The Match Game

Last year I was catching up with an old friend (and at our age, that means both a friend of many years and advanced age) who had unexpectedly found himself single.  I commiserated (there’s a six-bit word for you, Tink) with him and sensitively listened to the narrative of his recent experiences.  One tidbit shared that I found quite interesting was that he had done some exploratory research on Match.com, the internet dating service.

We have all, as of late, been bombarded by both TV and internet advertising for this and similar product offerings.  As I too had recently unexpectedly found myself single, I determined to explore the phenomenon to see what I could see.

At this point in the story, let me offer to you women out there, a bit of advice borrowed from one of my favorite authors, Douglas Adams (try him, you’ll like him):

Don’t Panic!

You needn’t cancel your phone service, leave the state, dust off old restraining orders or change your e-mail address.  I have no plans to start dating so you are all safe.

But as a sociological experiment I think you might find my impressions of the modern meat market, or temple of eternal love if you prefer, interesting.

Signing Up

It is a simple process to put one’s self “Out There”. You select an account name and password; provide Match.com with a valid e-mail address and some identity verifiers then wait for an authorization.  They must do some kind of cursory background check to filter out convicted serial rapists, domestic abusers or social outcasts because they admonish you that this process could take some small amount of time.  I’m pretty sure I was up and running in less than an hour, guess their list of social outcasts is not very complete.  Account validated, you are prompted through profile building.  There are two features to this: the open narrative, where you describe yourself (“In Your Own Words”) and a radio button process by which you identify your personal information (height, weight, hair-color etc.), your personal interests (hiking, wine, naked parasailing, et al) and the characteristics you desire in a mate both physical and metaphysical.  To sum it up, this is where you lie.

The Matches

Within twenty-four hours you get an e-mail containing matches.  Each match contains the information garnered during the sign-up process and a gallery of photographs. Each profile has a feature that allows you to rate the possible new love of your life as: YES, NO or MAYBE.  To keep the process rolling along but not commit myself, I rated all of the matches as either MAYBE or NO.  What criteria did I use for my assessment?  The photo gallery of course!

If you desire to make contact, Match.com offers e-mail, on-line chat or free wink (I’m not sure what that is but eager to avoid tort action, I avoided it). To contact a match you must subscribe and that costs money.  They have different plans with various features and durations but they all seem to distill down to a bit less than twenty bucks per month.  In answer to your obvious question: HELL NO, that’s like four gallons of gas, man!

In Her Own Words

After several days I had identified thirty-some profiles as “maybe”.  That’s when the idea to make this the subject a blog entry started to percolate in my sieve like brain.  I began a review of the profiles to confirm my initial impression; most of these freestyle self-descriptions could be written by one person.  I offer you a few examples in the hopes I am not setting myself up for civil action as regards copyright law.  If I am, you may have to look for future blog offerings spray painted on the sides of rail cars because this computer is about all I own of value (not buried in a secret vault in anticipation of the coming revolution… and no, I haven’t decided which side I will join…), but I digress.”

I am a happy, hopeful person, sometimes silly and can always laugh at myself. I would love to find a partner and best friend who knows that extraordinary things are possible between people who share commitment, honesty, and affection for each other. I believe chemistry is # 1, while trying to find the perfect man for me.

-or-

I am easygoing, loving, romantic and honest. I work hard and play hard because life is short. I have learned through my life to maintain the innocence, splendor and vigor of a child in order to succeed as adult. Each new day brings me new things and with that comes new color in life and that's what makes life worth living. I love to be spontaneous and welcome new opportunities to try new things. I like to live life to the fullest and appreciate the simple things in life that cannot be bought, but felt. Laughter and good company are priceless!

-or-

I consider myself a bit of a chameleon, comfortable in most environments. Quiet and confident, I probably feel most relaxed one on one, but can equally hold my own in a crowd. A quiet drink and barbecue with good friends or family wins out over nights in a loud nightclub... That's not to say I don't enjoy dressing up and letting my hair down every once and a while! I am content being alone but I am the most comfortable and happy being in a committed relationship.

-or-

I would be described as the complete package. I'm intelligent, outgoing, fun loving, confident, secure with myself, have a great sense of humor, friendly, quick wit, affectionate, down to earth, warm, very genuine (guys have told me I'm "the real deal"), nice body (all natural), romantic, positive, classy but outdoorsy type (enjoy boating, riding bikes, etc… i.e. not afraid to get my hair wet!), adventurous, self motivated, driven, athletic, grounded, generous and very loving of friends and family, a real sweetheart!

-or-

My friends would describe me as friendly, easygoing, spontaneous and witty. Though, at times I can be a little feisty and competitive, but try not to take things too seriously. I'm a "blue jeans, black tie" kind of gal. Like being feminine, but not high maintenance. I can hold my own…

They all seem to be the every-woman for the every-man.  By contrast I did find one narrative that was unlike any other:

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dream for the adventure of being alive. It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon... I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

And she goes on like that for about five hundred words!  This is a woman I’d like to meet because she’s going to be freaky! Not that I’m into depression or anything but who could pass up a side show like this? Wouldn’t you expect that this woman’s “what I like to do” submission would include training pet cockroaches, biting the heads off bats and locking up neighborhood children in the basement? Her entry:

What I like to do: I enjoy traveling, wine tasting, concerts, tennis, music, horseback riding, gardening, beach, dancing, listening to house music, weekend getaways, waterfalls, live bands, hiking, BBQ's/Dinner Parties, and spending time with friends and family...

