Turtle Rock

My career at Mare Island Naval Shipyard spanned 18 years, first hiring on as a Machine Tool Opetator and later, promoted to Journeyman Machinist. Sometime afterwards, I was invited to join the nuclear program, manufacturing parts for nuclear reactors on the submarines being overhauled on the shipyard because I still wasn’t smart enough to be a lawyer.

Newly hired apprentices received instruction in trade theory and hands-on training in the vestibule before being allowed to gain real shop experience in the production machine shop. Once in the machine shop, there was no one to provide them assistance except the section supervisor and other employees who we busy performing their duties as assigned. That led to problems and inconsistencies in their training. When a position was established to resolve that problem, I saw an opportunity to do something about all the rework that the shop had been plagued with. I applied and was subsequently promoted to Work Leader, providing hands-on training to apprentices in the sometimes stressful environment of production. Not only did that position benefit the apprentices, but it also allowed supervisors more freedom to do their job.

Without ever learning how it happened, I was later encouraged to apply for a position teaching apprentices in the vestibule by the program director, Mr. Pitcher. When I told him that I had no trade theory background, he nevertheless still encouraged me to apply. I didn’t really know Mr. Pitcher prior to that and I suspected that he may have only been trying to get as many applicants in the pool before filling the vacancy with a predetermined applicant. After all, I had seen that happen time and again over the years in the name of upward mobility and I had a bad taste in my mouth for that program, believing that was the origins of a lot of problems in the shop.

Astonishingly, I was the one selected and soon found myself writing curriculums and teaching newly hired apprentices in the vestibule. After completing my innaugural class of apprentices, we were informed that the shipyard was slated for closure. Thus, ending the apprenticeship program. Returning to the machine shop, I continued working as a Work Leader, assisting apprentices and the section supervisor.

To record their progress, each apprentice was required to maintain their own personal daily log. At the end of each week, a journeyman machinist graded and commented on those entries before it became an official document. My greatest achievement as a Work Leader was developing an objective method of grading apprentices while performing in the sometimes chaotic production environment. Too often, I witnessed journeymen machinists signing off those logs, relying on the integrity of the apprentice and not really taking it seriously. Now, they could be graded objectively on their accomplishments by the Work Leader who had personally witnessed the apprentice’s work and more importantly, their achievements. Unfortunately, it came too late to make an impact.

When the section supervisor had to take three months off for surgery, I accepted a temporary appointment to fill the vacancy. After all, as the section Work Leader, I was the best one to step in with the least amount of disruption to the shop. Unfortunately ensuing complications extended his time off well beyond the 90 days he had planned.

Immediately after lunch on Fridays, no one could return to work before cleanup was complete. While in my office, I was bent down, sweeping the dust into the dustpan when I suddenly sneezed and suffered a debilitating on-the-job injury. Unable to stand up without help, I managed to use my desk to pull myself up, then hobble to my car about a quarter mile away, just outside the industrial area. I probably should have gone to the ER, but I drove directly home where I collapsed from the pain as soon as I walked through the door. Eventually making my way to bed, there I stayed for three months until the Department of Labor approved my back surgery.

Returning to work, part-time and on light duty, six months or so later, I continued to draw Workers’ Compensation to make up the pay lost due to my working part-time. Like everyone else in the shop at that time, I was encouraged to participate in the relocation program offered to assist employees in relocating while losing the least amount of time between jobs.

Job fairs were held frequently, on the shipyard to allow employees to attend without taking time off. It was during one of those job fairs that I was offered a supervisor’s position at another shipyard before being abruptly removed from the program. Apparently, employees who were receiving workers compensation benefits were ineligible to participate in the relocation program.

Post shipyard closure, I was placed into a vocational rehabilitation program. Participating in a 30-day testing process in Sacramento, administered by a company subcontracted by the U.S. Department of Labor, it was determined that I was best suited for a career in healthcare. Because of my achievements in television production, I asked if that was a viable option. Much to my surprise and disappointment, I was informed that research revealed there was no future in that field. Fast forward 30 years, I’m still watching television. Television has a broader reach than ever before thanks to cable and internet services. As it expands, so too an increased demand for production. I might also add that the very same company is now a physical therapy provider and is officially “temporarily closed” as of this writing. Nevertheless, I soon found myself enrolled in the Respiratory Therapy program at Napa Valley College, a two year program, that required me to complete a few prerequisite classes at Solano Community College first.

I lost my mom to lung cancer a number of years before and soon after enrolling in the in the RT program, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer as well. Given only three months to live, I moved in with him in his Vallejo home to care for him while continuing my classes in Napa. Three months became six months. Dad became impatient and began asking me to contact Doctor Kavorkian, however, assisted suicide was not legal in California. I was torn as six months turned into twelve. Dad now required around the clock care as I continued my clssses even though they too had become increasingly demanding. As soon as the third semester started, Dad passed. I lost a significant amount of crucial time at school as we had begun interning in hospitals throughout Northern California while still going to class two or three times a week. Working in hospitals were particularly difficult for me at that time as those situations kept bringing up disturbing memories of my mom suffering with her cancer and now, losing my dad only compounded those issues. Nightmares made me restless, resulting in too much time lost from work and studies. I eventually had to give up the RT program for my own peace of mind, not to mention the safety of those around me in the clinical situations.

