What’s in a Blog?

Rooster made from flotsam found on Lumahai Beach, island of Kauai, where the movie South Pacific was filmed.  PHOTO KCS

                                                                                                            

THIS BLOG turns 6-years-old on December 14.

I had finished two previous blogs about my road trips to New Mexico and Montana. Both blogs are accessible through my profile info *, entitled Thunderbird at High Noon and Montana Moonrise. In order to blog, you must register a name for your blog. It's shocking how many names are already taken which leads to some wild brainstorming.

Thunderbird at High Noon? It didn't make sense to me either until I met the Thunderbird in Shiprock, AZ.

As far as blogging in general, I had no idea what I was doing. Still don't. I simply see a blank space and figure I can fill it with whatever I want: words, photos and videos, play a little with the type font and not have an editor looking over my shoulder, fiddling with my words. This is a luxury. It's also a risk. A blogger is like a trapeze artist without a net. Ouch! Those misspellings, grammatical errors and factual missteps can hurt. You're a committee of one.

If you do go back to my earlier blogs you will see weird spaces in some places where cool photos once were. I thought I had been hacked but I think I lost the photos due to my misunderstanding of how blog photos are stored. I hope to retrieve those photos if I can figure out that trick.

While employed, I looked forward to the day when I would be able to surf during hours of the day when most folks were busy at work or school, when fewer people would be in the water. It sounded like heaven, not having to deal with crowded lineups. 

I decided to name my new blog Talking Surf Stories and write about surfing from the perspective of the soul surfer, basically the everyperson surfer who enters water for fun, as opposed to the pros who are out to compete and local-break enforcers who enter with entitlement, not a smile.

My subject would include talking about the moods of the tides, swells and storms that we rely on for waves, a love for the ocean, the joy, regeneration and comaraderie that we draw from it.

That was the central topic of this blog for the first two years, before I started to write about more personal stuff, like friends and music and other non-surfing subjects. Then COVID hit, sheltering and work furloughs began and throngs of wannabe surfers flocked to the water where they could play outdoors. Surf breaks became more loaded than ever, including during those heretofore empty pockets of time only a few could fill.

Barbara and I were essentially trapped in Paradise on the island of Kauai. A tough sentence but somebody had to be there. Our flights home were canceled. I blogged everyday about our situation, not about surfing. Life since then has not been the same. My focus changed and so did my blog, but not the title.

So I've made a slight alteration to the name of my blog. It's now Talking Real Stories, with the subtitle About Nothing and Everything. One of my readers told me that my writing reminded her of Seinfeld, the TV show about nothing. I took that as a compliment. What could be more interesting than a story about George Costanza's wallet, Kramer's latest fettish, or Elaine's awkward dancing. Are you celebrating Festivus this year?

Certainly I'm not Jerry Seinfeld, or Larry David, thank God. But, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, there must be something there there.

My mailing list is very small in blogger terms, about 75 people. I’ll never strike it rich. I send it out by email. If you have a new email address, please let me know. If you know someone who might enjoy reading about nothing, send me their email address. I try to keep the pieces short with a marvelous ending so that you'll finish. 

There's a guy they call the mayor who posts himself above Steamer Lane surf break in Santa Cruz. He prides himself as the prince of useless information. Even though he offers nothing, surfers and others gather round him like seagulls around trash. My point.

Google's algorithms allow me to see how many views each of my posts receives. The average is around 125 views, which means that I'm getting about a 67% boost of views from the number I'm sending out. It does not tell me who is viewing my blog, so rest assured you're not being surveilled. It's just a number. 

My post Forty Years in Santa Cruz, Sept. 13, 2018, has received 808 views to date, by far the top of the heap.

Twenty-twenty-two has been somewhat of a challenge, what with my spider bite -- Kiss of the Tropical Spider July 15, 2022 -- and recently getting COVID. Yes, it finally caught up with me. Thanks to being fully vaxed,  my symptoms were brief. I feel great today and look forward to a new year, maybe some fresh creative ideas for my blog in 2023, the Year of the Rabbit according to the Chinese Zodiac.

