On the day Christ was born, I felt starved. No creature sturred on the Carlsbad City streets. Why even Wal Mart was closed. I drove to another store to buy a package of bacon-bits and it to was closed.
Across the Motel Six parking lot, the cleaners had opened. At least I could get my whites cleaned today and get my mind off of food. I returned to my motel room and loaded the car's trunk with my dirty clothes. I felt good to be busy and get my life organized. After all, I would be a recognized author one day,and needed to look well-dressed and clean.
After 12 quarters well spent in the laundry room , I returned to the Motel Six on Carlsbad Village Drive climbed the steps to my room. I remembered what Ron had told me about Keno's, an old eatery off of P.C.H. The eatery offered a free lunch each Xmas. At about twelve o'clock I drove first to Ralph's in Carlsbad. In no way would two major markets be closed, Christmas Day. It was!
My stomach growled. I needed to appease it and left for Keno's off of Highway 101 and arrived about eleven. The free lance turkey meal with cranberries, stuffing, mashed potatoes and a jam smothered my stomach with good cheer and love, and a bit too much gravy...would have to wait for twelve to arrive. I settled for a turkey sandwich and mashed potatoes. My stomach always paid the price if I ate too much fat.
Satisfied now, I drove a few blocks to the Moonlight Beach upper lot with a unblemished view. Below, many beach goers took advantage of the clear westerly breezes. The new children's area was packed with tots pushing swings or climbing slides.
The ocean waves appeared angry, splashing suds in every-which-way. I could even make out the strong undertows.I walked down the curved path to the beach. A motor-driven small car almost ran over me. A kid tried out his present while a skate-boarder jumped over a trash can. I still made it to the sand and found a corner white picket fence next to a house. It would provide me with just enough shade to keep the two o'clock rays off of me.
I kicked back in my chair and fell asleep. The ocean breeze had pacified my mind. My connection with HIM became tighter. An errant volleyball hit me in the noggin and woke me from a deep slumber. An entire family was playing volleyball. It appeared they had never played the game and were probably visiting from the Midwest judging from their white skin. They did not wear bathing suits and their skin looked too white for a Californian.
Heartburn from the sandwich upset me. I drank a quart from the fountain. I knew my hunger had been quenched but I what i needed of Christmas cheer. I decided to go to Keno's for my feast. Already a large number were inside waiting to be served.
I saw my buddy Ronny who had parked his three-wheeled-bike outside of Keno's. Ropes attached to his bike carried the 75 year old's possessions. Like always, he seemed hungry. Trays of smashed jam, sliced turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberries, cut carrots, and lots of pie topped with whipped cream.
Ron is called Houdini from a friend of mine. He is one of a hand-full of homeless that has avoided the police by disappearing in the night. The tall whiskered gentleman had biked into 47 different states. With frequent-peddle-miles, he could have biked in the sky for free.
Back in Minnesota, seventy seven year old Ron had waited for seven years before leaving his past behind. His wife and seven children had never called. Of course had it coming as drink-with-the-ladies don't mix for a for a blissful marriage.
Excuse the interruption, but speaking about the homeless. A tall, grey whiskered man at commuter station number 806 is snorting and sneezing. at the San Diego Library. The cold Santa Anna winds keep the meet trucks handy all-day. He probably has a cold tent waiting for him on Park Blvd.
These outsiders look good one week and are picked up by San Diego's meat trucks another. There he goes again, snorting and sneezing. The cold Santa Anna make it tough on Santa Claus to bring gifts to these drifters. And I should talk.
Well Houdini's plate of turkey with the trimmings disappeared soon after he sat down. Why just maybe that turkey had wings and flew the coop. His second plate of Christmas cheer took longer to engage. We washed the pheasant down with three glasses of coke and said our good-by's.
I didn't have good luck buying reading glasses. Every shop in Encinitas was closed. The only place open was a new theater in Oceanside. Thank God it was open, but one problem. The movie Unbroken had been sold out.