Returning to Solano Communty College, I changed my major from Respiratory Therapy to Television Production. The Department of Labor didn’t support my decision which resulted in the termination of my financial assistance. Continuing to pursue a degree in television production on my own dime, I felt confident in my chances to succeed because of my past successes as a volunteer producer. Among them were recognition by the Bay Area Cable Excellence (BACE) Awards for three consecutive years as well as the California State Legislature and the United States Congress.

I loved the creative freedom of shooting, editing, and producing the weekly sports program I had created and developed, called HEROES -youth sports television. Going to school to earn a degree in television production required that I give up my successful TV show, however, I was happy to see many others like it being produced on television following my absence. Television Production was a two year program in which I excelled. I was so far advanced over my classmates that I became the teacher’s assistant in the actual studio classes and practically sailed through those two years.

During my third semester, I began interning at the local Comcast Cable facility where I had previously been a Public Access Producer. At the beginning of my fourth semester, I applied for an internship at KCRA-TV, the Sacramento NBC television affiliate then owned by its founders, the Kelly brothers. Sharing my portfolio during my interview, certainly increased my odds of getting the position. The person interviewing me seemed genuinely interested in my experience and achievements. Then I was told that all the intern positions had already been filled for that semester. My heart sank! There was no measuring my disappointment. This was the best television station in the area and I really wanted that intern spot. Much to my surprise, my ego got a shot of adrenaline when he offered me a job as a news editor. As proud as I was by the offer, I however, thanked him for his time and gathered my things, more determined to stay in school that final semester and earn my AA degree. Before I could get out of my chair, the interviewer said he was so impressed with my work and determination that he was going to see if he could make a place there for me to intern. He immediately got on the phone and with a single internal call and I became the new intern in the commercial production department of the pinnacle of television stations in that market.

Coming from a career where apprentices got paid while they learned, I became an intern in an industry that didn’t pay one to learn. I couldn’t let that deter me. I was learning from the best in the business under the two directors and the tutelage of the departments only Commercial Photographer who also doubled as the lighting technician in the news studio. When we weren’t out on location, shooting television commercials, we were usually in the news studio maintaining the light grid for the broadcast news. Of course there were times that we shot commercials in the adjacent studio from time to time. It couldn’t get any better than that!

Still not smart enough to be a lawyer, I eventually graduated, at the top of my class with honors, I might add – a far cry better than barely graduating high school. I was then hired by KCRA-TV as a Commercial Photographer. That itself was a rare achievement, as most people they tended to hire, were experienced in the business, rarely ever hiring their own interns. Because it was a part-time position, I also bought my own equipment and started my own business, producing videos.

Seven years later, the Kelly brothers sold the TV station to the Hearst-Argyle Media Corporation. They made a number of changes over the following year after which I became one of their victims in a corporate downsizing. I started working my own business full time at that point. As a freelancer, I worked 8 seasons on the Comedy Central Network’s “Battlebots” TV show. Additionally, I produced the Jelly Belly Candy Company’s international marketing videos for 8 years as well as working for a few celebrities and producing corporate videos.

When an opening on the Downtown Vacaville Business Improvement District Board of Directors’ came up, with reservations, I accepted the President’s invitation to fill the position. At the end of that year, I was elected to the Board, eventually serving as Vice President and President over 2 three-year terms before limiting out. Dare I say it? Because I still wasn’t smart enough to be a lawyer.

My most memorable jobs came early in my career. It was in fact while interning at Comcast Cable Company in Vacaville. While at home, I had been online, in a chat room talking with a woman who asked what line of work I was in. I told her I was a video producer and she immediately asked if I would make a video of her husband. In an uh-oh moment, Red flags went up immediately. I was afraid to ask, but I had to know what she had in mind. She said her husband was Mark Lindsay and I wasn’t sure if I heard anything she said after that. It had something to do with needing someone to video his upcoming concert. I thought she was putting me on at first.

Mark Lindsay! Are you kidding me? Geno and I had idolized him when we were teenagers. I would have been nuts to turn that down! The date of the concert was September 6, my birthday. What a birthday that was! I soon found myself in Santa Maria, videotaping Mark Lindsay and the Mighty Band at a local outdoor venue. The only thing that would have made it better was if he had still been with Paul Revere and the Raiders. His was the voice on all their hits during the ’60s and early ’70s. During those years, 1966-1969, they ranked just behind the Beatles and The Rolling Stones in record sales. Mark and his wife, Deb were two of the most amiable people I ever met in show business. Still performing occasionally, he also hosts a weekly radio show called American Revolution in Little Steven’s Underground Garage on SiriusXM.