Talking recently to my grandson Samson who celebrated his 14th birthday on Thanksgiving, I asked if he was looking forward to the new year. He said, "Yes, because I keep getting better looking." His Grandma Coco told him that. I had to tell him about 1969 Super Bowl Champion Quarterback Joe Namath's famous statement:

"I can't wait till tomorrow because I get better looking everyday.' Samson liked that.

Here's hoping the new year is a good one for you and yours. And remember, you'll look better if you wear a smile on your face.

* If you're reading this on an iPhone and want to find my profile page, go to bottom and click View web version.

 

Miracle in Bakersfield

The historic Padre Hotel features a contemporary Western theme as the only 4-diamond hotel in Bakersfield. Was Friday's gorgeous sunset a signal from Jimmy? PHOTO:KCS

Agriculture. 

    The Bible. 

            Oil Wells. 

                Country Music. 

What do they have in common?

Bakersfield. 

For an outsider looking in, it's a place I would not choose to go unless my ticket to Nashville was revoked. However, the unfortunate death of a family member called. The services for James Harold "Jimmy" Weisel, 72, Barbara's first cousin, were being held in his home town of Bakersfield and we would be paying our respects. A 500-mile roundtrip journey by automobile was in order.

Having driven approximately 1,000 miles the preceding week, which included a jaunt to Palm Springs for a family wedding, I was game. I had rediscovered my inner Mario Andretti on the LA Freeways.

Jim Weisel

Rev. Dr. V.K. Jones and Sandi Weisel    PHOTO;PATTI WEISEL

Connor, Harrison and Jim Jr. Weisel PHOTO:PW

Jazanae Land singing Amazing Grace PHOTO:PW

Jimmy and I were rivals. He bled Dodger blue and I boasted Giants black & orange. Jimmy was a hawk. I was a dove. Jimmy thought Obama was on a mission to establish socialism in America. I felt that Trump was a sociopathic huckster trying to con America. Jimmy found Jesus and quoted scripture. I discovered Zen Buddhism and banished dogma. He resided in Southern California. I lived in Santa Cruz.

Our disagreements were aired on Facebook, for all the social-media world to hear. It was fun at first but the politics got ugly. Neither of us would give an inch. Two different realities, a sign of our times.

He was one tough hombre who kicked cancer's butt for five years, far beyond what seemed humanly possible. He was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a bone marrow cancer. Over and over, he fooled doctors who anticipated his imminent demise.

According to Reverend Dr. V.K. Jones at the mortuary chapel, Jimmy was now on his way to salvation in the next world. "This business on earth is just a road stop. If you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior you will gain the gift of eternal life." 

The Reverend was cloaked in black, his dark hair streaked with grey pulled into a tight bun on the back of his head, medium height, maybe played lineman in football at one time. His baritone resonated with a slight drawl, perhaps regional or maybe southern, certainly eloquent.

Jimmy's grandniece, Jazanae Land, a beautiful young woman with a golden voice, sang a soulful rendition of Amazing Grace that would have any skeptic questioning the existence of a higher power as she reached registers whose origins could only be God-sent. She stepped back from the microphone as if she were levitating toward the rafters. 

"I don't know what came over me," she said. 

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Barbara, Frida (our German Shepherd) and I hit the road for Bakersfield on Friday morning betting our luck that we'd find a dog-friendly hotel without a reservation. Family members would be coming from the Los Angeles area and other San Joaquin Valley towns. A series of events were scheduled for Saturday including a viewing and Celebration of Life service in the chapel, a graveside ceremony and a lunch gathering at the Rice Bowl Restaurant in central Bakersfield.

"Everyone goes to the Rice Bowl," said one family member, a fourth generation Bakersfieldian. 

I had never been to Bakersfield, yet had heard of the Buck Owens Palace where you can eat, drink and dance to live country music, named after the town's most famous country singer and native son.

Following more than five hours of road travel from the coast, over rolling hills into the great Central Valley, passing fields of giant cricket-like oil pumps and numerous almond orchards, we reached the outskirts of commerce where flat land spread like a blanket over an endless bed of earth toward distant mountains. Here we found a convergence of highways and billboards. Welcome to Bakersfield.

Barbara caught a whiff in the air. "Is that garlic or onion?"

From experience we knew that La Quinta and Best Western properties provide dog-friendly accommodations. We spotted a La Quinta Inn near the intersection of Highway 99 and Merle Haggard Blvd. Our luck was good, they had a vacancy on the second floor for $150. Breakfast included.

