I am not really sure why, but for some reason I am compelled
to write a blog. As if the world needs one more blog, one more perspective, one
more rant, more of one person’s drivel, etc. And yet despite this, here I go.
Maybe it's because I am about to turn 50 years old and I am feeling the need to
write some of this stuff down. I don't know why I feel that way. I don't really
know if anyone would be interested in reading it other than me, and if that's
the case, then why bother? So, what I am going to try and accomplish is 50
blogs in one year. Hence, the title of my blog, 50@50. I will need to write
just a little slower than 1 per week.
Like all people, I have my opinions on everything from faith to politics and from relationships to parenting. Some of them I keep to myself, some of them I have voiced, and yet others I have let fly like projectile spittle that can't wait to escape the confines of my mouth. I can honestly say that the latter has gotten me into trouble on more than a few occasions. It has caused problems with my part of 2 marriages as well as with my role as a parent. It has also cost me friendships and strained some professional relationships.
On the other hand, I feel as though my beliefs and my opinions have also helped to create a firm foundation with which to form my world view: A foundation that allows me to be an active participant rather than merely a bystander. How could anyone be a bystander in this world? This place is almost bi-polar. Maybe mutli-polar if there is such a thing. It is a world of incredible beauty, amazing people and opportunity. And yet it is also a world that is becoming increasingly more difficult to live in, insanely violent, and extremely oppressive. But you can't be a bystander and have a voice. It's like complaining about politics and not voting, or not getting out and trying to make a difference in your own neck of the woods. In the same way, you can't be a participant without having an opinion. I think the two naturally go together.
But anyway, I digress. My whole point in starting this blog was not necessarily to talk about my opinions, my politics, my faith, whatever. Maybe some of that will come thru, who knows. My real purpose was/is to tell some stories. To share some of my past with you, whoever you are. You might find your way into some of these stories. After all, most of them wouldn't have been possible without you in some way or another. I hope you are not offended by this as I really do mean well.
1@50: There's Nothing Cool About That
People ask me where I am from. I say Heinz 57. I have lived in several states and one foreign country (Germany) twice. But I guess if I had to say where I grew up; it would be Southern California, specifically South San Gabriel. This is an area that is stuck between Rosemead, Montebello and East Los Angeles. I lived there from about age 3 to age 17. My best friends growing up were 2 brothers Sal and Sebastian and Ronnie. Ronnie and I were the same age, and for all practical purposes so was Sal. Sal was about 9 months younger than Ronnie and I, and Sebastian is about 2 years younger than Sal (I think). I can honestly say that I loved those guys. We had so much fun growing up and although I am sure we had our moments when we fought and argued, I never look back on those days with anything but awesome memories.
Sal and Sebastian's mother, Linda, was a second mom. I cannot count the number of times that she fed me, let me stay the night, sheltered me from some of the craziness that went on in my home, and yes, even disciplined me with my mother's permission!! Ronnie was a "white-boy" like me, and Sal & Sebastian are Hispanic. Of course, we just said "Mexican" back then. I mention this because race is really a non-issue for me. Ronnie and I were the only white kids (not counting my sisters), in our neighborhood. Most everyone else was either Asian or Hispanic. We did not grow up being racist. We didn't even know what that really was and how people could be that way. Did I know that my best friends were Mexican? Sure. But like I said, it was a non-issue. We were friends, we played together, went to school together, celebrated holidays together. Together.
Ronnie passed away several years ago when we were in our latter teens and my family had moved from California to Oregon in between my Junior and Senior years of High School. Ronnie didn't have any brothers or sisters, and I think that because of this, his death was extremely hard on his parents. This is not to say that it wouldn't be hard anyway, it's just that he was their only child. My mom and I tried to drive from Oregon to California to be with everyone at the funeral, but we weren't able to make it in time. We were a day late. I have never felt as ashamed in all my life as I did at that moment. I felt like I had let my friends down. Anyway, we went to see Ronnie's mom, Doris, at their house. I think it was in Riverside. They had moved away from SSG shortly before we did. Doris said that she thought it was better that we were visiting the day after the funeral. She felt like it was giving us the chance to catch up without the strain of the previous day. Even though she said this, and I didn't have any reason not to believe her, I still felt as though I had missed the mark.
Ronnie was a good friend. He was tall, taller than all of us, and he was an incredibly gifted basketball player. He was the type of player that would practice for hours, same shots, same location, over and over again until it was automatic. I always felt as though he would earn a scholarship to someplace like UCLA.