During the early 2000s while watching the Michael Caine film, The Cider House Rules, it struck me that women spent time in the hospital when having a baby during the ’50s. Why then was my mom, a woman who had a history of problems during prior pregnancies – she even had lost a baby – be traveling so far from home, into the back hills when she could deliver at any time, risking the loss of another baby they both so badly wanted? It made no sense to me, and it became rather troublesome.

Attempting to make sense of it, I ended up dwelling on it for a long time. One thing led to another until I later pondered the possibility that someone may have been looking for me. Someone like a sister, but I knew better than that, even though the now intrinsic feeling had become overbearing at times. Were these the thoughts of a crazy person? I didn’t dare tell anyone what was going on in my head for fear that I might be committed. But the fact remained – something just did not feel right! ESP maybe or was the Lord preparing me for something to come?

A few years passed and those emotions simmered. Then, a few days before Christmas, 2008, I was in my office. Business was usually very good during that time of year, the economy, however, had been pretty bad and business was quite slow when the phone rang, breaking the silence. Caller ID indicated it was long distance. Picking up the receiver, a man identified himself as Wayne Tonker before asking me a series of questions about my parents. After explaining what he knew about my dad, he continued with what he had learned about my mom, Bobbie. Telling me that he was told by a number of others that she was born in Alaska but he couldn’t find any records of a Bobbie or Roberta there. Asking me if I could explain that, I declined, becoming defensive at that point. He then said that he believed that I was the person he was really looking for and that he was a private investigator, hired to find his client’s brother.

More to come

A machinist on swing shift with a reputation for not cleaning up his work area at the end of his shift left it for me one too many times. Everyone on the graveyard and day shifts refused to follow him because they didn’t want to clean up after him. Everyone but me, which meant I had to clean up his mess before I could begin my assignment, delaying me as much as an hour sometimes before I could get started on my own work. Anyone who didn’t know this would, of course, conclude that I’m not pulling my weight because I couldn’t complete an 8-hour job within my shift. I wasn’t happy about that. My supervisor wasn’t happy about that, and the planning department wasn’t happy about that. That would eventually have a negative affect on my annual performance review and I was trying to avoid that. Explaning to my supervisor, Mr. Benito, what was going on, I naturally expected him to talk to that guy or his supervisor to correct the problem.

One morning as my workday began, I was assigned a job on the same machine that that same guy had left an extraordinary amount of metal chips all over. He either had not been talked to or he just didn’t care. Noticing a small hole on the side of his rollaway tool box, while cleaning up the mess, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I proceeded to fill his toolbox with as many of those oily, sticky metal chips as I could get through that hole. Then placing the air hose nozzle through it, I proceeded to scatter those chips throughout the inside. Cleaning up that mess was going to take a great deal more time than had he simply cleaned it up at the end of his shift. I was sure that the message would be a strong one, one that he wouldn’t soon forget.

Near the end of our shift, the following day, I had finished a little early and was enjoying a cup of coffee with Timmy, a senior machinist in the automatics section. The owner of that toolbox, a short, skinny guy, sought me out and asked if I was the one who dumped all those metal chips in his toolbox. As I told him I was, I noticed his right hand clinching into a fist. Nonchalantly, I switched my coffee from my left hand to my right. Telegraphing his next move, he then swung his arm from his side, up, around and over his head to strike me. Raising my left arm, I blocked his blow. Setting my coffee down, I then calmly asked him if he cared to try that again. The anger in his eyes quickly turned to fear. He turned his head to look at Timmy, then quietly turned around and walked away, never leaving a dirty machine again. I wasn’t proud of what I did and I surely didn’t like being put in a position that forced me to take such an action. Thank God nothing like that ever happened again.

Facing one of my greatest fears, I finally auditioned for a live, stage production at MIRA Theater, called “A Pocketful of Rainbows.” Just testing the waters, I didn’t read for a particular part. I just wanted to see if I was good enough to make it. Much to my surprise, I was cast in a supporting role. Shortly before opening night, my badly impacted wisdom teeth had to be removed. Bad timing, right? Opening night arrived, my cheeks were still quite swollen, and I made my grand entrance. Things proceeded to get worse as my mind went blank. I couldn’t remember my line. Fortunately, one of the others in the cast, a seasoned actress, tossed me a line and we adlibbed our way back to the script. If not for her, I probably would have had a complete meltdown in front of a sold out house of 200.

Following an ensuing performance, I received a note backstage from a former high school classmate explaining that she had seen me that night and enjoyed my performance. She also said that she wanted to come back to see me but was too embarrassed because I seemed so different than I was in school. At the bottom of the note, she signed it, Charlene. Of course, I was disappointed. Charlene, if you’re still out there…

With a little experience under my belt, I decided to audition again after that run finished. The following production, “White Sheep of the Family,” was about a high society British family of criminals. It was a clever script with slight-of-hand tricks throughout. The title character, the forger and son, decided to go straight. My age naturally dictated I audition for that part. All the actors were expected to audition with a British accent. I stayed around until the end of the final night of auditions, curious to know who was going to be in the cast. As the director announced his choices, I was greatly disappointed that I was not his choice for the White Sheep. I remained however, just out of curiosity. The patriarch character was last to be announced. As the director announced his choice, I heard my name, or did I? Heads turned my way. Was it really my name I heard? Bewildered, I couldn’t believe that I was his choice. After all, barely 21, I was now chosen to play a character who was supposed to be old enough to be my own dad. How in the world was I going to pull that off?