Frida is a seasoned traveler. She curls up in the back of my Prius hatchback where she sleeps to the rhythms of the road. Second floor rooms that require an elevator, however, are not her thing. I coaxed and eventually had to lift her into the claustrophobic room we humans accept as vertical transport in multi-story buildings. Next time we opted for the fire-exit stairway, thankfully without tripping the alarm.

Doggies and their owners seemed to multiply in the hallways and walkways of the property, primarily little ones leashed to old men. Visitors without furry friends were mostly bearded truck drivers whose big rigs occupied parking spaces in the rear lot. Frida found plenty to sniff as she carefully read the grounds.

With daylight remaining, we decided to check out Bakersfield, orient ourselves for the following morning of memorial events at various, scattered locations. The city encompasses 151 square miles.

Barbara recalled visits to Jimmy's house in Bakersfield as a child. "I was always afraid of him," she said. The following day we would hear stories about his extroverted personality that put everyone on guard.

"He loved to pick on you, with a big smile and a belly laugh." That was Jimmy.

We crossed the bridge over the Kern River on our way to the "central district" of Bakersfield. The wide river bed of scrub growth was as dry as a dog bone save for a trickle of water winding though the center.

Barbara and Frida with lingering sunset backdrop PHOTO:KCS

We parked and strolled around, soon learning that it was First Friday in downtown Bakersfield. Who knew? A showing of local art was featured at the Art Guild on 19th Street. As the sun began to set, more folks seeking art, food and drink began to appear. We dropped into a restaurant called the Cask Strength Bar & Kitchen, which reminded me of the Willie Nelson song, "Whiskey River." Our attraction was sidewalk seating. The friendly staff fussed over Frida who was served a much appreciated bowl of water next to the foot of my chair. We can vouch for the empanada appetizers. No whiskey for us.

From our outdoor high-table location, we viewed a stunning sunset that seemed pertinent to celebrate the passing of Jimmy. The reddish orange hues became brighter and brighter, shifted to deep purple by the time we arrived back at our hotel.

"I think Jimmy's watching," said Barbara, looking toward the sky. I nodded. Our ever loyal companion, Frida, remained unmoved.

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Following breakfast on Saturday -- which for me meant bacon, waffle, coffee and a red apple -- we embarked for our morning of scheduled events that started at Hillcrest Memorial Park. This required Google mapping and fortunately she (the map voice) was speaking today. Often, for  reasons we do not understand, she does not speak, which means we are at the mercy of a digital map on an iPhone screen that never quite delivers. We're of the paper map generation.

We found ourselves at the southeastern edge of Bakersfield, with the sun rising, throwing shadows across grass and gravestones. Numerous, colorful grave sites were decorated with marigolds, photographs and knickknacks celebrating Dios des los Muertos (The Day of the Dead). Music played in the background. A couple of dogs romped on the rolling green. I walked Frida around the site while Barbara made herself more beautiful inside the car.

Her brother Bob arrived in his Mercedes van with brother Bill and mama/great grandmother Bettelu, looking gorgeous in a cream-colored, flower laced top and matching pants. They had driven over Tejon pass from Manhattan Beach that morning.

I remembered Jimmy's frequently spoken words, "I'm Bettelu's favorite nephew. She likes me best."

Barbara wondered why her socially savvy mother was not wearing black to a funeral. "She's 97 she can wear what she wants," I offered.

We entered the chapel together and began mixing with family and friends. The Celebration of Life ensued with song, story and prayer. Jimmy's life was captured in a slide show of wonderful photos including his many trips to foreign places, including the Holy Land, with his devoted wife Sandi. There was even a shot of Barbara and me at our house. I was caught off guard by a picture of Jimmy and Sandi at their wedding, so young, so deeply earnest. I felt their love.

Cute, Jimmy PHOTO:SANDI WEISEL

Barbara and I both cracked up when we saw a photo of Jimmy with a snake around his neck, an albino alligator in his arms and a big mugging smile on his face. That was Jimmy.

