was the news about the assassination. To make things worse, we only had five broadcast stations on the TV – ABC, NBC, CBS, a local San Francisco independent station, KTVU and KQED, the PBS channel. Programming on the PBS channel was very limited and often there was nothing even being broadcast there. All the regular programs were preempted for live news coverage. Pretty boring stuff for the average fifth grader! This fifth grader usually went home to watch the three stooges but not that day. Live news coverage on TV was all there was throughout the entire weekend. That also meant no Saturday morning cartoons. My feelings ranged from disappointment to anger when I got up Saturday morning and turned on the TV only to discover that the news was still on. Like so many other kids, Saturday morning cartoons was how I always began my weekends while Mom and Dad slept in.

Everyone around the world was stunned by the news. Then, out of nowhere, the man who had been arrested for shooting the President was shot to death on live TV! I happened to be watching when that happened. A man jumped out of the crowd, shoved a pistol into his ribs and discharged it while he was handcuffed and flanked by two police officers escorting him from the jail to a police vehicle in the basement of the police station. That shooter, of course, was immediately disarmed and apprehended as there was nowhere for him to go. The entire world was in shock and unsure if the Cold War would now become a hot war – a nuclear war! Everyplace you went, people were just wandering around aimlessly, in tears, for days uncertain of the future.

Not quite three months later, on February 7, 1964, Americans began to turn their attention on a new phenomenon that had already been sweeping the rest of the world. Beatlemania was taking the world by storm. Americans now had something else to focus on rather than the assassination of their beloved President. Adults rejected them, saying it was a “here today, gone tomorrow” craze. Young kids and teenagers alike were filled with excitement over the arrival of The Beatles at the recently renamed Kennedy Airport in New York. No British musicians had ever been successful in the U.S. before then and only the teenagers were sure that things were about to change. Certainly, no one had any idea how much things would change because of those four “mop topped” young men from Liverpool, England. The Beatles not only saved rock and roll, as it had been heading in a different direction before their arrival with the likes of Fabian, Pat Boone and other singers, but they did in fact change music, the culture and in the process, saved the world over time, some would argue.

When my parents and a few of their friends asked me what I thought about them, I had no idea who they were talking about. That too, was about to change. Two days after their arrival, February 9, 1964, the Beatles appeared live on the Ed Sullivan Show, a nationally broadcast weekly TV variety show. It was a highly rated show, but the debut of the Beatles broke all the records. Everyone wanted to see them as they had already had a number one hit in America. We often watched Ed Sullivan, but Dad decided we were going to watch something else that historical evening. Michelle, the girl across the street, invited me to her house where she and her sisters would be watching. Curiously, I accepted her invitation.

As soon as Ed Sullivan introduced The Beatles, it was pandemonium! Not only in the TV studio audience, but in Michelle’s house as well as they all started screaming and jumping all over the living room. I, on the other hand, just stood back for my own safety if nothing else, and just observed it all. When it was over, I couldn’t understand their reactions and I didn’t really hear the music from the TV.

I eventually became a fan, buying their record albums whenever they were released, but I hadn’t really felt the grip of Beatlemania, as it were. Mom and Dad even bought me a guitar because I wanted to learn how to play. I took lessons once a week, but lost interest within a year. Music, however, continued to remain a strong influence upon me as the Beatles were followed by what became known as the British Invasion. There were a host of other British rock bands taking advantage of the popularity of The Beatles success in America. Listening to it all on my transistor radio, it was the Beatles who influenced my first lp collection until a band of zany musicians dressed in American Revolution uniforms from Oregon caught my attention with their hit song, Kicks. I liked their creative costumes, but what made them different than any other band was the way they seemed to have so much fun performing with their crazy on-stage antics. On the other hand, not many others took their music seriously. Paul Revere and the Raiders then began the second of my only two complete record collections among my miriad of other lp’s.

Then there was a live music variety show on TV in the late afternoon Monday through Friday called Where The Action Is, produced by America’s oldest teenager, Dick Clark. I rarely missed an episode of the very popular TV show that featured the band he had signed to the Columbia record label, Paul Revere and the Raiders.

It was also around that time that my mom introduced me to the comedy of the Smothers Brothers. When she gave me one of their comedy albums, The Smothers Brothers Tour De Farce American History And Other Unrelated Subjects, I became an instant fan. I even began imitating them and making my friends laugh. That’s when I learned I liked making people laugh and be happy. It was like a shot of adrenaline and I loved it. On the other hand, when I was home alone, I came down from those highs and I’d get bored and even depressed sometimes, again, making me wish I had siblings. Making people laugh covered up and made me forget about my academic shortfalls.