Alas, suburban mediocrity strikes again… or just maybe BBQ is code for sacrificing small animals while dressed in Druid garb.

What They Like to Do

 I am not going to insult you with examples here.  Mostly because I believe you’d look at the submissions and say, “What’s wrong with that?” But let me give you a man’s perspective.

What is it with “long walks on the beach”?  I hate long walks on the beach or anywhere else.  The only reason to take a long walk is to get to something worth seeing that you can’t get to by motor vehicle because the trail is not wide enough for a jeep.  And we call that hiking.  When you walk on the beach you get sand in your shoes. In the afternoon, you squint into the sun.  At some point you have to turn around and walk back, unless you can tolerate a 25,000 mile stroll. And woe to the man that gets caught looking in the direction of some bikini clad sunbather.

Why do women value wine so highly?  Did you know that wine is just grape juice that hasn’t distilled itself into vinegar yet?  What is a bottle of good wine?  By my definition, it is a bottle that you can trade for premium tequila without adding some cash to the transaction. Wine tasting is an excuse to get drunk in the afternoon; and then you have to tip the limo driver.  I’ll tell you what: if you want to get drunk in the afternoon, come on over to my house.  I’ll buy a bag of ice, scrounge up a blender and make margaritas… bring chips and salsa.  Tipping is not allowed!

Who in the hell would list “business networking” as a social interest?  I don’t get it, but probably two-thirds of the profiles had it right there in black and white.  “Yeah, babe, this is Dale.  Why don’t we get together tonight?  I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to Ruth’s Chris for dinner. Then there’s a little jazz club I know on the coast where we can get mellow and compare professional resource lists.”  Is that a sexy date or what?

The Punch Line 

I have not exhausted my thoughts on Match.com (and their ilk) but I want to keep this under 2,000 words.  If you found this amusing or informative, let me know and I’ll write more… there is plenty of material. I have four pages of notes! Would you like to know what these women are looking for in man?  It’s a hoot!

Now I realize there are some in my audience who may think me insensitive for picking on the vulnerable engaged in a sincere search for happiness.  It is certainly a change in tone from my previous offerings.  But I have a bit of wisdom taken from my own personal experience: If you can’t laugh at yourself, you have to make fun of other people!

ACME Keyless Entry

It is 2013 and my principle automobile is a 1975 Toyota Land Cruiser. I’m sure that says loads about me, but I’ll leave you to your own interpretation. Whatever you think, and feel free to comment, it is the most interesting vehicle I have ever owned; no, not to me… to everyone else. I owned two Corvettes over a span of more than twenty years and as much attention as they got it didn’t come close the Land Cruiser. It is a rare day out that I don’t get at least one comment from a stranger and very often a bunch of questions.  People love to talk about my Land Cruiser.

I find this interesting because it is such a basic vehicle.  It is just a body bucket set on frame rails with a motor and drive train.  It might as well not have a radio, because it can’t be heard over the rattles and squeaks even at low speeds.  The people who designed it had no concept of air-conditioning.  The windshield is flat and man’s best attempt so far at eliminating the flying insect population. You have to use a key to unlock the doors for cryin’ out loud.

In 1994 I bought a brand spanking new Chevrolet Corvette; Admiral Blue (it was not purple) with a camel interior. It was fast! And it was well appointed with interesting creature comfort features.  I traded in my 1981 ’vette and by comparison it was like moving from a double-wide trailer in Lakeside into a luxury condo at the beach.

One of the most interesting toys was an automatic keyless entry system. This system was comprised of a motion activated mini-radio transmitter housed in a key fob and a receiver in the car. When the receiver sensed the radio signal emitted by the key fob, it would automatically unlock the door and disarm the security system. In the obverse, when the receiver no longer sensed the signal from the fob, say when the driver had exited the car and moved beyond the radio signal range (about seven feet), the system locked the doors and armed the security system automatically.

There were two fundamental flaws with this convenience. The first; you didn’t need the key fob in your hand to open the door and enter the car.  Until I learned to take my keys out of my pocket before entering the car, there was a lot of struggling to get my chubby hands in my pockets to extract my keys.  It was especially tiresome on weekends when I customarily wore Levis. The other pitfall was leaving the key fob in the car.  With no motion, the system assumed the driver, with key fob in hand, had moved beyond the transmit range and locked the car. About one week after taking the delivery, I had some minor warranty work done on the car.  When the lot boy brought the car out to the delivery area he left the keys on the seat, which was his regular procedure. Unfortunately, the doors locked with the keys inside. I called this to his attention and he assured me he could solve the problem.  He disappeared into the shop area returning shortly with a slimjim; a long thin flat piece of metal specifically designed for opening locked car doors. Said slimjim has a hook cut into the business end so it can be inserted into the door by sliding it between the window and the weather stripping. The operator then fishes around blindly until the hook engages the locking bar inside the door and with a quick jerk upward, the door lock is disengaged. “Stop!” was what I said, followed inside my head by, “or I will kill you if you damage my brand new weather stripping.”  The startled lot boy took a step back.  With imminent danger averted, I began to rock the car to and fro.  The motion activated the tiny transmitter sitting on the seat and, voila, the lock popped open.  “Well, I’ll be,” the lot boy uttered in amazement.  I added aloud, “No harm, no foul.” Followed silently in my head by, “Kiss your mother when you get home because she has no idea how close she came to losing a son today!”