He loved his family. In attendance were his son Jim Jr. with wife Abby and their children (Jimmy's grandsons) Connor and Harrison, Jimmy's daughter Shelley, his sister Patti, who resides in Bakersfield, and her husband Lonnie and their children and grandchildren, plus many cousins and in-laws.

We all jumped in our cars afterward and headed for the cemetery where Jimmy would be interred, another car scramble through Bakersfield. Here, at Garden of Roses in Historic Union Cemetery, we placed carnations on Jimmy's casket and paid our silent respects. Frida drew attention as she trotted silently respectful next to my side. Connor and Harrison especially enjoyed petting and massaging Frida's furry coat.

In my eyes, she added elegance to the day's events. I recalled a time when I showed up at a family get-together and Jimmy saying, with an element of surprise, "You brought her?"

He always had something to say.

The celebration culminated at the landmark Rice Bowl in the heart of town where we were served dishes of sweet and savory Chinese food which we shared with family members in a spirit of conviviality. More stories were told and laughs were had.

Grandson Connor, 13, shared a funny story about Grandpa Jimmy with the punch line, "Who wants pancakes!?" Grandpa was hooked on MacDonald's pancakes. Kids remember these things.

We departed Bakersfield filled with warmth from a loving family. Even though Jimmy and I didn't always agree, I appreciated his presence whenever we met. We didn't get into politics during  those visits, although he could spout off at any second when he had a crowd. I came away with better understanding. 

Jimmy was born and raised in Bakersfield among good folks. We are just people on our individual journeys. We make mistakes. We seek answers. We should never stop asking questions. And always be kind to each other.

Life is a miracle. 

 

Why We Do This

I recently had the opportunity to visit a longtime friend I hadn't seen in a while. He's been caught off guard by cancer, that dreaded disease that can sneak up on you, put you in an uncomfortable defensive position where you're fighting for your life.

As a successful former rugby coach, he knows how to play defense and offense, how to set up your opponent to take advantage of his weakness, or create a weakness that you can exploit. He's always been a thinking man.

This goes far beyond sports. He's a guy who knew from an early age what he wanted to be in life. He had a vision and he stuck with it. That's the way he is. Set a goal. Learn everything you can about achieving your goal and go about doing it.

I call that striving for something. The Oxford language dictionary defines the verb strive as "make great efforts to achieve or obtain something." That's what he's always done.

Our sophomore year in high school we were asked by our biology teacher, also our football coach, to complete a life-science project. My friend and I decided to join forces and dissect a frog.  Coach Pete Lopez's biology project was legend at our all-boys high school and led to many dissections of various life forms.

Due to our prodigious athletic and civic obligations -- we both played sports, were president and vice president of our class, he being president -- we didn't have time to go hunting for a live frog. We purchased our specimen which came lifeless in a clear plastic bag of formaldehyde.

Being slightly squeamish, we enlisted an assistant, his older sister, to initiate the dissection. She performed a masterful job and we learned a great deal by careful observation. 

My friend had a wood worker connection who crafted a beautiful wood-grained and framed board on which we mounted a display of frog organs and appendages in clear glass tubes. We got an A.

Looking back, I realize that over the years I should have remained in better contact with my friend. Not only was he clear-sighted about his life's vocation, dentist and coach, he understood how to achieve his goals. I, conversely, floundered and fluttered believing that somehow when the spirit moved me would write the great American novel. I never ran for class office again. He was elected Student Body President for our senior year, a harbinger of future success.

A few days ago, with the temperature reaching 90-degrees in his home town of Claremont, we sat in the shade of his wonderful L-shaped front porch and talked about the past, present and future. An original 1920s craftsman-built house with local stone facia and supporting columns, his house is located on a leafy corner across the street from the village park. His dental practice is only a few blocks away.

One of his three lovely daughters joined us for lunch. I can imagine how proud he felt and rightly so. Coincidentally, I also have three lovely daughters, whom I consider my greatest achievement. If our daughters are representative of the future, we have nothing to worry about.

"We have to learn how to lose," said Hannah, my friend's daughter, joining our conversation about life, politics and sports. She referred to a recent Olympic controversy involving Russian athletes.

"As a coach," I asked my friend, "what was your philosophy or secret to success?"

"I told my teams to remember why we do this."

"Why do we?" I asked.