About 30 minutes south of us, a new phenomenon, hippies, began to gather in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco. Dad made a conscious effort to critcize their socialist tendencies and recreational drug activities, in an attempt to discourage me. Oddly enough, he and Mom had begun drinking more, spending more time at the bars downtown and having their friends over for even more drinking. Their behavior embarrassed me and I stopped having my own friends over. When home, I spent more time in my room, listening to music. I didn’t like all that drinking, especially the nonsense they spewed in their stupor. To make matters worse, they all smoked and you’d swear a San Francisco fog had filled the house. I couldn’t breathe. I found myself taking long pauses between shallow breaths while in the house. Headaches ensued. The smell of the partially filled liquor bottles, half empty beer bottles, glasses, and ashtrays that spilled over of ash and cigarette butts, was nauseous the following morning. All too often, I was the one who cleaned it all up as I was the first one up while Mom and Dad were sleeping it off.

After graduating from the sixth grade, junior high school awaited me in the fall. Throughout the summer I asked around trying to find out what to expect from the changes that junior high school had to offer. Eventually, someone suggested I talk with the new kid in the neighborhood who was one year ahead of me. With nothing to lose, I went down the street to the house where his family lived and introduced myself. Geno and I immediately connected, becoming inseparable, best friends.

One evening while my parents and I were having dinner, Perry Mason was on the TV. All three of us enjoyed watching and trying to guess “who done it.” Out of the blue, I said that I knew what I wanted to be when I grow up. Turning to me with looks of surprise, they naturally asked what it was. “I want to be a lawyer,” I said before Dad told me I better set my sights on something else because I wasn’t smart enough for that. A few minutes later, I said that maybe I could be a comedian. After all, I knew I could make people laugh and that made me feel good. Dad said that I had to be smart for that too. Knowing that I did not like watching the news, he said that comedians know history and are up to date with current events. Apparently, I wasn’t smart enough for that either. That really took the wind out of my sails! He did however recommend the trades. He said that if I learned a trade, I would always have a job. Mom had always told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be and I had no reason to doubt her. I had always looked up to my dad and believed everything he told me, but that was the first time I remember his hurtful words. Maybe he didn’t think very much of my ability or aptitude. I was crushed and promised myself to be much more thoughtful when speaking to my own children when I grew up.

There is more to come. I hope you’ll stay tuned.

It’s not easy growing up an only child with five sisters. How is that possible? I’m glad you asked. You are about to embark on a journey that has been one of the best kept secrets of the 20th century – The Legend of Berry Mountain.

My story begins in 1953. Back up in the woods of Berry Mountain near Wolftown, Virginia where there stands a primitive 2-room log cabin with no electricity, no running water and an outdoor kitchen. That was home for Ohmer and Granny Jackson and their few still-at-home children.

A hulking figure of a man, Ohmer was a logger who did odd jobs on the side such as fence mending, breaking horses and often bartered with the man who owned that cabin they lived in. Additionally, he was the local checkers champion and crowned the Strongest Man in the County at the local county fair one year. In his spare time, he was the best and most elusive moonshiner from here, to DC. Granny, a God-fearing and most loving woman, handled all the domestic chores, which included cooking on a wood stove and washing clothes in a metal tub with a washboard on the porch, weather permitting, of course.

During the early days of September that year, Sugarloaf, their eldest daughter, was visiting from Indiana when suddenly a frantic outbreak occurred. Hearing the distressing sounds from within the outhouse, just a few yards from the cabin, Sugarloaf’s alert younger siblings rushed to her rescue, transporting her to the cabin, upstairs to the bedroom where everyone was shocked to learn she was in labor. Incredulously, she had successfully hidden her pregnancy for the entire nine months. Everything had gone according to the way she had planned until the abrupt intervention by her siblings. Subsequently, I was born that day much to everyone’s surprise and the second born to Sugarloaf.

Granny, not Sugarloaf, was the one who very lovingly attended to my needs for the following two weeks, affectionately calling me Warner, after her own dad. At the end of those two weeks, Sugarloaf wrapped me up in a light blue colored baby blanket and walked me down the mile-long country, dirt road, accompanied by her best friend, where at the base of the mountain, I was handed through a car window, to complete strangers. Nary a word was exchanged between the two parties. Without remorse, my mother turned away, slapping her hands together in an up and down motion as if to say, “that takes care of that!” Only a few feet away stood her best friend, in tears as she, herself, had wanted the baby but just didn’t have the means to care for it.

After nine unproductive years of marriage, the childless couple inside that car there upon whisked me away. We eventually spent our first Christmas in Texas before settling in California, where I was raised in the San Francisco Bay Area as an only child and a well kept family secret.

One of fifteen siblings, my dad swore them all to secrecy before telling them that I was not their natural son. Growing up, I had a hundred cousins who knew and amazingly enough, never said a word to me about it. Looking back at my life, I now see the many red flags that had I paid attention to, would have figured it all out. Hindsight is always 20-20!

