FANTASIES

I have often had fantasies about what it would be like to be someone else for one day.  By that I mean that I would still be myself but for that one day I could do what that person could do.  In the past I have stood on a stage with massive crowds swaying to every song like Bono, stared down an evil empire like Winston Churchill, written novels like Hemingway and stood over a putt to win the Masters like Jack.  Then of course there is the World Series game winning home run like Kirk Gibson and the you-pick-it Championship basket by Michael.  I have done them all.

Right up there at the top of my favorites would be to become Michael Jackson for a day.  Actually, for one night would be perfect.  My fascination with Michael stems from my admiration of those with soul, probably because I have none.  I know being a white guy doesn’t help but you would think God would have doled out a smidgen to me. 

There is the soul that comes from a person’s voice, such as Adele, Aretha Franklin, Smokey Robinson and many others.  Then there is the soul that comes from inside like James Brown and Michael Jackson.  I believe they are born with it.  You see little kids bobbing their heads and shrugging their shoulders to the music and it’s just there.  You watch the band and cheerleaders at a high school football game in the hood it’s still there.  You know it when you see it.

To me Michael Jackson was the King of Soul.  There may have been others who could sing with him but as far as moving with him, forgetaboutit.  Every pore of his body oozed God given soul, not the kind you get from dance lessons.  I never tired of watching him move around a stage. 

With that back ground, this is my fantasy.  When I was going to college in LA my good friend Richard and I would go for late night sessions at the California Club near campus.  We were almost always the only white guys in the place.  Sitting in a corner we would watch as a packed dance floor moved to the rhythm of the saxophone heavy sounds of soul music. 

The California Club is no longer there but if it were I would return with Terry and my inner Michael Jackson.  We would take a table off to the side of the dance floor, nurse a diet Coke and glass of Chardonnay and observe.  Things would heat up on the floor as the late crowd arrived.  The best movers in the hood would be strutting their stuff. 

Back in the day Terry won the Watusi dance championship at the Black Derby in Santa Ana where the Righteous Brothers were the club band so I knew she would be up to the challenge.   At the right moment we would move on to the floor.  Terry doing her thing and me trying to stay on the down-low.  Then I would break into my moon walk across the floor.  The crowd would part and begin to surround us as we took center stage. 

For the next 10 minutes I would move around the floor as only Michael could.  The other couples, waitresses and bartenders would all drop everything to watch.  The crowd would go bananas.  When the music stopped we would calmly return to our table.  Despite urging from everyone for one more dance we would pay our tab, thank everyone and leave.  As we passed the doorman I would say “See ya bro”.     

THATCH

This past weekend was a rough one for my daughter Romy.  And like waves from a pebble thrown in a pond, the effect still lingers.  To understand her feelings you have to understand Romy.

While among the people I admire would be Lance Armstrong, Winston Churchill, Nelson Mandela and others, Romy’s would be the people leading the parade outside Neiman-Marcus protesting fur coats, those rescuing animals and fighting for the rights of dolphins.  They are far more admirable to her than those most of us would think of.  Particularly those that make it their mission in life to fend for God’s creatures. 

 

 

Romy has spent much of her leisure time the past few years searching for a pet, ideally a dog that would mesh with her lifestyle.  When I say mesh I mean fit into the rhythm of a single professional girl, living in a small, second floor apartment and the need to share Romy’s affection with Rico, her green, yellow and red parrot and BFF. 

Thinking her arrangement might not be the best for a dog, she tried to convince her mother and me that we needed a dog.  Since we live close by that would do for all of us.  She even searched for and found dogs trained for the deaf.  Like a dog for a blind person but, in their case, deaf people.  The reasoning being I would be protected from a night time intruder or even a fire.  My wife saw right through this and said no.

 

 

Romy had narrowed her search down to a Wheaten Terrier.  Her research showed they are an Irish breed, mid-sized, loveable, low maintenance dog.  Perfect.  Last week she learned there would be a rescue group at a local Petco with their usual German Shepherds and, lo-and-behold, a Wheaten Terrier.  Come Saturday morning she was there.  There were 8 or 9 German Shepherds and there was Thatch. 