"For fun, exercise, to compete, to give it our best.” He didn’t mention the late, legendary football coach Vince Lombardi’s maxim that “winning is everything.” No, his philosophy was more along the lines of Pete Lopez’s, whom we both agreed was our most inspiring coach. He emphasized character.

My friend has been receiving chemo therapy and anxiously awaiting weekly results. Most recently he was given a blood transfusion. He remains upbeat. He continues to read, talk by phone with his many friends, follow the news, sports and politics, eager for information and understanding, while guiding his daughters with sound fatherly advice. 

“I have more time to think,” he said.

In one corner of the porch, lay a collection of framed, stained glass pieces, the artful work of the steady hands of a skilled dentist. The colorful imagery celebrates the local landscape of mountains and the once plentiful orange groves of the region. I could smell the blossoms from memory.

A blue and gold Cal cap covered the top of his head. One daughter attends UC Berkeley. He gets around with the aid of a cane. When we gave each other a bro hug before I left, I was consoled by the firmness in his shoulder muscles, the strength in his hand and the affection in his smile.

That’s why we do this.

 

My French Ride

There is little that can withstand a man who can conquer himself -- Louis XIV, King of France 1643-1715

1986 Peugeot 505

In 2003, when self-appointed patriotic Americans began calling French Fries Freedom Fries, because France would not join the European coalition that backed our invasion of Iraq, I thought of my Peugeot.

I thought back to the mid-Nineties when I had comforted myself in the lush leather driver's seat of my 1986 silver 5-speed automatic Peugeot 505 while scarfing pastry delights from Kelly's French Bakery, perhaps a chocolate croissant whose buttery, flaky bits of crust tumbled like snowflakes onto my lap protected by a clean, white serviette, amid a hint of lavender emanating from the console.

She was an outlier, my 505, as the French are wont to be, although they are quite herdish among themselves: They rush to the nearest brasserie for lunch at precisely 12-noon, no matter what state of business they might find themselves. Once, on the Med in St.-Maries-de-la-Mer in southern France I was dickering with a shopkeeper over an item -- a black cross replica of those you see on the front of the white huts throughout the Comargue, my wife collects crosses -- intending to make the purchase when of a sudden the clock struck high noon.

"Excuse moi, monsieur. I must close the shop for lunch. I will be back at 2 pm."

You have to respect a culture that prizes palate over profit. I'm confident a glass of light rose complemented his repast.

I was smitten over my 505, named Edith after the famed French song-bird chanteuse Edith Piaff. I purchased her from an artist from San Francisco. I saw her sitting in a parking lot with a for-sale sign, did a double take. What is that? An automobile, of course, but what kind? Make and model, if you please.

I paid $3500 USD. I always buy used.

During that period, yuppies were driving Mercedes and Beemers; safety-conscious families tooled around in Volvo station wagons. A Euro invasion had run American cars off the roads. This girl possessed that je ne sais quoi that only the French can articulate: a swooping front hood that bespoke low-cut and sexy, a voiture decolletage on a four-door sedan.

With the 505, the French had made a statement: no more cars that appeared the same coming and going, like the Renault, or none that could be confused with a toaster on wheels. Recall the Citroen DS (albeit the most comfortable car in the world).

I'll never forget the first time I escorted Edith into one of those quickie oil-change places. The attendant took one peek beneath Edith's chassis and exclaimed:

"Oh no! We don't service French cars!"

You have to wonder.

Cabanes Blanches aux St. Maries-de-le-Mer by Vincent Van Gogh, 1888

I found my own private mechanic. His name was Willard and he was somewhat of a madman. It goes with the territory. I'd rather have an aficionado who drives the same car himself, than a no-nothing kid who freaks out at the first sign of cultural diversity.

A family man with a profound sense of joie de vivre evidenced by at least four or five kiddos invariably romping nearby, Willard had developed a following as a Mercedes mechanic until he converted. He explained: "I drove my Mercedes to LA and when I arrived my back was killing me. I drive my Peugeot to LA and when I arrive I feel refreshed."

In addition to a tune up and oil change, Willard offered conversation and historical perspective. 

"Did you know that the intifada was started in a Peugeot?"