Sal & Sebastian still live in Southern California. Although I don't think that they live in the same area anymore.
So, let me get to the real reason I wanted to write this. Out of the blue, for some reason I started reminiscing about my childhood and things that we used to do. I think that this is because I was watching some kids ride their bikes in the neighborhood the other day, and this memory just flashed. It was somewhere back in the early 70's. Sometime between 1973 and 1975. I would have been 10-12 years old.
We had just gotten done watching Evel Knievel on ABC's Wide World of Sports. Evel Knievel as many people know, was a dare devil famous the world-over for death-defying motorcycle jumps. He would jump everything from double-decker busses in England to the fountain at Ceasar’s Palace in Las Vegas. I can't remember what he was jumping on this particular day. It might have been the Snake River Canon jump in '74, but I am not sure. The person that would know what year it was would be Sal. The reason being is that as soon as we got done watching the show on TV we immediately ran outside, got on our bikes and started all manner of jumps on our street. We had these old Schwinn bicycles with the banana seats and the sissy bars. At one point, I had this huffy "motocross" bike with a saddle seat and no breaks. We built crude ramps with lengths of wood and bricks, and then progressed to more elaborate and well-built ramps that could handle the weight of us and our bikes.
We would imitate everything that Evel Knievel did when he was going through his warm-ups. We would ride as fast as we could, approach the ramp and then turn away at the last second, making sure we were able to build up enough speed. Then we would turn around and do it again. Finally, we would race up to the ramp and stop on the edge, look out over the distance as if giving the view one last measurement. Then, we would back off the ramp, head back up the hill and give it our best shot. Racing down the hill as fast as we could go, hit the ramp and go flying thru the air. Land, turn around and do it again, and again, all day long.
Like all people, I have my opinions on everything from faith to politics and from relationships to parenting. Some of them I keep to myself, some of them I have voiced, and yet others I have let fly like projectile spittle that can't wait to escape the confines of my mouth. I can honestly say that the latter has gotten me into trouble on more than a few occasions. It has caused problems with my part of 2 marriages as well as with my role as a parent. It has also cost me friendships and strained some professional relationships.
On the other hand, I feel as though my beliefs and my opinions have also helped to create a firm foundation with which to form my world view: A foundation that allows me to be an active participant rather than merely a bystander. How could anyone be a bystander in this world? This place is almost bi-polar. Maybe mutli-polar if there is such a thing. It is a world of incredible beauty, amazing people and opportunity. And yet it is also a world that is becoming increasingly more difficult to live in, insanely violent, and extremely oppressive. But you can't be a bystander and have a voice. It's like complaining about politics and not voting, or not getting out and trying to make a difference in your own neck of the woods. In the same way, you can't be a participant without having an opinion. I think the two naturally go together.
But anyway, I digress. My whole point in starting this blog was not necessarily to talk about my opinions, my politics, my faith, whatever. Maybe some of that will come thru, who knows. My real purpose was/is to tell some stories. To share some of my past with you, whoever you are. You might find your way into some of these stories. After all, most of them wouldn't have been possible without you in some way or another. I hope you are not offended by this as I really do mean well.
1@50: There's Nothing Cool About That
People ask me where I am from. I say Heinz 57. I have lived in several states and one foreign country (Germany) twice. But I guess if I had to say where I grew up; it would be Southern California, specifically South San Gabriel. This is an area that is stuck between Rosemead, Montebello and East Los Angeles. I lived there from about age 3 to age 17. My best friends growing up were 2 brothers Sal and Sebastian and Ronnie. Ronnie and I were the same age, and for all practical purposes so was Sal. Sal was about 9 months younger than Ronnie and I, and Sebastian is about 2 years younger than Sal (I think). I can honestly say that I loved those guys. We had so much fun growing up and although I am sure we had our moments when we fought and argued, I never look back on those days with anything but awesome memories.
Sal and Sebastian's mother, Linda, was a second mom. I cannot count the number of times that she fed me, let me stay the night, sheltered me from some of the craziness that went on in my home, and yes, even disciplined me with my mother's permission!! Ronnie was a "white-boy" like me, and Sal & Sebastian are Hispanic. Of course, we just said "Mexican" back then. I mention this because race is really a non-issue for me. Ronnie and I were the only white kids (not counting my sisters), in our neighborhood. Most everyone else was either Asian or Hispanic. We did not grow up being racist. We didn't even know what that really was and how people could be that way. Did I know that my best friends were Mexican? Sure. But like I said, it was a non-issue. We were friends, we played together, went to school together, celebrated holidays together. Together.