But I did not give a hoot. My two daughters and two grand-daughters were doing just fine. And that is the blessing God has given me this year. Every day is Christmas for me. . Just might make a song out of it.
Friday, December 26, 2014
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
The San Diego Jazz Festival Sweetheart
I telephone Taxi Man Sam from my Motel Six line phone. About one year ago, I had warned him to lose weight. The scales read about two hundred and twenty pounds then, and he had felt discomfort in his chest. He shredded about twenty in three months.
Later the same year, he took my advise and visited the Scripps Mercy Hospital. Ex-rays revealed two leg blockages and an issue with a heart muscle. The leg surgeries proved successful and a doctor told him his heart could wait. Unfortunately, two truck accidents inside of Mexico caused two more surgeries He became somewhat immobile for two months but lived. In fact he spent more time inside the hospital than the world outside. No doubt his Jewish prayers had been answered.
"Good morning Sam, how are you doing?"
"How are you celebrating Christmas. Do you wish to hang out with me?"
, "Already have. You see Larry, each day is Christmas. I unwrap a different gift each day. Tell you what. I will be returning to San Diego on Sunday. I can meet you after church service or before my dancing lessons."
Tuesday morning at the Carlsbad Dove Library, a famous author confirmed what I knew: "George, you will become a famous author one day. Unlike other writers, you are transparent and live a diversified life. Most writers only write. Why you play the piano by ear, dance, and most of all, you have enormous confidence as a comedian."
. I took another look at myself inside the mirrored room and saw a different me. Why I even think I had a halo covering me head. Now after Tuesday's meeting with an author of fourteen books, I have caught up with the new George. With a strong Godly foundation, my life has only one way to go, and that is to the top. Just watch me. I play the piano at the Encinitas Senior Center and now wish to polish my key-board talents playing in a jazz band.
The Balboa dancing lessons had paid dividends. Like my Mom had said, "George, with your lisp, you better learn to dance and play the piano. That way you will get the girls without needing to speak." Well my Mom Edith was party right.. My thirteen-year-old braces gave me the ability to speak without a lisp. Excitement fills my own life. And the combination of music with dance has bedazzled my new life inside San Diego's fish bowl.
The highlight of last year occurred during the Thanksgiving weekend, and it cost only $25 dollars to listen to several of the one hundred bands brought to the Town and Country hotel. I usually focused on the piano players but a face in the crowd unnerved me.
It was a silver-haired-blond. Yes it was the smiling blond that got my attention. Never in my life have I seen such a gorgeous angelic face. I just knew she had to be married to the hunched-over man who was her life's dancing partner. Darn, it I saw her too late! I walked over to the charming couple.
You are the most-in-love couple I have ever witnessed on the dance floor. Would With my camera, I walked over to the charming couple and asked them if I could take their picture. They smiled and agreed. Susanne looked even more beautiful up close. Susanne confided it was their second marriage, and they had been married for 27 years.
Later the same year, he took my advise and visited the Scripps Mercy Hospital. Ex-rays revealed two leg blockages and an issue with a heart muscle. The leg surgeries proved successful and a doctor told him his heart could wait. Unfortunately, two truck accidents inside of Mexico caused two more surgeries He became somewhat immobile for two months but lived. In fact he spent more time inside the hospital than the world outside. No doubt his Jewish prayers had been answered.
"Good morning Sam, how are you doing?"
"How are you celebrating Christmas. Do you wish to hang out with me?"
, "Already have. You see Larry, each day is Christmas. I unwrap a different gift each day. Tell you what. I will be returning to San Diego on Sunday. I can meet you after church service or before my dancing lessons."
Tuesday morning at the Carlsbad Dove Library, a famous author confirmed what I knew: "George, you will become a famous author one day. Unlike other writers, you are transparent and live a diversified life. Most writers only write. Why you play the piano by ear, dance, and most of all, you have enormous confidence as a comedian."