I never drove Edith to Los Angeles. At the time I worked for an LA-based company with a satellite office in Santa Cruz: my garage. Edith and I were never far apart. The company paid for my travel to SoCal. This obviated my ever getting stranded between Santa Cruz and Los Angeles, looking for a French car mechanic.

In the late Eighties, Peugeot made a push to sell the new 505 sedans and station wagons  in America, through dealerships and ads in high-brow magazines like the Atlantic. By the mid-Ninties they had shuttered their efforts in the US, confirming a cultural disconnect between the two nations.

She was comfortable. She was classy. She was unique: one of only three 505s in town: mine, Willard's and one owned by a surfing bodhisattva who hung out at Steamer Lane.

Edith served as my entry into luxury sedans. My daughter Bryna and her friends were beneficiaries when I taxied them around town to games and practices, typically with the sunroof open and a CD blasting the B-52s from the dash.

Our relationship lasted about two years with your usual ups and downs — Willard left town — and ended amicably. I cleaned her up and placed a for-sale sign in the side window, parked her in front of our house. The following day a woman called who had fallen in love, who obviously saw the same romantic lines I had, a French connection. Sold. $2200.

I never quit calling a French Fry a French Fry. Fads come and go. When Barbara, our friends Nancy and Steve and I flew to France in 1999 to celebrate Barb's birthday, we rented a nifty new Peugeot in Nimes to experience the countryside of Provence in style. 

C'est la vie!

 

 

 

Poolside in Pomona

The Pomona Plunge 1920 -- later renamed Ganesha Park Swimming Pool -- is still in operation. St. Joseph's Swimming Pool closed years ago, as did many public swimming pools throughout the country. Some closed due to integration after the Civil Right Act in 1964, according to Heather McGhee in her book The Sum of Us, 2021. Private Swim clubs became popular.

There were days in Pomona where I grew up when temperatures broke 100-degrees. That's when I needed a quarter, a fair amount of change when you could get a Snickers bar for a nickel. 

The public swimming pool behind St Joseph's Church and Elementary School on Holt Avenue charged twenty-five cents admission. It was part of an athletic complex that included a football field and dirt track as well as two baseball diamonds, one where Pomona Catholic High School played and another a Little League field where I played. We were warned not to swim on game days because of fatigue.

The pool had a low-dive and a high dive spring board. Each attracted a line of would-be divers waiting to show off with gainers, figure-fours (now called can-openers), flips, one-and-a-half's, swan dives and the occasional mishap of a belly flop. Ouch! That would be me.

Kids from mostly west Pomona, and many who attended St. Joe's Elementary, showed up to cool off and be cool. Two other public pools in town -- at Washington and Ganesha parks -- offered spots to plunge into refreshing water during those sweltering days. I learned to swim at the Washington pool, taught by Coach Bynum.

A fourth option for summer refuge was in the nearby hills at Pudding Stone Reservoir, our local swimming hole, which featured a roped off area with a floating raft and a spring board for diving. Pudding Stone was free but the bike ride up the hill was a bear in the heat. I didn't take that challenge until I was 14.

From 10 to 13 years old, I rode my green Schwinn Corvette three-speed from my house in Kellogg Park to the pool at St. Joe's, maybe three-four miles. My route started on Valley Blvd, which ran west all the way to Los Angeles, about 30 miles away, a useful road through the country before the San Bernardino Freeway (now the called the 10) connected L.A. to the Pomona Valley.

Going east, Valley Blvd met Holt Avenue at an intersection known as Five Points, which featured traffic lights and the convergence of five roads. That's where I pedaled the hardest to make it through the no-man's land of heavy-metal cars and belching smokey trucks going five different directions. 

Nobody heard of a bicycle helmet. Helmets were for football players. 

I wore my swimming trunks underneath my jeans, which I stripped off and placed in a netted green bag with my shirt and shoes. The pool monitor took the bag and gave me a pin with a number that I attached to my trunks so that I could retrieve my clothes at the end of the day.

Mike Powers worked behind the counter, a big, fat guy with a big mouth. He was three years older than me and 300-pounds heavier. He threatened to brainwash me, which meant stick my head in the toilet. I didn't know if he was serious and found out that he was all-talk when he grabbed me, pulled me into the bathroom and told me to scream as if he really was brainwashing me.