Now I have shared this little story to set the stage for the first time I used a keyless entry system.

You may recall from a previous posting that in my youth I spent some time in the employ of the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department as a Sheriff’s Cadet (if not, see A Rip in the Fabric of Time, posted February  14, 2013). Among my many duties in this position of high responsibility were running routine office errands. “Ho hum,” you say.  But I got to run them driving a real-life police car; when you’re nineteen years old stuff like that is a big deal.

As I recall it was a Friday afternoon; summertime. I noted that the station refrigerator was running low on canned soda pop. In Poway, the summer temperatures often get in the three digit range and the Deputies got surly if they could not quench their thirst with Shasta.  There was no air conditioning in the patrol cars in 1974.  The California Highway Patrol put air conditioning in their cars.  But the County of San Diego opted to spend its climate control budget elsewhere.

Granted this golden opportunity to get away from the hum drum of the office and out “in the field” for a bit, I collected the dimes from the soda replenishment kitty and grabbed a set of keys.  Of to the Alpha Beta I went. I picked out a nice selection of cut-rate sodas, chatted up the checker and deposited the cases of pop in the back seat of my “unit”.  So far my assignment had taken about fifteen minutes.

That afternoon, as with all afternoons, there were two Deputies on patrol duty in Poway. Trying to avoid a cumbersome technological treatise on law enforcement radio communications of the day, let me say it was very rare for the patrol deputies to communicate directly car-to-car rather than pass information through the central dispatcher.  So I was surprised to hear 42-1 (Poway unit, beat one) transmit over the “PL” frequency (no, I never did learn what “PL” stood for, but it let a guy in one car broadcast to all the other cars on that frequency) to 42-2 (yes, you guessed right, Poway unit, beat two), “Jack, there is something you will find interesting at the side of the road; Poway Road east just after the curve at Garden Road.”

As I was already outside, and no one had seemed to miss my presence in the office yet, I decided to mosey on over and see what there was to see.  En route, this was about a five minute drive, I noticed a classic 1960s Mercedes Benz 190 roadster ahead.  This was somewhat rare for Poway so I accelerated just a bit to get a better glimpse.  Pulling along side, I was greeted by brown hair flowing in the breeze, sparkling green eyes and a bright, inviting smile. We spent the next few hundred yards of Poway Road playing the speed-up, slow-down flirtation dance.

Approaching the curve at Garden Road, I sped up to change into the right lane ahead of her so I could pull to the side of the road in time to see whatever Jack was supposed find “interesting” and exit the car with an air of important attention to duty as she passed.

I came to a stop, turned on the rear amber flashing light (I’m important… I’m important…I’m important the blinker tick said) to warn approaching traffic that there was official business being conducted here; caution! I exited the unit and closed the door just in time to nod as she passed by, smiling.

I walked to the front of the car to see what all of the hubbub was.  And lying at the side of the road, not quite on the shoulder, lay a dead coyote that had obviously been struck by a car, a dead white rooster still clenched in its jaws.  Wyle E. Coyote had run off with Foghorn Leghorn and gotten run over by a truck. Now who says life does not imitate art?

Only a few seconds were needed to take in the rich tapestry of humor laid before me by Mother Nature. It was time to head back to the station before the Sergeant started wondering where I had gotten too. I reached for the door handle; locked! The motor was still running so there was no need to look, but I did. The keys were dangling from the ignition switch. Sweat began to bead up on my forehead. My stomach started churning. I was screwed!

“Stop! Breathe”, I told myself; “think, think… think.” Unproductive thoughts began to race through my mind, “Had Jack been by to see this yet or was he going to arrive any second and catch me stranded out her in sight of God and everybody? Had they missed me at the station?  Were they forming a dragnet to search for the absent Cadet?”

 I assessed my surroundings for opportunity.  Across the road was an old farm house (if you are familiar with modern Poway, this house has long since been removed); maybe, if someone was home, I could use the phone and call the station.  Then what? I would be the laughing stock of the entire Poway team.  There had to be another way. Yes, if someone was home, I could ask for a wire clothes hanger and pop the car door open.  I’d seen it done on TV!

I crossed the road and approached the front door. Oh, joyful sound, the door was open and through the screen door I could hear the television.  Someone inside was watching cartoons.  I knocked on the screen door frame; no answer.  I tried again, still nothing.  I peered through the screen but could see nothing in the shaded interior save the back of a couch and the top of the television. Something was amiss.

I pulled the screen door handle and found it unlocked.  I entered the house and approached the couch.  Seated there looking up at me were two tykes, a boy and girl, probably five and three years old respectively.

“Where’s your mom?” I queried.

“She’s at work,” the boy answered.

“Are you and your sister all alone here?”

“Yeah,” his innocent little face betrayed that this was normal.

I had to think about this for a minute. I had stumbled into what could be considered a child neglect situation.  On the other hand, I had severely overstepped the bounds of my authority as soda fetcher. This could be hard to explain in the hallowed halls of officialdom. “Is it okay if I take a wire hanger out of your closet?”

“I guess so,” he turned his attention back to Casper, the Friendly Ghost.  The little girl was now standing on the couch staring at me while vigorously chasing a booger around her nose with a slimy finger. I tried to imagine the conversation over dinner later that night, “Mommy, a Sheriff came in the house and took a hanger today.”

“You know kids; maybe you shouldn’t watch Deputy Dawg anymore.”