Ronnie passed away several years ago when we were in our latter teens and my family had moved from California to Oregon in between my Junior and Senior years of High School. Ronnie didn't have any brothers or sisters, and I think that because of this, his death was extremely hard on his parents. This is not to say that it wouldn't be hard anyway, it's just that he was their only child. My mom and I tried to drive from Oregon to California to be with everyone at the funeral, but we weren't able to make it in time. We were a day late. I have never felt as ashamed in all my life as I did at that moment. I felt like I had let my friends down. Anyway, we went to see Ronnie's mom, Doris, at their house. I think it was in Riverside. They had moved away from SSG shortly before we did. Doris said that she thought it was better that we were visiting the day after the funeral. She felt like it was giving us the chance to catch up without the strain of the previous day. Even though she said this, and I didn't have any reason not to believe her, I still felt as though I had missed the mark.
Ronnie was a good friend. He was tall, taller than all of us, and he was an incredibly gifted basketball player. He was the type of player that would practice for hours, same shots, same location, over and over again until it was automatic. I always felt as though he would earn a scholarship to someplace like UCLA.
Sal & Sebastian still live in Southern California. Although I don't think that they live in the same area anymore.
So, let me get to the real reason I wanted to write this. Out of the blue, for some reason I started reminiscing about my childhood and things that we used to do. I think that this is because I was watching some kids ride their bikes in the neighborhood the other day, and this memory just flashed. It was somewhere back in the early 70's. Sometime between 1973 and 1975. I would have been 10-12 years old.
We had just gotten done watching Evel Knievel on ABC's Wide World of Sports. Evel Knievel as many people know, was a dare devil famous the world-over for death-defying motorcycle jumps. He would jump everything from double-decker busses in England to the fountain at Ceasar’s Palace in Las Vegas. I can't remember what he was jumping on this particular day. It might have been the Snake River Canon jump in '74, but I am not sure. The person that would know what year it was would be Sal. The reason being is that as soon as we got done watching the show on TV we immediately ran outside, got on our bikes and started all manner of jumps on our street. We had these old Schwinn bicycles with the banana seats and the sissy bars. At one point, I had this huffy "motocross" bike with a saddle seat and no breaks. We built crude ramps with lengths of wood and bricks, and then progressed to more elaborate and well-built ramps that could handle the weight of us and our bikes.
We would imitate everything that Evel Knievel did when he was going through his warm-ups. We would ride as fast as we could, approach the ramp and then turn away at the last second, making sure we were able to build up enough speed. Then we would turn around and do it again. Finally, we would race up to the ramp and stop on the edge, look out over the distance as if giving the view one last measurement. Then, we would back off the ramp, head back up the hill and give it our best shot. Racing down the hill as fast as we could go, hit the ramp and go flying thru the air. Land, turn around and do it again, and again, all day long.
Sometimes we would put all manner of things just past the
ramp. You know, stuff to jump over.
Evel was jumping over cars and buses and trucks and even the canyon. Sometimes we jumped over Tonka trucks, sometimes it would be nothing but air, and sometimes we would lay down in front of the ramp and let people jump over us. One time we built a ramp in my back yard and dug a pit to jump over. If that wasn't enough, we took a bunch of marker stakes that we stole from a construction site, painted the sharp ends red, and placed them pointed side up in the bottom of the pit....and then jumped over it.
On this particular day though, while I can't remember what we were jumping over, I do remember the outcome. At one point, Sal crashed. He hit the ground wrong and viola! He broke his arm! I only saw one other kid break his arm when I was younger, but Sal's was the first. It was the oddest thing I had ever seen happen to a human body part. It just hung there. Sal was pretty brave though. I don't remember him crying, at least not when we led him back to the house. I know his parents must have been angry, but I think we all thought it was cool. Maybe not Sal at the time, but eventually it was cool for him too. It was like a badge of honor. Evel Knievel had broken countless bones jumping over cars, the fountains at Caesars Palace, and even crashed his rocket bike. And here was Sal, with a broken arm to show for his bike jumping skills. He was cool. Don't get me wrong, I didn't want to go out and break a bone or anything, but there was something about the attention that being in an arm cast brought. The girls wouldn't leave him alone, wanting to sign his cast, asking him if he was alright. Yeah, it was cool.