One of my earliest memories, occured when I was only three years of age. The three of us spent a few days camping with Auntie Barb and Uncle Fred, another childless couple, next to a stream in the Sierra Mountains. Not really related, Mom and Barb had become close friends while working as telephone operators in San Francisco before she and Dad were married. Back then, there were no designated campgrounds and assigned camping spaces. You just pulled off the road in a place that appealed to you and made camp. What made this experience so memorable was when Uncle Fred and I got into our swimming trunks and he took me to a log that crossed over the stream. As we waded in the water, I remember not only how cold the water was passing around my little legs, but the feeling of the tiny rocks and pebbles under my feet. Lifting me up, he sat me up on the log, casted a fishing line and gave the rod to me. It wasn’t long after that I had hooked my very first Sierra trout. Struggling hard to reel it in, I began to fear it was going to pull me off that log and into the water. Uncle Fred to the rescue! He dashed over to help and instructed me on how to reel it in. “Keep the rod up and the line tight,” he repeated until he reached out and netted it for me.

Mom often left the copy of my birth certificate laying around for me to see, stating that I was born to them in Albemarle County, Virginia. From time to time, they both would share with me the story of when I was born in a car, sometimes it was a taxi. They drove from the navy yard, to the country mountains to visit some friends of theirs whenever dad had weekend liberty. It was a rather long drive that took about three hours from the naval base. They never explained who those friends were or how they came to know them. I suppose that didn’t really matter since it wasn’t likely that we would ever go back to visit.

Years later, as a young teenager, I recalled that camping experience while talking with Mom and Dad as we sat around the kitchen table. In total disbelief, Dad challenged the memory as he didn’t believe anyone could have memories from such an early age. He reasoned that the memory must have originated from some pictures in one of the family photo albums. We had a lot of pictures in family photo albums and Mom had meticulously identified many of them with hand written captions below each photo that they had taken over the years before and after I was born. Oddly enough, not one of her when she was pregnant. I never gave that a thought until many years later. I asked him how he explained my vivid memory of the sensations I experienced. Shaking his head, he insisted that it just wasn’t possible and there was “no way” I could remember that. I now wonder if they ever pondered how much of my very early years I actually remembered.

Throughout my childhood, Mom and Dad would ask me what I wanted for my birthdays or during Christmas time. Perhaps an intrinsic response, but this very lonely little boy always replied that he wanted a brother or sister to no avail, of course.

Ten years after Japan had surrendered, ending WWII in the pacific, I was not quite 4 years old when my dad, a career navy man, received temporary duty orders and transferred to Japan for three years. Mom decided that she and I would accompany him during his extended stay. I grew to love Japan and its friendly people. They were always respectful to me, regardless of my very young age, and I had many young Japanese friends who taught me to speak their language fluently as well as all their customs.

Mom and Dad found an apartment off the base, above a little store that was owned by Papa Son. He and I became good buddies and sometimes I would wander down there in the early morning hours while he was cooking over his open flame habachi pot. He always shared whatever he was preparing with me. If I remember correctly, he gave me my very first sample of sushi which I really liked. Sometimes, on the weekends, he would take me, Mom, Dad, and some of his shipmates by motor boat to a nearby island and leave us for the day on the beach before returning to pick us up before dark. I never wandered very far away and remained within view of Mom and Dad all the time, but I don’t recall ever seeing anyone else on that beach. It’s like we had our own private beach much thanks to Papa Son.

It was in Japan that I started school, attending Cherry Blossom Elementry Catholic School. Sister Mary Elizabeth was my first teacher crush. She had the most beautiful blue eyes and she was always so very kind to me. Dad said that all the nuns there were from Australia. One day I told Mom about her and expressed my curiousity about what was under the hood on her head that covered everything but her face. A day or so later, as I was in line to get on the school bus at the end of the school day, Sister Mary Elizabeth took me aside, away from the other kids and lifted up the wrapping on her head just enough to show me her surprisingly short, blonde hair. Still, she was so pretty to me. I couldn’t understand why she chose such a life instead of one with another man and a family.

Mom and Dad bought me my first bicycle while we lived in Japan. After Dad installed the training wheels on the back, he took me across the street, to the local park. He showed me how to operate the bell on the handlebars as well as the handbrakes if I got going too fast. He told me the training wheels were to prevent me from falling over. We were on a dirt and gravel road when he ran while holding the bike before giving me a light push. Deathly afraid, I was now riding the bike on my own. I remember hearing his voice from behind. “Keep it steady and pedal, he shouted. Paralyzed by my fear, the bike slowly coasted until eventually falling over as I did a face plant into the gravel. Angered because I didn’t follow his instructions, Dad helped me up and brushed me off before picking up the bicycle and taking me home. I cried all the way until Mom cleaned me up and comforted me.

The nuns at the school gave me a farewell party complete with cake and ice cream at the end of our three and one half years in Japan. Years later and much to my surprise, I learned that I was the only one they did that for. More about that in a later post.

It was in 1961 that we returned to our home in the San Francisco Bay Area. I remember that there was an issue when Mom and Dad tried to register me in school following our return. The officials didn’t quite know what grade to place me in. When all was said and done, I skipped the second grade and was placed in the third grade because the Japanese school had me so far ahead of what was being taught here. From that point on, I would be the youngest person in my class throughout my senior year in high school. I will always believe that was to my detriment.

This is just the beginning of the most incredible story I know which I will be sharing the rest of, right here in this series of blogs.

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