I went to the bedroom and ferreted out a hanger.  “Halfway home,” I thought.

I returned to the unit, with the amber flasher still ticking away but now saying, “I’m stupid… I’m stupid… I’m stupid.” I straightened the hanger, inserted it between the door and weather stripping, and began fishing for that little knob.  I fished, and I fished, and I fished… you know what; this is not as easy as it looks on TV.

With each failed attempt, my focus began to wander again and I realized that every motorist who passed recognized what I was doing.  I saw people laughing; some honked their horns playing a tune, “Look at the stupid cop, locked himself out his car. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

After several minutes, I was drenched in sweat.  I had given up hope that I could solve this problem without assistance.  I was hoping Jack would show up.  Then the situation grew even more desperate.  A motorist pulled to the side of the road behind me. He exited his car and approached.  He was dressed in chinos and a tank-type undershirt and had hair sprouting out of his shoulders and chest that would make a gorilla blanch with shame by comparison.  His skin was swarthy in the way of Sicilians. I was going to be killed by a Goombah from the Mafia… I didn’t even know we had Goombahs in San Diego.  And remember, as a Cadet, I was unarmed; a locked door between me and the shotgun dutifully affixed in its rack. I imagined my mother would miss me in spite the ignominious nature of my demise.

“Hey there, Deputy; it looks like you locked yourself outta your cah,” he said a with clichéd Brooklyn accent (or maybe it was the Bronx, how would I know). “When I lived in New Yawk, my family owned a pawking lot.  I’m an expert at dis.”

He held out his hand, and I was relieved to see no weapon of any kind.  I handed him the hanger. He deftly began to manipulate wire into a tool of some usefulness. “You see, what youse gotta do is measure the distance from the top of the window here, to the knob inside the door there.  Then youse make a little hook in the end, slide the hanger between the window and the door frame, turn the hook down, catch the top of the knob, pull up and,” plink “the door is unlocked!”

“Thanks,” I said, hoping he could not tell there were tears of relief mixed with the sweat running down my face.  He jogged back to his car, got in and with a wave was off. I just stood there for a moment wondering to which charity I should donate this week’s paycheck. I threw the newly formed auto theft tool into to the weeds and headed back to the station.

Once there I was greeted by the Sergeant whose expert set of police skills made it obvious to him that I had been to the store and returned with soda.  In deference to my sweat soaked uniform shirt he intoned, “It’s a hot one out there today, isn’t it Cadet?”

As for the fate of the cartoon watching waifs, there was only one murder in Poway while I was assigned there and it wasn’t them, so eventually my conscience reconciled with my career survival instinct and I was able to sleep well again.  To my knowledge, nobody ever suspected I had come so close being the laughing stock of the office.

In retrospect, there is one truth I learned from this adventure.  We all want to think we’re Bugs Bunny, but in our hearts we know we’re really Daffy Duck.

 

 

A Rip in the Fabric of Society

As a young man, I aspired to a life of public service and set my sights on a career in law enforcement.  My high school district offered seniors a vocational program in Police Science (thankfully, no math skills necessary) for which I eagerly signed up.  The daily curriculum included one hour of English, focusing on objective writing skills; one hour of Social Science, focusing on Law and Government; and two hours of Law Enforcement war stories provided by the program director, retired California Highway Patrol Sergeant George Dowdy.

Mr. Dowdy was brilliant at capturing our young, malleable minds with tales of his thirty plus year career riding motorcycles, chasing offenders, and negotiating pension benefits (as President of the California Highway Patrolman’s Association).  At least one day per week, or more depending on Mr. Dowdy’s level of enthusiasm for teaching, we would take a field trip to one of the county’s local Police Departments or other government operations facility.  Or, we would go to the local courthouse and sit in on criminal trials.  This was an academic breeze resulting in a straight-A performance for my senior year; boosting my full four-year GPA to a respectable 3.0.  Yeah, you math geniuses out there have already figured out that my first three years were pretty mediocre. Mr. Dowdy was so impressed he recommended me for the San Diego California Highway Patrolman’s Association Wives Club Academic Scholarship for college students aspiring to a career in law enforcement.  I was awarded the sum of $50.  Back in the day, a Highway Patrolman did not earn a huge salary. It was enough to pay for a couple of text books and I was grateful.

 Upon graduation from high school I enrolled in the Criminology program at Grossmont Community College. As most college students of my era, I had to work to pay for school, my car and any spending cash I needed.  I worked as a hamburger flipper, dishwasher, janitor and freight handler.  Then, in 1973, the County of San Diego announced it was conducting a test for the position of Sheriff’s Cadet.  This position was the golden fleece of every law enforcement career aspirant attending college.  The requirements were simple.  The applicants had to have reached the age of seventeen and one-half but could not have turned twenty before the day of appointment. They must be enrolled as a full-time college student. They must meet in every way, except for age, the requirements for the position of Deputy Sheriff. They must be able to type twenty-five words per minute. Thank God they never tested me for that skill.

 It was reported that 2,500 applicants sat for the written test with those passing moving on to the oral interview stage. As a result of my interview score, I was number thirty-three on the list and the personnel department anticipated hiring ten Cadets during the year.  My chances did not look good as experience showed by the time the selection process was complete, one out of three candidates were hired for each opening.  I was just outside the probability bubble. Fortunately, the County decided to extend the list a second year to avoid the cost of performing the entire testing procedure and in April of 1974 I was hired as the last San Diego County Sheriff’s Department Sheriff’s Cadet ever.