. I took another look at myself inside the mirrored room and saw a different me. Why I even think I had a halo covering me head. Now after Tuesday's meeting with an author of fourteen books, I have caught up with the new George. With a strong Godly foundation, my life has only one way to go, and that is to the top. Just watch me. I play the piano at the Encinitas Senior Center and now wish to polish my key-board talents playing in a jazz band.
The Balboa dancing lessons had paid dividends. Like my Mom had said, "George, with your lisp, you better learn to dance and play the piano. That way you will get the girls without needing to speak." Well my Mom Edith was party right.. My thirteen-year-old braces gave me the ability to speak without a lisp. Excitement fills my own life. And the combination of music with dance has bedazzled my new life inside San Diego's fish bowl.
The highlight of last year occurred during the Thanksgiving weekend, and it cost only $25 dollars to listen to several of the one hundred bands brought to the Town and Country hotel. I usually focused on the piano players but a face in the crowd unnerved me.
It was a silver-haired-blond. Yes it was the smiling blond that got my attention. Never in my life have I seen such a gorgeous angelic face. I just knew she had to be married to the hunched-over man who was her life's dancing partner. Darn, it I saw her too late! I walked over to the charming couple.
You are the most-in-love couple I have ever witnessed on the dance floor. Would With my camera, I walked over to the charming couple and asked them if I could take their picture. They smiled and agreed. Susanne looked even more beautiful up close. Susanne confided it was their second marriage, and they had been married for 27 years.
"Do you mind if I take your picture?" David and Susie smiled and told Sue I could guess her age. "I'll bet your are 65 years old." "Wrong George. I am 66." "Where did you meet?" "We met at a dance. While I was dancing, he came up and pushed away my partner. I found out later they were best friends. I really did not care for this engineer at first but found out later that he had the right moves and had a wonderful personality. We try to go dancing twice a week. Our marriage is so strong honey is no longer needed inside our coffee. I left the couple from Virginia but did get their phone number. I felt sorry not to have a Susanne- in-tow but just maybe next year - God will send an angel from heaven for me.
As you can see, I love to mingle with people. I find it most exciting. Next year I will pay the one hundred dollars for the entire Thanksgiving weekend. But most of all, I love being the Grandfather of Summer and Spring. One is one and the other is four.
My act has a long-long way to go, so try to keep up with me or better yet, meet me at Balboa Park where I take dancing lessons. You will find me not only a fine dancer but handsome for one in his middle seventies.
"No, I never watch Dancing with the Stars, since it is I am the star - at least in my own eyes.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
The Tip Top restaurant
"Mam...I prefer to be called 'sweety or sir' is you please. Only maidens over sixty may call me sweaty. Since I am 75 years of age, I deserve to be called I believe my I think my 75 years on earth deserves more respect. Only my two daughters and those I bed down with have permission to call me any name they wish, but not waitresses.
"I apologize. We are in the habit of calling old people 'Sweetie'. Are you ready to order?"
"Yes, I want what I had yesterday. sweaty. Let's see. Give me toast, hard boiled eggs, hash browns and the turkey bacon. Thank you."
It costs only a bit less than eight dollars with tip, but the cost is within my budget. Today would be festive like any-other-day. My Rabbis words two years back told his congregation to treat each day like it would be your last...And I sure do. Today from the Carlsbad train station, I would hop on the 11:10 going north to San Diego's Santa Fe Station.
I love to read, write, speak, and devour the beautiful scenery after a good rain. And with my Compass card it is free. The monthly pass cost seniors forty one dollars and a quarter. I am miserable if I don't train or bus it each day.My breakfast would begin my day before heading to the Carlsbad downtown library.
Across the street from the Motel Six is the Carlsbad Tip Top restaurant. I need to get my Schindler story readied for publication on Kindle, in hopes that St. Nick would arrive with a publisher.
After breakfast I drive to the Carlsbad library and read the L.A Times before sitting on a computer. Would you believe that Obama wishes Sony to apologize to North Korea., and their humpty-dumpty dictator. Since when has this puppet become my father. And why does our so-called- president wish to become friends with Cuba. Has he forgotten our bill of rights? I may be only seventy five, but bet your ass I am smarter than this guy in Washington.