Later, while examining that character more closely, I realized it required the actor to be onstage nearly every moment of the two hour production and having to memorize more lines than everyone else combined. Questioning my ability to do that, I became terrified! To make matters even worse, the actress playing my wife actually was old enough to be my mom and quite intimidating. Looking me straight in the eye, she told me that the success of this production rested squarely on my shoulders. I had to be convincing! Thanks for the encouragement, right? The time had come. Sink or swim! Ultimately accepting the challenge, I was determined to make it work.

During one of the early rehearsals, the director brought in a dialect coach. She was great as I observed her helping everyone but me. Taking it upon myself, I made the first move. Out of character, I asked her what I could do to be more convincing. “You’re not British?” She exclaimed. Well, no. Why would she be asked to come in, if I could do it, right? She truly couldn’t believe that I not only was not British, but had never even visited there. My head was so big after her reaction and praise, I don’t know how it fit through the door to go home.

Dad always tried to discourage me from getting involved with the arts. I figured it was because he had worked in Hollywood and didn’t approve of what went on behind the scenes. Unbeknownst to me, he and Mom attended opening night. It was Dad however who ended up attending every performance during the five or six week run, including a double performance on one Saturday. In a very rare moment, he was unable to hide his excitement as he admitted that he couldn’t get over listening to everyone guessing who they thought was really British. Every comment he heard about me was that they believed I was the only one who was really British.

As far back as I can remember, I had always been intrigued by the British accent. In my teen years, influenced by the Beatles, I tried to pick it up and worked on it often. Evidently, it paid off. When the four-production season concluded, the Guild announced their nominations for best performances. My name came up twice. I had not only been nominated for best supporting male in the first play, but the best lead male for the second, not winning either, however. Satisfied with what I had accomplished, overcoming my stage fright and memorizing all those lines, I decided that there were more important things in my life now. I had become a new dad during that time and that’s where my focus should be.

No longer the thespian, I realized a void. The Jim Fixx Revolution caught my interest. Never a runner, I knew that this too would be a challenge. I did pretty good however, and found myself enjoying the long distance running so much that I entered some 5K runs before someone at work convinced me to run the Napa Marathon.

Little Ted had brought us so much joy over his first two years, we decided the risk we were warned of was worth trying for another baby. Nearly three years after Little Ted came into our lives, Josh made us a family of four. This time the hospital staff didn’t need to induce labor and delivery went much easier than the first.

It was during my training for my first marathon that I developed painful shin splints, leading to my decision to give up running. Feeling a need to find an alternative fitness program, I decided on body building. After all, Steve “Hercules” Reeves had been a childhood inspiration and more recently, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Franco Colombo had become the frontmen for body building. Purchasing their books, I started working out in my garage, limited by the small 110 pound weight set I had purchased before joining a gym and eventually attending body building competitions. Delving deeper into the sport, I learned as much as I could about nutrition and kinesiology. This was also something I could do and hopefully lead by example where our boys were concerned, hoping they would see the benefits of proper health and fitness early on.

Wanting Little Ted to have what I never did, I asked him if he would like to try out for Little League as soon as he was old enough. He was bigger than most other kids his age and the coaches chose him to be the catcher. Coming home after that particular practice, he expressed his disappointment. As he explained it, they always put the worst player behind the plate. Attempting to put a positive spin on it, I explained to him that the catcher had to be the best player. The catcher, I explained, is the only player on the field that can see all of his teammates at the same time and each play of the game begins with him, not to mention, he is involved in every play. He returned to the next practice with renewed determination. With a natural talent, he completely immersed himself in that position and by the time he graduated from high school, he was ranked number 3 in Northern California and was being scouted by numerous MLB teams. It took everything I had to contain my feelings as I was a very proud dad. I could not have been more proud of him. He accomplished everything I didn’t in high school, both academically and on the field.

His brother, Josh wanted a piece of that as well. Before he was old enough to play T-ball, like me, he was playing ball in the street with the other kids. During his early days, he came running into the house crying because they wouldn’t let him be “the squatter.” Thinking a moment, I realized he meant catcher, rather than squatter. I calmed him down by telling him that there would be many more opportunities to be the catcher when he starts playing Little League if that’s the position he still wanted to play, before giving him a popsicle and sending him back outside to play. He excelled in baseball and youth football. As a PeeWee football player, he was a running back with the speed that his older brother lacked. His team’s starting quarterback got injured right after their first game. Josh then tried out for that position, became their starting quarterback, and ultimately took them to the state championship. A dad on one of the other teams told me that everyone knew who Josh was and they all understood him to be the biggest threat on the field. He was beyond his years it seemed as a team leader. He could read a defense upon walking up to the line from the huddle and could change plays with audibles when he thought it was necessary. That dad also mentioned that his team was told not to flush him out of the pocket because of his speed and agility. Football was where Josh made his mark.