The position of Sheriff’s Cadet was a half-time (twenty hours per week, remember the school attendance requirement) billet.  Job responsibilities were mostly clerical.  The best civilian parallel would be that of a paid internship.  We wore the same uniform as the deputies, save for a small banner affixed to our badges reading “CADET” above the Deputy Sheriff title.  Have you ever looked closely at a peace officer’s badge? Yeah, neither has anybody else; except the drunk, “I want your badge number, othifer!” Oh yeah, we didn’t carry guns. The job paid four dollars per hour (not bad for part time college work in 1974… beat the hell out of the two seventy-five I was making handling freight for May Company). The uniforms were a bit expensive.  I believe the shirts were about twenty dollars for the short-sleeve and twenty-five dollars for the long-sleeve (regulations require you own two of each); the retailer provided the shoulder patches gratis and sewed them on.  The working uniform pants were wool and cost seventy-five dollars per pair! No, no; let me do the math for you.  I had to work three weeks just to pay for the clothes I needed to show up for work, and that didn’t include uniform belt, gun-belt and boots.  Thank God I was appointed in April and my parents were kind enough to buy me a uniform jacket for my birthday in August, before fall weather set in.  Yeah, the retailer included the shoulder patches for free. The importance of this minutia will become apparent as the story unfolds.

I was assigned to the Poway Team Policing office.  It was an experimental station; the deputies assigned there were required to live in the community.  This was unique, as most Sheriff’s Stations were responsible for covering several communities.  A typical patrol station (referred to in that era as a sub-station) required about sixty to one hundred sworn (peace officers) and non-sworn (clerical support) employees and was commanded by a Captain.  Our little Poway office was staffed by fourteen deputies, one clerk-typist and two Cadets.  It was commanded by a Sergeant. This staffing fostered a very informal atmosphere; an experience that bit me in the butt later in my career.

While the job of Cadet was by its nature rather mundane, we were young men wearing uniforms who routinely got to run errands driving real-live police cars. The best perk of the job was that we could, on our own time, ride with deputies on patrol if they were so inclined.  Since there were only two of us in the Poway office, the deputies rarely reached a saturation point where they refused to let us play when we asked. And no matter how much they harassed us for the sake of humor while in the office, they always extended professional respect to us in the field so as to uphold the image of the corps.

It was best to ride with a deputy that was chatty.  They were more fun and generally considered it their obligation to school us in the finer points of “on-the-street” police work. I avoided the taciturn guys as they could make an eight-hour shift seem like a day and a half.

I recall one occasion when I was riding with my favorite deputy in the office, we’ll name him Bob.  It was a Friday on the PM shift (2:00 PM to 10:00 PM); a good time to ride as there was no school on Saturday.  In a small suburban community all of the action is going to occur on the PM or “B” shift. That being the rule of thumb, I don’t believe we received one radio call the entire afternoon.  Some days were just like that.  We were driving up Pomerado Road northbound from Poway Road.  If you are familiar with this area today, forget what you know.  Poway was considerably more rural in those days.

We both noticed that ahead, on the other side of the road, was a seemingly attractive young woman, dressed in Daisy Dukes and a tank top, standing beside a Fiat parked on the shoulder (there were no curbs) waving us down; heartbeats quickened.

Bob crossed the opposite traffic lane and pulled to a stop about fifteen yards beyond the damsel in distress.  I figured that since he was married, it was my duty to protect him from temptation.  As the patrol car was slowing to a stop, I popped out of the passenger side and quick timed it back to the needy citizen.

Our initial assessment was accurate; she was attractive; about five-five, one-twenty, mid-back length, sun-highlighted straight brown hair, beach tan. I covered the fifteen years before Bob could get the unit (patrol car) in park and the engine shut off.

After a short exchange of pleasantries, I asked how we could be of assistance.  From her hip pocket (I still don’t know to this day how she had gotten it in there, someday I’ll have to take a class in physics) she produced a piece of paper and handed it to me.  It seems some overbearing, officious California Highway Patrolman had issued her an equipment violation notice (fix-it ticket; Highway Patrolmen have such little imagination) because age had fogged the plastic back window of her convertible making it impossible for a driver to use the rear-view mirror effectively, thus rendering operation of the vehicle unsafe.  She needed someone of authority to certify that she had corrected the problem by affixing a signature thereto so she could mail said notice to the court and avoid the fine. There were very few official acts that could be performed by a Cadet but this was one of them and I was bound to do my duty to keep the wheels of justice turning.

Just to ensure I acted in a manner consistent with the intent of the law, I thought it would be prudent to check the condition of the window in question.  I climbed, or rather fell, into the small roadster (top up, of course). Now I am a bit larger than the average male being six feet tall and weighing (around that time) in at two hundred fifteen pounds (weight training being a hobby of mine). As it was, I had my right foot in the car, my left foot outside the car and my right thigh jammed in between the steering wheel and the console. I took a quick peek at the mirror and learned that the Highway Patrolman had been on his game. Nothing but afternoon mood lighting could penetrate that opaque window.

As I started the process of extricating myself from the Italian torture chamber, my shoulders (remember, weight training) became jammed against the door opening support of the convertible top. The harder I pushed to get out the more my left foot, the one supporting my weight, started sliding from underneath me facilitated by the pea gravel of the road shoulder.  At the same time, the weight of my gun belt (no gun, but handcuffs and a baton ring… one must be prepared) was pulling my uniform pants down my hips. With one mighty effort to save myself from looking foolish, I spread my legs a bit wider to gain better balance and R-R-R-I-I-P; there went the seam in the crotch of my pants.