Remember that pit in my back yard that I told you about? Well, one day, maybe even a couple years later, I was riding the bike without brakes. I rode way up the hill near our house as far as I could so that I could get up enough speed. I had already cleared the jump several times but I just wanted to go faster and farther. I took off, peddled my ass off, and hit the ramp cleanly. Everything else is as clear today as it was way back then. That's because the event and the image happened in slow motion. I went up in the air, I was flying, and this was going to be epic distance. I was pretty high up in the air too.
Just about at the apex of my flight I watched in horror as my front tire came out of the forks and fell to the ground. I was still in the air as I watched the tire hit the ground, bounce back up into the air and then carom off to the right. I knew what was going to happen before it happened and I had no way to stop it. My back tire hit the ground (yes, I cleared the pit and the death spears), and suddenly momentum took over, the front forks dug into the ground, and I went sailing over the handlebars. I put my hands out to brace my fall but it didn't do any good. I hit the ground on the soft, white underbelly of my arms and then my face wanted to get into the action, so it joined the arms in a gravel-raspberry concoction.
The result for me wasn't a broken arm. Just a set of scab that looked like racing stripes. Two of them were on the bottom parts of my arms and the third one was about an inch and a half wide that started on my forehead and went to the bottom of my right cheek. It stayed there for weeks and got me the opposite sort of attention that a broken arm would get. No cast. No fawning girls. Just a long purple scab on my face.
And there's nothing cool about that.
Evel was jumping over cars and buses and trucks and even the canyon. Sometimes we jumped over Tonka trucks, sometimes it would be nothing but air, and sometimes we would lay down in front of the ramp and let people jump over us. One time we built a ramp in my back yard and dug a pit to jump over. If that wasn't enough, we took a bunch of marker stakes that we stole from a construction site, painted the sharp ends red, and placed them pointed side up in the bottom of the pit....and then jumped over it.
On this particular day though, while I can't remember what we were jumping over, I do remember the outcome. At one point, Sal crashed. He hit the ground wrong and viola! He broke his arm! I only saw one other kid break his arm when I was younger, but Sal's was the first. It was the oddest thing I had ever seen happen to a human body part. It just hung there. Sal was pretty brave though. I don't remember him crying, at least not when we led him back to the house. I know his parents must have been angry, but I think we all thought it was cool. Maybe not Sal at the time, but eventually it was cool for him too. It was like a badge of honor. Evel Knievel had broken countless bones jumping over cars, the fountains at Caesars Palace, and even crashed his rocket bike. And here was Sal, with a broken arm to show for his bike jumping skills. He was cool. Don't get me wrong, I didn't want to go out and break a bone or anything, but there was something about the attention that being in an arm cast brought. The girls wouldn't leave him alone, wanting to sign his cast, asking him if he was alright. Yeah, it was cool.
Remember that pit in my back yard that I told you about? Well, one day, maybe even a couple years later, I was riding the bike without brakes. I rode way up the hill near our house as far as I could so that I could get up enough speed. I had already cleared the jump several times but I just wanted to go faster and farther. I took off, peddled my ass off, and hit the ramp cleanly. Everything else is as clear today as it was way back then. That's because the event and the image happened in slow motion. I went up in the air, I was flying, and this was going to be epic distance. I was pretty high up in the air too.
Just about at the apex of my flight I watched in horror as my front tire came out of the forks and fell to the ground. I was still in the air as I watched the tire hit the ground, bounce back up into the air and then carom off to the right. I knew what was going to happen before it happened and I had no way to stop it. My back tire hit the ground (yes, I cleared the pit and the death spears), and suddenly momentum took over, the front forks dug into the ground, and I went sailing over the handlebars. I put my hands out to brace my fall but it didn't do any good. I hit the ground on the soft, white underbelly of my arms and then my face wanted to get into the action, so it joined the arms in a gravel-raspberry concoction.
The result for me wasn't a broken arm. Just a set of scab that looked like racing stripes. Two of them were on the bottom parts of my arms and the third one was about an inch and a half wide that started on my forehead and went to the bottom of my right cheek. It stayed there for weeks and got me the opposite sort of attention that a broken arm would get. No cast. No fawning girls. Just a long purple scab on my face.
And there's nothing cool about that.
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