While he was better at football, Josh’s claim to fame came on the high school baseball team when he was the only player on his team to get a hit against the high school phenom, CC Sabathia, the same one that went on to pitch for the New York Yankees.

Watching my boys perform so well on the field back then were the best days of my life. I miss that to this very day!

Continuing my bodybuilding program, I had made some notable gains. I loved working out with weights and the way it made me feel, not just physically but emotionally as well. My workouts had gotten so intense that while I was working out, it felt like my skin was splitting. Not a painful experience at all, it did become somewhat addicting. After years of training, my strength had increased to the point that I was doing dumbbell bicep curls with 110 pound dumbbells in each hand and my maximum bench press was 525 pounds. I didn’t know it then, but years later I learned that Arnold’s best bench press was 500 pounds.

I had serious thoughts of becoming a professional bodybuilder and decided to enter the competition arena. Not long after, while sweeping the floor in my office, I sneezed while bent over, sweeping the dust into a dustpan. An MRI revealed three herniated discs in my lower back and a subluxation of my spine – a debilitating injury that not only ended my bodybuilding days, but eventually forced me out of the machinist trade. As a result, I was bedridden for three months, waiting for the Department of Labor to approve the necessary surgery to get me back on my feet. Because of that lengthy delay, I ended up with permanent nerve damage to my leg and developed foot drop as a result. While recovering after my surgery, I returned to work on light duty until the news was announced that Mare Island Naval Shipyard was slated for closure.

More To Come

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A few days after returning to Ohio, I learned that an arrest had been made. Upon inquiring at the bank, I was told that the bank would not return my money until there was a conviction. An actual date for his trial had not yet been set, so I obviously wasn’t going to get my money anytime soon. That didn’t sit right with me. After all, it was my hard earned money and I was anxious to pay Mom and Dad Shepherd back. Meeting with the bank president, I fabricated a story about my wife being seriously ill and in need of surgery, making it clear that if anything should happen to her because she couldn’t have it, I would hold him personally responsible. Excusing himself, he returned a few minutes later with a check to cover my losses. I had the cash in hand before leaving that afternoon, and closed my account on my way out. Driving directly to Mom and Dad Shepherd’s house, I paid them back while once again expressing how thankful I was.

We hadn’t been back in Ohio long before Mom starting calling us between 2:00AM and 3:00AM on Sunday mornings. It was always after she had been drinking, just like she did to that schoolboy in the middle of the night years ago. Only now, she was asking if Pam was pregnant yet. I asked her if she knew what time it was. Emphatically, she replied that she didn’t care. She only wanted to know if she was going to be a grandma yet. Of course, it was only between 11:00PM and midnight where she was calling from. By the way, she didn’t stop there. She continued calling every week, at the same time, in the same intoxicated condition for the first year we were married until she ultimately asked if I knew what “that thing” is for. I reminded her that she and Dad waited nine years to have me. I asked her to please be patient and understand that we had been apart for two years and we just weren’t ready for children yet. She once again reminded me that she just wanted to be grandma before concluding that she was going to hang up now so we could “get to work on it.”

One day at work while talking with my friend, Carter, I did the forbidden. I asked him how much he made as a machinist there. He insisted that I wouldn’t believe him if he told me, but I didn’t give up. He finally admitted that he made only $3.00 an hour. You could have knocked me over with a feather! Sadly, I did believe him and from that moment on, I proceeded with eyes wide open. I had been there a little more than two years, didn’t have near the experience he did and I was making just thirty cents an hour less than a highly skilled machinist.

After looking around to get an idea how much other machine shops were paying, I learned that I was working at the lowest paying shop in the area. I was however grateful for the opportunities afforded me there, but I knew that I would never be happy there. Taking my concerns to Harry, I asked him for a raise. He then informed me that he knew I had been looking around. That took me by surprise, but it’s not like I was trying to hide anything. On the contrary, it was his shop that wasn’t transparent. Explaining that Pam and I had been talking about starting a family, we realized it wasn’t possible on $2.70 an hour. He mentioned the standard ten cents an hour increase in which everyone received each January, but that was the best he could do. All of us knew to expect that. Pushing the envelope, I told him that I was hoping for thirty cents now. He assured me that he couldn’t do that. Satisfied that I had done my best at that point and that we understood each other, I thanked him for his time and returned to work in the shop.

During a phone call with Pam’s parents, we informed them that I had been looking for another job within the trade, of course. As the Mare Island Naval Shipyard Commander’s secretary, she recommended I apply there, where the pay and benefits were as good as could be found. Asking her how I could that could be possible from across the country, she told me that she would send me an application form. I was to complete it as best I could and send it back to her. She would then take it around to the people she knew. What did I have to lose, right?