Placing embarrassment on the back burner, I retrieved the pen from my shirt pocket and made an ineligible scrawl on the line reserved for the officer noting that the proper corrective action had been taken.  They never verified these notices anyway.

I handed the notice back to the young lady and advised her to drive safely and have a nice day.  As I was walking back to the unit, Bob grabbed me by the triceps of my left arm (no small feat as he was about five-nine, one-fifty… remember, weight training) and brought me to a complete halt.  He looked me directly in the eye and said, “From now on, if we have any contact with attractive women, let me do the talking.  Understand, Cadet?”

Suitably admonished, I sulked back to the unit and we drove off.  After a couple of minutes, I shared with Bob that I had torn the crotch out of my uniform pants.  When he regained his composure, he offered a suggestion.  All of the deputies’ wives were meeting for a social gathering at his house that evening.  During our dinner break we could swing by his house and let the sergeant’s wife take a look at my pants as she was quite talented at doing alterations and clothing repair. Maybe she could save the pants.

He offered to drive back to the station so I could change. Unfortunately, my second pair was at the dry cleaners. There was only one alternative.  Later that night, at Bob’s house, I had to endure the ignominy of Mrs. Sergeant poking around my crotch, witnessed by the wives of all the deputies assigned to the Poway Team Policing station;  and there were no single men among the corps.  By Monday my experience was part of station lore.  The bright side; Mrs. Sergeant was able to repair my uniform pants for a mere five dollars.

Before end of shift Bob shared another piece of wisdom with his young charge.  When entering a sports car sit into the seat first, and then swing your legs in like a girl.  To this day, that little piece of advice has served me better than anything else I ever learned on the “B” shift.

 

 

 

 

Badges of Shame

I attended Catholic schools for the first eight years of my academic experience, not including Kindergarten.  For reasons not made clear to me, the parish in which we lived did not offer Kindergarten.  Perhaps the clergy and administration of St. John of the Cross believed finger painting and circle sitting were best financed by the local public school district.  I am appreciative of their wisdom, as Kindergarten was the only grade in which I was popular with the girls.

Whenever the student body was directed to take up their Indian-style, cross-legged positions on the circle, I would sit at the end opposite the playground doors so I could look through the windows; better for daydreaming.  Yes, I fell into the life of a thinker at an early age. Then Rosemarie, a dusky damsel with long straight dark brown hair and deep soulful eyes would sit on my right. The spot to my left habitually belonged to my Brookside neighbor, Donna Rose.  She had curly red tresses and alabaster skin punctuated with a million dancing freckles.  Beyond them in turn, the girls would take up the rest of our side of the circle and the boys would cluster in the opposite hemisphere.  I do not know why this segregation of the sexes was so natural.  I do not recall anybody questioning the natural order; but there I sat, surrounded by women.  I’m not sure where or when I lost my charm.  And I’m not sure I recognized the opportunity given me. I was probably staring out at the playground conjuring up some strategy for taking another second or two off my tricycle safety track time. Oh, but the days did pass so quickly. Alas, Rosemarie and Donna Rose had both been born into the heathen bosoms of Protestant families. So long my loves… so long.

The next year I found myself in the strictly regimented corps of uniform-clad first graders at St. John’s, ever monitored by the vigilant sisters of the Order of St. Joseph of Orange. I never could reconcile the black and white habit-clad custodians of my education with the pleasant chewable aspirin but I probably tossed it off as another one of the myriad dogmatic mysteries of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.  Worst of all, at recess and lunch time, the boys were unnaturally segregated from the girls.  While the girls were given possession of the asphalt playground for jump rope and hopscotch, we gentlemen were directed to the dirt athletic fields to engage in such vigorous pursuits as baseball, or kickball or any number of ball oriented games that tried one’s ability to maintain the prescribed level of sartorial respectability.

The rules were clear; young men must keep their white shirts neatly tucked inside their salt-and-pepper corduroy trousers. By contrast the ladies could, if they wished, let shirt tails flow freely over the waistbands of their perfectly pleated plaid skirts. Perhaps the lack of discipline at this early stage of development explains the much discussed pay disparity plaguing society today.

When the sisters rang the bell, it was an indication that we had better return to classroom double time, where the practice of segregation of the sexes continued.  The boys lined up to the right of the door, the girls to the left, waiting for Sister to indicate we could enter the classroom.  Once again, the logic of the segregation escaped me as we were assigned seats in alphabetic order by our last name without regard to sex. The offshoot of this line up practice was the ease with which the nuns could inspect our condition before letting us inside.

On one occasion I was the victim of lax self-policing.  Sister held me back as the other students were allowed to enter.  She then escorted me to the front of the class room and held me up as an example of unkemptness because my shirt tail was flapping frivolously in the breeze. To make a lasting impression on me and drive home the need for good grooming standards for others, I was to wear the badge of shame, the pink ribbon, in my hair for the afternoon session of class.