Thatch, as the rescue lady explained, had been hit by a car in Los Angeles and abandoned.  His right front leg had been mangled.  Animal control did their best to repair his leg and then waited a period of time for someone to claim the dog.  No one showed.  Thatch was then sent to a place where animals are sent that have no future.  It was here that the rescue lady saw him and took him in.  Romy fell in love with Thatch, signed the necessary papers and took him home. 

 

 

I called her that afternoon to see if she wanted to come for dinner.  She explained what she had done, reality and regret beginning to sink in.  She knocked on our door and there was Romy with Thatch.  They call them wheat colored.  I would say more like strawberry blond.  If they had a casting call for a Disney movie about a little girl and her dog Thatch would win hands down.  To look him in the eye I had to part the hair over his face. 

He laid at Romy’s feet while we had dinner.  She told us she thought she had made a mistake.  His leg was so bad she had to carry him up the stairs to her apartment.  Her dream of going for walks with her dog in the beautiful Back Bay area where she lives would not be feasible.  The high cost of potential medical bills was a daunting thought.  After much discussion, she made the decision to return the dog.  We helped lift Thatch into the back seat of Romy’s car and she left. 

 

 

After a sleepless night she called the lady and told her of her decision.  Romy carried Thatch down the stairs and to her car.  He resisted mightily as if he knew what was happening.  Before leaving him Romy asked for assurance once more that nothing would happen to Thatch.  The lady, with all the heart you would expect of someone who rescues’s animals, assured Romy that she does now and always will have the same feelings for him that she did when she saw him and made the decision to save him.  She said once more nothing would ever happen to him.    

Romy was heartbroken.  As parents, Terry and I were as well.  Our kids have moved on to lead their own lives but we still live and die with them.         

OUR VALENTINES DAY

Yesterday would have been my Grandmothers 120 birthday.  It was also the 49^th anniversary of our wedding engagement.  The engagement party was held at the parent’s home of my then-to-be bride.  The small, white 3 bed room, 2 baths, 2 story abode had that lived-in look that 2 parents and 9 children tend to give a home.   As you can imagine there was always a crowded feeling, which can be a boost to a good party. 

It was wall to wall people as our two Irish Catholic families were meeting for the first time.  My Grandmother, whose most recent claim to fame was making the papers for being arrested for turning the hose on a family who tried to steal her spot on the beach in front of her Balboa Island home, was on her best behavior.  In her younger days Helen, in the finest of Irish tradition, would enjoy a cocktail or four.  I say enjoy because she would, while those around her paid the price.  That was in the past and we had all grown to love the kinder, gentler Helen, although those who knew her best were always on guard.

People were getting to know each other, good food was followed by a toast from the father of the bride-to- be and all was going swimmingly.  About that time a member of the family of the bride-to-be, who shall remain nameless, decided to walk through the center of the living room balancing his toddler child on his hand extended high in the air.  Helen lost it.  She came unglued as she tried to wrest the child from its Dad.  She called him everything in the book, the kindest of which was “You damned fool”.  After several of us restrained her things calmed down.  Contrary to what you might think this incident did not create any ill will.  It actually endeared her to both sides and the story has become a special part of family lore. 

Forty nine years later Terry and I enjoyed a quiet dinner alone in our home.  She found some New York steaks that were on sale, baked 2 potatoes, added some mixed vegetables and tossed a beautiful green salad.  She topped the meal off with my favorite dessert, heated bread pudding served in a bowl with a little milk. 

I had given her some flowers which she arranged in a glass vase on our coffee table.  I had looked everywhere for roses but being a last minute shopper, they were all gone.  I got an assortment of green, yellow and orange stuff I can’t name, from Trader Joe’s.  Next to the vase was a red, heart shaped candle she had lit. 

We sat on the couch, watching a re-run of the Grammy’s.  During the course of the day we had heard from each of our four kids.  Each told us of their plans for the evening.  As always there was great contentment in knowing those we love are doing what makes them happy with those they love. 

Forty nine years later the feeling is still the same. 