A few weeks after I had sent her the completed application, she called us back and told us that she had taken it to the the superintendent of the inside machine shop, Shop 31. Upon reviewing it, he told her that he would hire me. Excited with this turn of events, I teturned to work the following morning and informed Harry I would be leaving in two weeks. Obviously disappointed, he asked if there was anything he could do to change my mind. I explained that I had a job in a machine shop waiting for me in California for more than twice the pay and that once again, Pam and I would be near our own families. He had already informed me what he was limited, but I did feel an obligation to explain.

Harry didn’t take it well and unfortunately, things were unnecessarily tense between us after that. I was only looking out for number one. Then in what appeared to be a sudden burst of rage, he stormed out of his office, rushed by the long bench against the brick wall to where I was working and fired me at the end of the first of my two weeks. Disillusioned, I began putting all my tools away as he sat, watching me through his office window. As I was close to finishing up, he reimerged and unable to look me in the eye, he told me that he had acted in haste and said I could stay the following week if I wanted to. Not much of an apology, if I do say so myself! Why would any reasonable person want to stay after all that? I didn’t need the money and I certainly didn’t need this. I only gave him two weeks notice so he would have time to find a replacement for me. I continued cleaning up my tools and putting them away when he asked me to stay the following week. Realizing that that was as close to an apology as I was going to get, I accepted his gesture and completed the two weeks I had promised him. Pam and I were soon on our way back to California with trailer in tow the last week in August.

Once in the restricted industrial area of Mare Island Naval Shipyard, the machine shop appeared to be the biggest building on the shipyard, dwarfing the one I had spent the last three years in. Following my interview on Thursday, September 5, Mr. Tamargo, the General Foreman of the section where I would be working, informed me that he wanted me to start the very next day. That next day, however, was my birthday and while I didn’t really want to work on my birthday, but I did.

Day shift began at 7:30AM. Upon arriving, I was assigned to the automatic screw machine section of the machine shop. After all, the automatic screw machines were where I had most of my experience albeit the ones I had learned on were many times larger. They were 6 and 8 spindle machines, compared to the single spindle machines in Shop 31. In the old shop, we were required to work two machines at a time while often sharing a third one with another employee. In Shop 31, no one was allowed to work more than one machine at a time, 8 hours a day, five days a week. That was a hard adjustment for me! What was I going to do with all that free time? It wasn’t until the very next day that I realized how lucky it was that I didn’t get to California any later than I did. On Saturday, September 7, the very day after I started my new job, President Nixon put a freeze on all government hiring.

Not long into the hiring freeze, the outside machine shop became overwhelmed by their workload and requested assistance from the inside machine shop. Being the low man on the totem pole, I was put on temporary loan where I was now working in a dry dock, overhauling a submarine in the missile compartment. Those temporary assignments rarely lasted more than a few months. Slipping through the cracks, I ended up out there for just over one year, delaying my chances at becoming a permanent employee and receiving the benefits that weren’t available to temporary employees. After three long years of temporary employment, I finally became a permanent civil service employee where I began paying into the civil service retirement system and receiving health benefits. Prior to then, I was paying for that out of my own pocket.

1976 was the nation’s bicentennial celebration. Pam was expecting our first baby. I had been working 12 hour shifts, seven days a week for two months. While visiting my parents, we told them that if the baby is born on July 4, we would name it George Washington Haskins or Betsy Ross Haskins. We both got a kick out of my dad’s reaction. “You wouldn’t do that to a kid, would you?” He shouted. We kept him on the hook until our son was born on the 15th.

In the meantime, Pam had contracted gestestional diabetes and they induced labor on the morning of July 14. She was in hard labor for 24 hours. Eighteen hours into labor, they decided to take some x-rays to get a better look at what the problem was. Subsequently, the doctor decided that more aggressive procedures were necessary. They began by pushing down on her abdomen and manipulating the position of the baby by hand to help the labor along. Our first son was born a short time later. Pam was totally exhausted. Her delivery was so long and difficult, the doctors recommended we not have anymore children.

Years later, we learned from Pam’s mom that one of the nurses who was on duty that day, had informed her that Little Ted had ingested a strep germ and became so ill that they didn’t expect him to survive.

After I knew Pam was going to be fine, I left the hospital and drove directly to Mom and Dad’s house, across town, to break the news. I mentioned that he looked like a little Eskimo baby. Mom was an Alaska native so that wasn’t an unreasonable observation. Their reaction wasn’t anything like I thought it should have been following such a comment. I suppose if I had known then that I wasn’t their biological son, I would have known how ridiculous it really was.

Little Ted, as we called him, became jaundiced. It continued to get so bad that they decided that a blood transfusion should be performed. At the very last moment, however, his numbers finally began to come down, avoiding the transfusion. He was a greater blessing than we realized for years.

The 12 hour shifts I had been working finally ended and at the same time Mom informed us that she wanted to take us to Alaska for a few days so that her mom could meet her first great grandson. While we were talking it over, Pam told me that she didn’t have any desire to see Alaska. She thought that it was all ice and snow until I explained to her that Ketchikan was not what she had envisioned and assured her that she would love it. Besides, I really needed the break after three months of 12 hour shifts, seven days a week!