Out came the ribbon.  Out came the bobby pins.  But these were the days of crew cuts and butch wax.  The ribbon succumbed to gravity and dove straight for the floor.  No matter the application of an ever increasing number of bobby pins, the ribbon would just slide off of my head and onto the floor.  As her frustration grew, Sister began twisting the oversized rosary that the Sisters of St. Joseph of Orange wore as a gird about the waist of their habits, and the fires of purgatory seem to glow in her eyes.  Up until this time, I hadn’t experienced any anxiety about the public humiliation; after all, a laugh is a laugh, even if one is cast the buffoon.  But now I began to fear she would use her rosary belt to fix the ribbon to my greasy Brylcreem skull wrapping it around my throat for good measure.

In a final stroke of genius, she grabbed the scotch tape and applied six or seven strands to keep the ribbon in place.  So I sat for the rest of the school day, applying my effort to scholastic achievement adorned with the badge of shame.

The windows at St. John of the Cross parochial school were placed high in the walls of the classrooms so as to prevent distraction.  But that didn’t stop me from looking up at an angle allowing a view of the palm tree fronds swaying in the afternoon winds.  I don’t remember where I was, mentally, on that particular day as opposed to any other.  But as usual, the hypnotic rhythm of the leaves took me far away from the here and now.  So much so that when I arrived home, after a twenty-minute bus ride, after a block-long walk from the bus stop, and my mom asked me why I had a pink bow taped to my head, I honestly answered, “I don’t know.”

 

 

 

The Great Potato Excursion

The Great Potato Excursion

 

To serve the needs of returning veterans of World War II, developers across America built starter home developments in every part of the nation.  The designs were small, inexpensive to build and qualified for which ever GI benefits program would get them sold and occupied the fastest.  In 1958, Albert and Mary Holbrook purchased on the secondary market.  As first born, and it turns out only, son I was heir to landed parents.  In England such a family would be known as gentry.  In California, USA, we were mortgage holders.

A description of the neighborhood is necessary to set the proper context for this tale. Brookside was built in a small valley situated in what is colloquially known as East County.  This is a misnomer but hardly worth correcting.  The little valley of Brookside had in turn been a reservoir, an orchard and a golf-course.  This final pre-residential development incarnation explained the street names; Par Drive, Fairway Drive, Link Drive, etc.  Though for the life of me I could never figure out what a Niblick was.  At the southern end of Fairway drive was the remains of an earthen dam from the reservoir.  Central Ave had been neatly cut through the dam to allow rear egress from the subdivision into the aptly named community of Spring Valley, which explains the presence of the open drainage ditch bifurcating the length of Fairway Drive to the front (or north) end of the neighborhood at Broadway, the main thoroughfare into the adjacent town of Lemon Grove. To the east and west were the hills forming the little valley. It was all very neatly secluded and a perfect haven for the young families raising their broods.

Those of you born after the baby boom generation may have some trouble visualizing this, but the mid to late fifties were a friendlier, safer, more innocent time.  The Greatest Generation had grown up mostly in rural America where crime was rare and tragedy more often associated with farm machinery accidents than nefarious activity.  It is no wonder then that our parents were quite comfortable letting us travel about our little enclave with a freedom unheard of today.

Even at the age of five, as long as I told my mother to whose house I was going for a visit, I roamed at will.  Every family in the neighborhood had children somewhere between newborn and high school.  Mothers stayed home and no waif was ever far from adult assistance if needed.  Our favorite activities included playing work-ups baseball in the middle of Par Drive (yes, right out there in the middle of the street… the drivers operated at sane spends), army (sometimes fighting off the Germans, sometimes the Russians… we were a bit time confused), hide and seek (seems I was always it) or using bacon on kite string to harvest crawdads from the Fairway Drive drainage ditch.

But there was always one tether that kept me from straying too far from home… lunch.  I just couldn’t risk missing my Franco-American spaghetti while taking in the latest episode of Romper Room. I was a Do-Bee!  So whatever the day’s activities included, I was sure to be within a couple of blocks of home.  A boy needs his nourishment.

Then, during summer vacation between first and second grade, I saw a television show in which some adult was explaining that if necessary, potatoes could be eaten raw.  Incredulous, I asked my mother.  An old farm hand herself, she confirmed that indeed, if one were so inclined one could turn to the uncooked root for survival. A little salt would go a long way towards making it more palatable.  She peeled up a spud, sliced off a bit and let me try it.  While far from the culinary majesty of canned pasta in pink sauce, it was not unpleasant.  And it was portable.

Exploration has always been in my veins.  I yearn to know what is on the other side of the hill, around the next bend, under the rock.  At six (almost seven) years, I had discovered the means that would open up a whole new world to me.  I could carry my lunch and venture as far and back as dinner time allow.  As I stood on the front lawn that day, measuring the mountains to the east, I began to formulate a plan that would lift me beyond the walls of Brookside.

I called a conference with my friends Petey Stather and Craig Starr; explaining the new utility of the potato and the promise of fresh adventures. The hill to the west was ancient orchard and we had explored the hell out of it, preying on sluggish horny toads (the local handle for the great horned lizard) and eating pomegranates when in season.  But at the top of the ridge was Sweetwater Road, a four lane mega avenue that none of us, in our wildest fantasies, could conceive of crossing.  So our course was obvious; tomorrow morning, we each would raid our families’ larders to procure a traveling tuber then head for the hills. We would seek out Shangri-la in the precincts of the rising sun.

The morning of the great adventure, I dutifully finished off my Maypo while getting my moral lesson of the day from Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Green Jeans.  Mother retreated to the bathroom for her morning ablutions.  Under the cover of television squawk I tiptoed into the kitchen to retrieve a potato and a paper bag in which to carry it.  Father was a brown bagger.  Amply outfitted for a day afield, I poked my head around the corner into the hallway and loudly announced I was on my way to Pete’s house.  A muffled, unintelligible vocalization was confirmation enough for me that the message was received and understood.