GOOD KIDS

Where I sit at my computer in my palatial office (ha, ha) I can see out my window at a nice green lawn with a path leading to our front door.  It gives me a heads up as to whether I want to answer the door for whoever is approaching.  I’m not saying I’m selective about who I answer for but there are some I would just as soon not spend time chatting with. 

On this past Saturday afternoon a young boy in a red tee shirt came up the walk way.  I happened to notice that at that same moment there was another boy in a red tee shirt approaching the house across the street.  Living in an area with lots of kids I am always up to hearing what they have to say.  I opened the door to a 10 year old clone of Justin Bieber.  He explained that his little league team was having a jog-a-thon to raise money for uniforms.  Would I be interested in pledging so much per lap to help them out? 

I am a sucker for helping kids.  I have, at one time or another had a subscription to every magazine ever published since the printing press was invented.  I have eaten so many Girl Scout cookies I look like a mint cookie.  I have pledged enough money per lap to a kid who looks scrawny and pale yet up and runs 8,000 laps that I found myself writing a check big enough to make a down payment on his first car.  I also have enough wrapping paper to wrap the planet earth.  So don’t think I am anti kids.   

We live around the corner from a grammar school so throughout the year kid visitors are common.  So my question to him is “Do you live around here?”  I asked because I have enough trouble staying afloat financially without extending myself beyond our neighborhood.  JB’s eyes flickered for an instant and then he said “No, I live in Tustin”.  I then explained that as much as I would like to help I just do my part for the local kids.  He thanked me anyway and left to work his way up the block. 

I sat back down at my computer and started thinking.  I knew that in the moment his eyes flashed he was thinking to himself that if I say I live here he will help me.  Knowing full well his odds were not good if he told the truth, he still told the truth.  This I admired and wanted to tell him so.  I walked outside, looked down the block and could not see him.  I began walking up and down every nearby block to see if I could find him.  No luck.  Feeling bad that I was not able to acknowledge his honesty to his face I began walking home. 

Being a rare sunny and warm mid-winter day, some young girls had set up a lemonade stand on a street corner.  The 4 girls working the stand were 7-9 years old and looked like the cast of the Brady bunch.  Being someone who greatly admires entrepreneurial spirit I have never, ever passed a lemonade stand without stopping. 

As I approached they asked if I would like to buy some orange juice.  They explained that they could not find any lemons so they used oranges.  I was terribly embarrassed as I declined, explaining that I had left home without a penny and could not pay them.  One of the girls with blond pig tails said “That’s OK, you don’t have to pay us we’ve made enough money already”.  Despite my protest they poured some fresh squeezed OJ out of a big pitcher and handed it to me. 

I gave them a quick lesson in Economic 101 as I explained that they had worked hard all day, had certain expenses to cover and would be taking a hit to their profit if they gave a glass to me without getting paid.  They weren’t buying it.  As a last resort I pointed toward my house and said “That’s where I live.  The next time one of you come by, knock on my door and I will pay you what I owe you”.  Still no luck.  As I walked away one of them said “Thanks for dropping by”.

I walked home feeling good about the future of our country.  There are plenty of good kids around. 

A BLESSING

I have a file labeled “ARCHIVES”.  From Wikipedia: An archive is a collection of historical records, or the physical place they are located.^[1] Archives contain primary source documents that have accumulated over the course of an individual or organization's lifetime, and are kept to show the function of an organization.  In my case the physical place they are located is my mind and the organization is me.  To be stowed away in my archives file a memory must have been particularly noteworthy.  Yesterday was one of those. 
It was the occasion of a grand daughter’s birthday.  Any one of our 5 would have been special for 2 proud grandparents but this one happened to have a special twist.  As always they are each given the choice by their parents of what they would like to do on their special day.  Disneyland is a common choice, as are ice skating, horseback riding and the old standby, Moon Bounce. 

Paige chose a day at the Aquarium combined with a whale watching boat trip.  The Aquarium was a safe bet as what self respecting kid does not like fish.  Also, sea otters, seals, sharks and others things with tails and fins.  The whale watching, not so safe a bet.  Mind you this is the dead of winter.  The majority of winter days would lead to half the boat load of people leaning over the side, victims of sea sickness, to say nothing of the typical winter cold and wind.  Granted there had been reports of more than the normal migrating whale sightings off our coast, but taking a large family group of young kids, their parents and a couple of mature seniors along was really rolling the dice. 