Relieved, I went along with it and yelled, "No, Powers! No!"

He wasn't the mean guy he pretended to be. He would later play on the high school football team, which gave him status. Football was big.

Names from those pool days included Tony Purpero, a football linebacker in high school; Billy and Bobby Herrera, great divers, their sister Susan was in my class; Denny Hobbs looked cool with his peroxided hair swept back on the sides; Red-headed Tommy Taylor, my age, and his older brother Pat, a football player and pole vaulter; Kevin Forstner, a gangly southpaw pitcher, basketball point-guard and fancy dancer. And many more I can't remember.

Girls came too but they rarely dove from the boards. They huddled and laughed and made fun of us guys while we were trying to impress them with our diving. I had my eye on Charlene Rasmussen who roller skated in my neighborhood with long ringlet curls.

I was much more naive than my buddy Paul Greene who got busted making out with Linda Grunewald on the lawn at the far end of the pool.

Emerging from the cool water, I rested on my stomach on the hot concrete. My prize was a nickel bag of crunchy, salty corn nuts that tasted better than ever when I was wet and tired, soaking under the sun, the twinge of chlorine smarting in my eyes.

I had practiced a one-and-a-half flip off the low dive and it was time to try that dive off the high board. This particular day I had gotten a ride to the pool and my father came to pick me up. I wanted to show off in front of him. I met him at the chain link fence that surrounded the pool area. 

"I'm going to do a one-and-a-half off the high dive. My first time. Watch me!" 

"Okay, I'll watch," he said in his spare baritone voice. 

The high dive, or three-meter board, is three-times as high as the low board and when I reached the top of the ladder and stood on the springy board that stretched out above the blue water, the pool appeared smaller and farther away. Everything seemed farther away. I stood alone above it all.

I gathered myself, took my three-step approach, bounced once on the end of the board and soared up toward the sky, feeling my body tuck and turn in the air. I finished one flip but wasn't quick enough to lift my hands to protect my head entering the water. My timing was off. I flopped, hitting the water squarely on my chest and face. Smack! It stung. 

I jumped out of the water and walked over to my father. He was laughing. I wasn't prepared for his reaction, but then again, I wasn't prepared for a belly flop. 

"What did the lifeguard do?" I asked.

 "He laughed," my father answered.

I decided to stick with the swan dive from the high board, which was actually more of a show-off dive.

 

Thrice Told Tale

Fractal geometric design in which any chosen smaller or larger part is similar when magnified.

You may have noticed a drop in the number of Talking Surf Stories you've received lately. This is because my production level has hit a snag. I've been stuck. 

Everything I've written I've torn up and tossed in the trash. I like to blame it on my spider bite which turned into a case of infectious cellulitis in my left leg. I thought I was out of the woods and back on my feet only to discover that the antibiotics I had taken to fight cellulitis caused a second infection diagnosed as clostridium difficile, aka c-diff.

C-diff is an inflammation of the colon. It's serious. In some cases it can be fatal. My doctor put me on new antibiotic, vancomycin, to negate the c-diff. With the new antibiotic bailing me out of a miserable few days of severe diarrhea, I figured I could move around, try some gentle yoga.

While attempting a simple cat pose with my toes bent, I encountered a new pain in the second toe of my right foot. Within a day that toe swelled to the size of large sausage the color of deep purple. Simple, I thought, I'll just massage that foot and see if I can hasten a quick recovery.

Wrong. That foot followed suit, and puffed up as if I had inflated it with an air pump. This was my heretofore good foot. What was going on?

At urgent care the next morning, the doc showed concern because of recent cellulitis in my left foot and leg. Could it have traveled to my right foot? He called the infectious disease doc and after commiseration decided to put me back on antibiotics to treat possible cellulitis, while also extending the vancomycin as a preventive measure against more c-diff.

I found myself on double antibiotics. The battle in my body was incurring yet another invader. 

I'm not a guy who likes pills or staying put. I've got to go, walk, bicycle, practice tai chi, surf, be active. What about my doggie who needs to be walked?

It's been two months and the act of a simple walk around the block is tres difficile. My feet hurt. It could be arthritis, tendinitis or gout. I'll take door door number 4: none of the above.