Little Ted cried the entire flight. We felt so badly for all the other passengers as there was nothing anyone could do to make him stop. Shortly after arriving at the hotel in downtown Ketchikan, Little Ted went right to sleep and for the first time, slept throughout the night.

The first full day in Ketchikan, “the Salmon Capital of the World,” started early for the three of us. We decided to go for a walk and see the sites. It was a brisk autumn morning as we strolled downtown and looked at all the netting boats in the harbor before going to a popular destination known as Creek Street which back in its heyday was a red light district, where the original houses still line the river and millions of salmon begin their inland journey during spawning season. I don’t remember when or where we started talking about eventually owning a log home, but it could very well have been during that trip.

Grandma Tompson lived in a state run home for Senior native Alaskans at zero cost to them, with a complete medical staff on site. She was a very quiet woman who when she spoke, it was usually in English, her second language. She always sounded to me like a little girl. While saying very little during our visit, it was clear that she felt a great affection for her first and only great grandson.

The rest of our visit and the return flight went without a hitch but I still miss flying in from Seattle on a sea plane like we used to do back in the 1960s, before the Ketchikan airport was built.

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With very little tread remaining on the tires of my 1968 Toyota Corona, I drove over the Sierra Mountains and through Nevada throughout the night, determined to go as far as I could without sleeping. I think it was sometime during the following day, I suddenly found myself straining to see the road ahead. I had been in automatic pilot for who knows how long. By the time I realized it was snowing, the road was already white. Knowing that my tires shouldn’t be on the road in the snow, I pulled off at the next rest stop, bundled up and went right to sleep. When I woke up, I had no idea how long I’d been there, but the roads had been cleared. After getting cleaned up and some refreshments from the vending machines, I wasted little time getting back on the road and slept at the rest stops the next two nights. It was Thursday, Thanksgiving day when I arrived in Dayton, Ohio.

Stopping at a local gas station, I purchased a local street map to guide me to Mom and Dad Shepherd’s house in Huber Heights, a suburb of Dayton back then. It was early afternoon and they were as happy to see me as I was them. We celebrated my arrival by enjoying Thanksgiving dinner together. I was then invited to take Geno’s old bed in the room with his older brother which was a nicely converted garage.

During the following days, they told me I was welcome to stay as long as I needed. I helped out as much as I could by doing chores around the house and even helping Dad Shepherd with his work as the night janitor at a nearby school while looking for work in my spare time. One day, he took me to a small machine shop in Dayton where he seemed to know nearly everyone there. Introducing me around it wasn’t long before I found myself working in the shipping department, for his lifelong friend, Willie. Within a year, I was working in the manufacturing section, learning the machinist trade under the supervision of Harry, the company Vice President. It was a small nonunion shop that manufactured hydraulic fittings that were sold around the world. While everyone in the assembly and shipping areas worked eight hour days, five days a week, those of us in the machine shop worked 10 hour days, Monday through Friday plus 5 hours on Saturday. No exceptions! Those of us in the machine shop didn’t get time off for lunch so we ate while we worked. At the end of our workday we all clocked out at 5:00PM. My friend, Lavelle, the only black machinist in the shop, clocked out with everyone else but was the only one who clocked back in on a different time card to put in yet a second shift performing janitorial duties. I couldn’t believe how they took advantage of his extraordinary work ethic and good nature.

After thirteen months, I decided to take a week off and go out to California for a Christmas visit. I stayed with Mom and Dad that week while spending much of my time with Pam and her family as my parents never altered their routine of practically living at the bar. It was a nice visit, even if it no longer felt like home.

The following summer, after Pam’s parents made arrangements with Mom and Dad Shepherd, they allowed her to fly out to visit me for a week. That was a big step for her rather strict parents as they never allowed any of their four daughters to go out on a date unless it was a double date.

During that visit, I proposed to Pam and we both found an apartment that I would move into after she returned to California. After a week passed, I flew with her to visit her grandparents in Iowa for a few days. She stayed a while longer, before returning home to Napa, California where they had moved to during Pam’s junior year.

At her request, I nervously wrote her dad to ask for her hand in marriage. After talking it over with Pam, he gave us their permission to marry. We wanted to get married as soon as she graduated in June, but agreed to wait until August at their request.

During that last year, I not only worked ten hours a day in the machine shop, I also worked a few additional hours in the evenings at Church’s Fried Chicken and Burger King in Fairborn for extra money. I was saving everything I made and didn’t buy anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. I did however continue my weekend excursions when I didn’t have to work, to Xenia, where my friends, Larry and Linda lived on Lake Shawnee to fish, swim, and water ski. I also managed to attended church on Sundays and Wednesdays when I could.