Have no fear.  Paige stood her ground and we assembled on the dock for boarding at high noon.  To show you the power of positive thinking we departed in 80 degree weather, not a breath of air, no clouds, flat calm and you could see forever.  Catalina Island some 20 plus miles away seemed touchable. 

All of us gathered on the bow as we steamed seaward, wind in our hair, searching for whales.  Soon the skipper altered course to head toward splashes on the horizon.  A good sized school of dolphin/porpoise intercepted our course and surrounded us.  As we weaved back and forth through them they darted under the bow, swam alongside and surfed our wake.  The screams of excited kids filled the air. 

The skipper suddenly swerved and headed toward a distant spout of steam from a whale.  As he approached he throttled back the boat to keep a safe distance and avoid disturbing the great mammals.  The whales had submerged.  We idled along as we waited for them to surface.  Suddenly, not far off the bow, first one, then two and then a third whale spouted as they broke the surface to begin their long glide as they sucked in air for their next dive.  First came their head then their long, broad back, gleaming in the sun before they descended beneath the waves.  We even had the rare treat of seeing them turn on their side as they fed on anchovies and sardines.  We did not overstay our welcome as our skipper, in a show of respect for these magnificent creatures, swerved off and then left them in our wake as he set a course for port.

As if the day had not been special enough, God saved the best for last.  As we departed the boat at the dock and walked toward the Aquarium we were treated to a blessed sight.  It happened to be a day the Aquarium was hosting underprivileged special needs people.  All ages boys and girls, men and women were touring the Aquarium.  These special people were given legs and arms that don’t function, eyes that don’t see well or at all, ears that hold up their glasses but don’t hear, and minds that don’t send the proper message to the rest of their body.  Some were selling key chains and gadgets while others, beautiful artwork done with a paint brush held in their teeth. 

Just as special were the loving, caring families that watched proudly as their less fortunate loved ones tried to comprehend what those things gliding and splashing through the water were.  Dealt a lifetime of unspeakable horror, I am sure, if asked, they would say they were blessed.

Message received loud and clear God.

THE BOAT

 

You might wonder why I would title a blog “The Boat”.  Simply because there is this one particular boat that represented the fork in the road for me. 

I was a junior in high school.  Our family had fallen in love with Newport Beach.  What had been a vacation spot for us became our permanent home several years before.  My love affair with the ocean and everything oceanic had long since kicked in.  For someone like me I was in paradise. 

At that time, much more so than now, there was little doubt as to the maritime nature of our beautiful harbor.  A few years earlier there were boatyards turning out vessels for the Navy.  Some of the coasts busiest sport fishing landings were based here and were the lifeblood for  restaurants, fishing and marine supply stores, fuel docks and a host of other businesses.  There was a cannery for the commercial fishing fleet that was busy 24 hours a day.  Surfing was still at the stage where locals were very territorial but it was obvious the boom was on.  And Easter Week in Newport Beach was standing room only.  Like I said, this was Nirvana.

We were fortunate enough to have a fishing boat at the time.  My Mom and 2 sisters were not quite as smitten by the ocean as me, my Dad and brother were so they stayed home while we  fished for white sea bass and yellowtail in the spring and albacore and marlin in the summer.  I loved fishing with my Dad.  Working as hard as he had all his life he enjoyed our days on the ocean.  Early on, he let us handle the boat, do the navigating and taught us to leave her spic and span after a day’s fishing. 

I began to think that I wanted to make a career of being a fisherman.  I had made an albacore trip with a high school buddy of mine who was a 3^rd generation commercial fisherman.  We picked up a couple of transients off the wharf to complete our crew and fished some 100 miles off shore until our 8 ton hold was full.  I loved it.

I talked to my Dad about my desires.  He knew how strongly I felt.  We began to scour the waterfront and watch the papers for a boat.  One morning Dad said he had seen a boat advertised for sale in the local paper.  We called the owner and arranged to go see her (the boat was the “her”, not the owner). 