A few minutes later I was meeting up with my fellow frontiersmen at the earthen dam.  This was situated at the south end of the subdivision and allowed us access to the slope we would ascend without crossing through any of our neighbor’s yards.  There was no reason to arouse the suspicion of any of the mother hens always looking out for chicks straying from the communal brood.

We started the ascent, learning as we went that it was less difficult to navigate the grade using a diagonal switchback approach than to muscle straight up the hill.  We climbed and climbed putting time, distance and elevation between us and the familiar features of the valley below.  The houses, melting into a sea of tarpaper roofs, grew smaller and smaller as we gained height.  Being youthful as we were, none of party owned a watch; or the skill to read one if we had.  We measured time and distance by warmth of the sun and the ache in our chubby little legs.  After what seemed a great effort and even greater progress, we built a consensus that it was time for a lunch break.

As we produced our potatoes from our paper bags, it donned on us that they still bore their brown peel.  We had no knives.  We were too young for Cub Scouts let alone Boy Scouts, where the badge of honor was the ever present jack knife clipped to the web belt.  The only tool we possessed was our intellect; somewhat lacking at age six. The best solution our combined brain power could muster was to just bite into the peel.  The first realization is that potato peel tastes like dirt.  The second surprise; potatoes do not retain their moist crispness when removed from the bin under the sink and carried about in the sunlight and summer air for what seemed like miles and hours. Now they tasted like soggy, milky dirt.  One bite was all any of us could muster; swallowing was impossible. Obviously the technology of portable food was not presently sufficient to meet the needs of the modern explorer.

With our lunch plans scuttled, we focused our attention on next steps.  We clearly must be more than half-way to our unspecified destination; it would be foolishness to retrace our steps now and return to the settlements defeated.  The decision was to shore ourselves up against our hard luck and move ever forward.  Well, any way, Pete would do whatever I told him to and Craig didn’t want to be left alone so we pushed on.

The trek continued; mile after mile, hour after hour, sweat drop after sweat drop.  I began to question my skills as a leader.  Panic was undermining the resolve of the members of our little band.  “My mom is gonna kill me if I don’t get home for dinner,” whined Craig.  Petey just looked at me, the admiration usually reflected n his little eyes having been replaced with the moist beginnings of tears of hopelessness. I could only hope that this was the last ridge between us and civilization.

Cresting the hill, all before us was now downhill.  And at the bottom of this craggy tor was a shining star.  We had found the Texaco station at Broadway and Campo Road.  I knew were okay now, my father traded with this honorable merchant.  Many a tank had been filled while, from the backseat of our pink over cream Buick coupe, I witnessed convivial conversation between dad and Hank.  Surely, he would recognize me and be glad to lend assistance to forlorn travelers.

I was disappointed to discover my personage was not instantly familiar to him.  And it seems that, in the days of cash purchases, he didn’t know Al from Alice.  Yes, I could use the phone to call home, but my old man had better repay the dime next time he filled up.

My mother was surprised to hear my voice on the phone in the middle of the day.  Why was I calling from Pete’s house? It was just three doors down from my own. I was where?   Well, I’d better get my butt home PDQ.  I knew the way from where I was, just walk down Broadway to Fairway and then to Par Dr.  I’d been chauffeured along the route many a time.

Halfway home I could see the Buick approaching.  My dad had come to give us a lift home.  He stopped the car and jutted his angry face out the open window, cigarette sticking out parallel to the ground, “You’d better be home before I get back from the store, or I’m gonna paddle your butt!”   I didn’t recall such anger over previous transgression (and there had been more than a few… after all, I was a curious boy) so I picked up the pace of our little band and moved toward home double time.

I do not remember getting a whooping that afternoon.  I do remember over hearing some inter-parent phone chatter between my mom and Mrs. Stather and my mom and Mrs. Starr.  From time to time my father would lower his newspaper and glower at me.  Why waste words when a stare could wither? But by next morning, the events of the previous day were history and the lessons duly recorded.

Looking back, and bringing things into proper scale, I realize that our great march was probably no more than a quarter of a mile as the crow flies and out total elevation gain was no more than forty feet.  The walk back from the Texaco station took us no more than ten minutes but when you’re racing against a paddling, time seems to accelerate.

In future years I would become a Boy Scout, even a quite respected leader.  Hiking and exploring have continued to be a part of my life.  I have back-packed the Sierra Nevada, dry-camped in the desert and navigated to mighty Colorado in a canoe.  And all these accomplishments began with a raw potato and a dream of adventure in Brookside.  Today, I leave the potatoes at home.

 

 

 

I'm in Cyberspace!

Hello and welcome.  This first posting is just a chance to try this out.  I will be following it up with something interesting very shortly.

My goals: To share my travels, other events and thoughts in a forum that is easy for readers to use.

I promise to keep political rhetoric to a bare minimum and focus on what I learn from living life, especially on the road.  Although I will not be able to travel that often, I will try to generate an entry you will find amusing, entertaining and educational on a weekly basis.  I'm not sure how all the technical details work, but I believe you should (dare I be so bold as to hope?) be able to subscribe so you will be notified of new postings.  I also believe there is a facility to comment and send e-mail to me.