This is the short version. Talk to my wife, or my psychiatrist, and you will hear the long, incommodious version accompanied by violin, as I've explained it to a stable of doctors.

I forgot to mention the aggravating internal itching I've been dealing with. Ever felt like your skin, that sack of flesh that holds your body together, is your enemy?

Hey, it's all fun and games with a dose of aging. I know it could be worse. Much worse. I could have shingles, or been taken hostage by the MAGA cartel. I already feel forced to watch and hear the former guy over-and-over every time I pick up the news: a horror rerun that would have Edgar Allen Poe on his knees pleading.

I didn't know he was still President.

I can't walk a mile but I can see a mile's worth of yellow-orange hair on every station and newspaper. 

This is the best I can do. Every moment is precious. My family is wonderful. My friends are great. Note to self: don't delete.

Enjoy your Labor Day weekend!

Things I've Learned

Learn the dance that you've been shown, until the dance becomes your very own. And somewhere between the time you arrive and the time you go, may lie a reason you were alive but you'll never know." --Jackson Browne, 1974

In this rough and tumble, 

ever-changing world in which we live it can be difficult to keep track of things. Like where did I leave my keys? So we develop systems. For example I keep my car keys, or fob, in the right-front pocket of the last pair of pants I was wearing. Probably not the best place but it has worked for me. As long as I can remember which pants I wore last.

Everyone has their own system.

In addition to systems, over the years we accumulate insights through experience that help us deal with our day-to-day lives. You probably know more than you realize.

Herewith I share tidbits from my journey which began in the mid-twentieth century. It could well be shorter than your list due to the fact that I'm a slow learner -- still sopping up every trace of knowledge I can in order to call myself well-informed, or at least not a space ranger, which I have been justly accused of.

MasterCard credit cards always begin with the number "5." Visa cards with the number "4." American Express cards with "3."

If the car in front of you is wandering in its lane, the driver is most likely texting. This includes large Semi, cargo-bearing trucks that are going faster than you are. Steer clear.

If someone says to you, "let's keep in touch," it means that you'll probably never hear from them again. This rule of life applies to what I call the opposite factor. Following are a few more that fall under the opposite column.

When a public figure, especially one who holds political or religious office, uses words like "pedophile,"   "un-American," or "God-less," they are telling you about themselves.

Rushing to go some place will only make you more nervous and not get you there any faster. In fact you're ten-times more likely to get into an accident or forget that you left your wallet or purse or precious cell phone at home.

Rude people are out there. Be nice to them. They could be seriously ill, ill-informed or from Illinois. It's not their fault.

Not everyone from California is a flake. Some Californians were actually born here and never left, although they are an unaccounted for minority. They deserve a voice.

As technology continues to swallow up our lives with algorithms and QR-codes, we can take solace by remembering simpler and more satisfying ways of doing things. Memories, while we still have them, are beautiful things.

Music is mana for life. A familiar or favorite tune or artist can transport you, add metaphorical color to the moment, make you laugh or cry. 

Always get a second opinion, or third or fourth. Listen to experts and kindly nod your head to those you know don't know what they'e talking about.

Never give up, unless it's time to give up, and you will know when that time comes. I gave up during my adolescent years and later regretted it. My inexperience cost me, but I recovered. It's never too late. Never say never. I just said it four times. Don't say my bad. Say my good.

Keep active. In body, mind and spirit. Your health is your most important asset. 

Enter water whenever you can. It's transformative.

Keep rituals, they are actually prayers. You know this if you care for a pet.

Love is more than an emotion, it is a work in progress.

Although we've learned that time is relative -- everything's actually happening at once -- you can make up stories about your past and no one will know the difference, especially if you're a mid-century modern model. You can now be quarterback of your high school football team or queen of the homecoming court. Few are going to remember otherwise, nobody cares anyway and it's your life, enjoy yourself but realize that you're kidding yourself.

If we are to accept what a majority of the Republican Party believes, that Trump won the 2020 election and is still president, there is no limit to our reimagined reality. And it's actually nothing new, cults and their leaders have been around forever. Form your own.

The medium is the message. Communications guru Marshall McLuhen's famous phrase from 1964 was prescient. Today we carry the global village around in our pockets. Beware of staring at the little screen while your life -- your most profound message -- is unfolding all around you.