Taking a day to go fishing, I found what looked like a relaxing setting around a stream and pulled over, parking my car on the side of the road. It was a short walk across a field where I went down a short embankment and settled in. After a short while, a friendly old man in bib overalls stood at the top of the embankment where he asked if that was my car on the side of the road. Admitting it was, I asked him if it was okay there. Assuring me everything was fine, he mentioned the Mare Island Naval Shipyard sticker on the windshield, adding that he was stationed there about 35 years ago. I guess I was as surprised as he was. After explaining that I had it because I had been a navy dependent, he told me about Vallejo back in those days, including the red light district downtown. He said that people used to ride the ferry from San Francisco just to party in Vallejo on their weekends back then. I told him that I had heard others say the same thing and that it has changed quite a bit over the years. Before leaving, he told me to enjoy myself and wished me luck. You never know where the stranger standing next to you may have been or what he may have experienced over the years! Like the song goes, “when it’s least expected, you’re elected…” A few hours later, I went home empty handed but that old man had made my day!

When July arrived, I had saved more than I needed from all three jobs. The time had come to get my money from the bank. Handing my withdrawal slip to the teller, she excused herself for a moment. Upon returning, she nervously informed me that there wasn’t enough in my account to cover the amount requested. Well, I knew that wasn’t so. She then proceeded to show me an earlier withdrawal slip for everything in my account except just enough to keep it open. The signature on that withdrawal slip obviously wasn’t mine and judging by the look on her face, she knew it as well. The bank subsequently initiated an investigation, but in the meantime, I was broke and had no idea what my next move was going to be.

Returning to my apartment, I then telephoned my parents in California and explained to them my unfortunate situation before asking them if I could borrow just enough for plane fare and a little extra to cover my out of pocket expenses, much less than I was planning on taking from my own money, while there. My heart sank when they denied my plea without explanation.

Desperately, I went over to Mom and Dad Shepherd’s to break the news to them. Presenting them with all the evidence I had, Mom and Dad Shepherd said they would do what they could to help. A day or so later, they informed me that they had talked to my parents who adamantly told them they didn’t believe my story and that they believed I wasted all my money on drinking and parties. I was never one to waste my money and I never was one to drink and party. I had no idea why they would have concluded that. Not only was I not partying my money away, I had been holding down three jobs so I could save even more! What else could I do but blame their own drinking for their unreasonable and insensitive reaction.

Understanding my situation, Mom and Dad Shepherd decided to loan me the money I needed. I was truly taken by their understanding and generosity. They certainly didn’t have to do that. Beholding to them, I assured them that I would pay them back as soon as possible.

Returning to my apartment, I parked my car next to my apartment building where a lone painter had been painting for a week or so. Approaching me, he told me that he had let my roommate use his ladder to gain access to our apartment where he had accidentally locked his keys inside about a week or so back. I felt as though I had just been hit with a ton of bricks! When I told him that I lived by myself on that second floor apartment, he then apologized and described that guy to me. The description perfectly matched the person who lived in the next building with a couple women. Taking that information to the bank, they thanked me and turned it over to the investigators.

Mom Shepherd asked me if I would do her a favor by asking Geno’s older brother to be my best man. I was between a rock and a hard place and I couldn’t believe she was asking that of me. She assured me that he wouldn’t accept and I could then ask Geno. It just didn’t seem right. Geno was my first and only choice. I didn’t want him to think that he was my second choice, after all, he and I had been best friends for too long, not to mention that I was his choice to be his best man. I just couldn’t chance it. My heart broke as I told her that I just couldn’t do it. I can only imagine what she must have thought.

I flew out to California one week prior to the wedding. Geno and Charmaine arrived later, on the red eye. On the eve of their arrival, I got a couple cots out of the garage and set them up in the living room. I then got the alarm clock from the night stand in Mom and Dad’s bedroom as it was the only clock in the house with an alarm on it. I couldn’t chance oversleeping and leaving them stranded at the airport. A couple hours later, I heard Mom coming down the hallway, shouting about not having her clock, using words that would have embarrassed a sailor! I explained why we had it, but she didn’t care. She demanded I put it back simply because she wanted to know what time it is when she wakes up in the middle of the night. There was just no reasoning with her. I put it back and Pam and I stayed up to avoid oversleeping.

We had a beautiful wedding at St. Peter’s Chapel on Mare Island Naval Shipyard, the oldest chapel in the entire U.S. navy, complete with Tiffany stained glass windows. Following the wedding ceremony, at the reception, Auntie Barb asked me what I liked to drink before explaining that she was going to buy us whatever we wanted, making it clear that she meant alcohol. I thankfully told her that we liked vodka and orange juice. Later, much to our surprise, we got in the car to make our exit and noticed a bag on the back seat containing vodka and orange juice to enjoy once we arrived at our destination. We spent the following week on the northern California coast in a beautiful small cabin. It was a painful, embarrassing week as I had slipped in the shower the first night and split my tailbone open. I didn’t tell Pam and I didn’t go to the emergency room to have it stitched up, deciding not to say anything and taking the chance on ruining the honeymoon. After we returned from our honeymoon, we found ourselves at the airport saying goodbye to Pam’s parents where in tears, her Mom asked me to take good care of her little girl. Of course, I assured her that I would and she said, “oh, I know you will.”

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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.

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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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