To use his own words, 'The fact of the matter is that he never would have made it as President if he had not promised citizenship to illegals. Yes he is a great speaker but ethically, he rivals Pinocchio on a bad day.
Obama reminds me my Mom when I was a toddler. "George, now wipe your ass real good and wear nice clean underwear." It is time for Obama to learn to listen and keep his mouth shut for the next two years. On a more pleasant thought, the Xmas tree lot next to my motel did a humming business selling its trees.
Tomorrow night I take waltz and Western Two Step lessons at the Balboa Bay Club. My passion is dancing, piano playing, and taking long cold showers.
"I apologize. We are in the habit of calling old people 'Sweetie'. Are you ready to order?"
"Yes, I want what I had yesterday. sweaty. Let's see. Give me toast, hard boiled eggs, hash browns and the turkey bacon. Thank you."
It costs only a bit less than eight dollars with tip, but the cost is within my budget. Today would be festive like any-other-day. My Rabbis words two years back told his congregation to treat each day like it would be your last...And I sure do. Today from the Carlsbad train station, I would hop on the 11:10 going north to San Diego's Santa Fe Station.
I love to read, write, speak, and devour the beautiful scenery after a good rain. And with my Compass card it is free. The monthly pass cost seniors forty one dollars and a quarter. I am miserable if I don't train or bus it each day.My breakfast would begin my day before heading to the Carlsbad downtown library.
Across the street from the Motel Six is the Carlsbad Tip Top restaurant. I need to get my Schindler story readied for publication on Kindle, in hopes that St. Nick would arrive with a publisher.
After breakfast I drive to the Carlsbad library and read the L.A Times before sitting on a computer. Would you believe that Obama wishes Sony to apologize to North Korea., and their humpty-dumpty dictator. Since when has this puppet become my father. And why does our so-called- president wish to become friends with Cuba. Has he forgotten our bill of rights? I may be only seventy five, but bet your ass I am smarter than this guy in Washington.
To use his own words, 'The fact of the matter is that he never would have made it as President if he had not promised citizenship to illegals. Yes he is a great speaker but ethically, he rivals Pinocchio on a bad day.
Obama reminds me my Mom when I was a toddler. "George, now wipe your ass real good and wear nice clean underwear." It is time for Obama to learn to listen and keep his mouth shut for the next two years. On a more pleasant thought, the Xmas tree lot next to my motel did a humming business selling its trees.
Tomorrow night I take waltz and Western Two Step lessons at the Balboa Bay Club. My passion is dancing, piano playing, and taking long cold showers.
Friday, December 19, 2014
The Immaculate Conception Church.
My Sundays begin at the Immaculate Conception Church in Old Town, San Diego. Fate brought me to Father Ecker's flock of church-goers over a year ago.
The church had been built in the 1800's, a block or two from the first one that Father Serra built. I took a chance after a meager meal at the Hungry restaurant across the street. There was something magical about a church with pictures of Mary and her son Jesus painted on pictures and a figurine of Christ on a cross in the front of the church.
I returned two months later and took up a seat. I sat in the back as other seats had been taken. A tall, thin man wearing the garb of a priest smiled and looked right at his congregation. Whatever came out of his mouth seemed to touch the souls of this Sunday crowd.
This ex navy chaplain earned his stripes taking care of the wounded during the Vietnam War. At once his stories massaged my soul. He spoke as if he was speaking to me. No Doubt he had a great connection with God.
He has become my Sunday soulmate . After the one hour sermon, some entered the rectory for donuts, coffee and good cheer. Now my mind felt great and soon I just sat in front of the Old Town adobe cigar store and people watched. My unclogged mind now is synchronized with my dancing feet.
But first things first. I had forgotten my dentures and needed to train it back to Carlsbad and the Motel Six. Check out time was at one o'clock and it was important to get there before the cleaners threw everything out.
At the Old Town Train Station stood a herd of orange jerseys. The name of Elway was on one of them. The Denver fanatical football fans were going on the Green Line to the stadium. But me, I had to take the train back to Carlsbad. you see I had forgotten my teeth.