It was love at first sight.  She was a 42 foot Monterey.  The Monterey is a famous double-ender design that was popular at the time, particularly as a jig boat for albacore fishing.  That means that you use outriggers to pull 8 to 10 jigs at one time.  The owner showed us every inch of his boat, his passion for her obvious.  He was retiring from a life at sea. 

You may think it is hard to love a boat but you would be mistaken.  He had loved her for the life they had spent together.  I loved her for the life I could imagine.  I talked things over with my Dad and he consented to me making an offer for the boat.  I had saved up $7,500 from working as a fry cook in a local beachfront café.  I also had a 1957 Chevy.  I made an appointment to see the seller and made my offer; my Chevy plus $7,500.  He said he would get back to me.  The next day he called.  He explained that because he was retiring he needed cash much more than he needed a car.  No deal. 

I was crushed at the time.  I look back now and see this as the fork in the road I mentioned earlier.  If I had bought the boat I would have begun a life making a living at sea.  While that itself was appealing there are some aspects of that life that are not, like being gone from home.  That is a big one for me.  I most likely would not have met my precious Terry and God knows what my family would have been like. 

The road I did take led to a life designed by God for me.  I could not have dreamed anything better.       
                                                            

MY FRIEND THE WHALE SHARK

Lately the local papers and even some TV stations have been documenting the seasonal migration of many types of whales off our shores.  Close ups from whale watching boats as well as aerial shots show many types of whales and porpoises including the solitary journey of the massive blue whales and pods of pilot whales and killer whales.  Unusually large amounts of plankton in our waters is said to account for the most sightings in many years.  Those lucky enough to get a close look at one of God’s most magnificent creatures will treasure the memory. 

I have one of those memories.  Even though it is from many years ago it is as if I can click a “Play” button in my mind and watch a replay at any time with all the color and awe of the original happening.  In my case it is not one of the various whales, but a whale shark, which most certainly qualifies as one of God’s most magnificent creatures as well. 

Why it is called a whale shark I don’t know because it is not a whale.  A whale is a mammal; the whale shark is a fish.  Why it is called a shark I also don’t know because it in no way resembles a shark other than they both have a head and a tail.  It especially does not resemble a shark in its desire to eat other fish and occasionally people.  They are the exact opposite, kind of a fish version of Eeyore. 

We were on a fishing boat some 10 miles off Bahia de los Frailes (Bay of the Friars), a small, protected bay just around the corner from Cabo San Lucas in the Bay of California.   It was a hot spring day with not a breath of air.  The ocean was as flat as a pool table for as far as we could see.  When the ocean is that calm, anything that breaks the surface, no matter how big or small can be seen for miles. 

We were fishing for marlin and tuna so all eyes were scanning the ocean’s surface for birds, bait fish or other signs of life.  Off in the distance we could see 2 forked tail, frigate birds slowly circling way up in the sky.  Fishermen know to follow birds because their uncanny eye sight can find fish humans would meander right by.  We headed in their direction. 

As we got closer we could make out a dark object, just breaking the surface, moving very slowly in a large arc back and forth.  The sun was in our eyes as we approached, preventing us from seeing down into the water.  Moving as slow as we could so as not to spook whatever it was, we circled around so the sun would be at our back.  As we did, we could now had nearly unlimited visibility into the purple blue water.  What we saw left us speechless.

Whale sharks can get up 50 feet long and weigh 20 tons.  This one was right there.  The dark object we had seen was the tip of the whale sharks tail.  If you can picture a guppy with a big front end tapering back to a tiny tail and then multiply that by a bazillion, that’s what this fish looked like.  He was brownish gray in color with yellow and white spots and stripes.  While the tail was at the surface the massive, flat head was some 10 feet under water.  His mouth, some 4 feet across, was open as he engulfed plankton by the ton. 

It was as if he had his own village with him.  A small school of 100 pound yellow fin tuna swam along in his shadow.  Small schools of mackerel and sardines swam close to the big giant to protect themselves from larger predators.  Remora clung to his body while other small fish were busy keeping him clean. 

We idled along next to him for close to an hour, his glacial pace never changing.  Eventually he inched deeper and deeper until he disappeared from view.  The last thing we saw was the tip of his tail in one last sweep.