Since the Amtrak train was late due to track maintenance, I needed to run down Carlsbad Village Drive before twelve o'clock. I needed to beat the maids to my room. I did and found my teeth inside a paper cup. My desert was the Balboa Bay dancing class that met that Sunday. I didn't feel like going but my feet kicked me out-the-door anyway.
I returned with teeth firmly planted inside my mouth after a ride on the two o'clock Coaster. After a senior nap, I spilled out of the Mission Valley Motel Six and took the 8 freeway east and took the 163 south to the downtown Park Blvd. exit. It took all of ten minutes from downtown. a few people already were up and dancing before the first lesson. Cup Cake, a charming lad with a bountiful smile quaked at seven.
"Tonight we are teaching the Waltz and Western Swing. Will the intermediates go over there and the advanced go to my left. Those who are beginning stick-right-here with me."
I go to the intermediate class where Rainbow Socks gives his lessons. He is a gas with a wonderful personality to boot. His class begins after he lifts his trousers. Sexy multicolored socks adorn his feet. It might excite the ladies but not I. It is the blond gal across the room who lathers me up.
Mr. Socks tells us men to go to one side of the room. His one hour lesson begins. "One, two, touch left turn....I try to concentrate but find it impossible. My computerized mind changes them to young teenagers. They become gorgeous...After seven thirty we have a short intermission and then the second class begins. Tonight it is the Western Swing.
When the two lessons are over at about eight thirty, we have a free time where we practice our routines. Out of the corner of my eye I discover the smiling blond has two lovely legs. I wonder if she has a mind to boot. Yet it is her smile that emboldens me to ask for a dance. I all her my California Dream.
I had first seen this dream-gal about one year ago. My mind made her a future pick at Del Mar. Her blond hair and indelible smile remained inside my mind. I just could not get over her smile. And her face, why what a face! Why a plaster of it could have been placed in the Guggenheim Museum. She was sitting besides the wall along with two others.
But the time is now. Yes it is now time. I look down at her. How brazenly confident I have become, ever since I found out I would soon become a celebrity. Her Hazel eyes say yes before her mouth follows. I lead her to the dance floor and peek at my prize. She looks up and her eyes swivel to the right. I try to keep in time with the Western Two Step Swing number.
"Hey sailor boy. Do you always kick so high? I have never seen such a high-kick-routine."
"Do you remember me. I told you about California Chrome coming to the Del Mar Race Track. The only time my legs show excitement is when they are dazzled with a hazel-eyed-blond-with-such-a-smile.
"Well Sailor Boy, you should know that I love the ponies and we hold half interest in several."
We danced a few more before my eyes begged me to return to the Motel Six in Hotel Circle. I felt so-excited that it took me a long, long time to get into a sleeping pattern.
This Monday, there will be a live swing band performing on the roof of the New San Diego Library. It begins at dusk and ends at about eight o'clock. So dance under the hazy damp mist with me.
The church had been built in the 1800's, a block or two from the first one that Father Serra built. I took a chance after a meager meal at the Hungry restaurant across the street. There was something magical about a church with pictures of Mary and her son Jesus painted on pictures and a figurine of Christ on a cross in the front of the church.
I returned two months later and took up a seat. I sat in the back as other seats had been taken. A tall, thin man wearing the garb of a priest smiled and looked right at his congregation. Whatever came out of his mouth seemed to touch the souls of this Sunday crowd.
This ex navy chaplain earned his stripes taking care of the wounded during the Vietnam War. At once his stories massaged my soul. He spoke as if he was speaking to me. No Doubt he had a great connection with God.
He has become my Sunday soulmate . After the one hour sermon, some entered the rectory for donuts, coffee and good cheer. Now my mind felt great and soon I just sat in front of the Old Town adobe cigar store and people watched. My unclogged mind now is synchronized with my dancing feet.
But first things first. I had forgotten my dentures and needed to train it back to Carlsbad and the Motel Six. Check out time was at one o'clock and it was important to get there before the cleaners threw everything out.
At the Old Town Train Station stood a herd of orange jerseys. The name of Elway was on one of them. The Denver fanatical football fans were going on the Green Line to the stadium. But me, I had to take the train back to Carlsbad. you see I had forgotten my teeth.
Since the Amtrak train was late due to track maintenance, I needed to run down Carlsbad Village Drive before twelve o'clock. I needed to beat the maids to my room. I did and found my teeth inside a paper cup. My desert was the Balboa Bay dancing class that met that Sunday. I didn't feel like going but my feet kicked me out-the-door anyway.
I returned with teeth firmly planted inside my mouth after a ride on the two o'clock Coaster. After a senior nap, I spilled out of the Mission Valley Motel Six and took the 8 freeway east and took the 163 south to the downtown Park Blvd. exit. It took all of ten minutes from downtown. a few people already were up and dancing before the first lesson. Cup Cake, a charming lad with a bountiful smile quaked at seven.
"Tonight we are teaching the Waltz and Western Swing. Will the intermediates go over there and the advanced go to my left. Those who are beginning stick-right-here with me."
I go to the intermediate class where Rainbow Socks gives his lessons. He is a gas with a wonderful personality to boot. His class begins after he lifts his trousers. Sexy multicolored socks adorn his feet. It might excite the ladies but not I. It is the blond gal across the room who lathers me up.
Mr. Socks tells us men to go to one side of the room. His one hour lesson begins. "One, two, touch left turn....I try to concentrate but find it impossible. My computerized mind changes them to young teenagers. They become gorgeous...After seven thirty we have a short intermission and then the second class begins. Tonight it is the Western Swing.
When the two lessons are over at about eight thirty, we have a free time where we practice our routines. Out of the corner of my eye I discover the smiling blond has two lovely legs. I wonder if she has a mind to boot. Yet it is her smile that emboldens me to ask for a dance. I all her my California Dream.
I had first seen this dream-gal about one year ago. My mind made her a future pick at Del Mar. Her blond hair and indelible smile remained inside my mind. I just could not get over her smile. And her face, why what a face! Why a plaster of it could have been placed in the Guggenheim Museum. She was sitting besides the wall along with two others.
But the time is now. Yes it is now time. I look down at her. How brazenly confident I have become, ever since I found out I would soon become a celebrity. Her Hazel eyes say yes before her mouth follows. I lead her to the dance floor and peek at my prize. She looks up and her eyes swivel to the right. I try to keep in time with the Western Two Step Swing number.
"Hey sailor boy. Do you always kick so high? I have never seen such a high-kick-routine."
"Do you remember me. I told you about California Chrome coming to the Del Mar Race Track. The only time my legs show excitement is when they are dazzled with a hazel-eyed-blond-with-such-a-smile.
"Well Sailor Boy, you should know that I love the ponies and we hold half interest in several."
We danced a few more before my eyes begged me to return to the Motel Six in Hotel Circle. I felt so-excited that it took me a long, long time to get into a sleeping pattern.
This Monday, there will be a live swing band performing on the roof of the New San Diego Library. It begins at dusk and ends at about eight o'clock. So dance under the hazy damp mist with me.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Meet Paul, a Fighting Marine
I met Paul, a 32 year Marine, during breakfast at Dennis, across the way from the Motel Six and next to the 5 freeway. It was Saturday morning at the popular restaurant. While reading my football story, He sauntered over and stared at the book.
"Working on a story about Amby Schindler, who played football for U.S.C. in the 30's. He ordered pancakes without butter and looked over at some material I had been writing
"Well George, I did play football for the Marine team while at the Quantico Base 1952. The city is just outside Washington D.C. My would you believe my quarterback was non-other than Eddie La Baron. I played guard for the Marine team then and met lots of football players during World War Two.We played other colleges during 1952 just before the Korean War.
"During World War Two, I had the fortune to meet Ted Williams, George Halas, Alvin Dark and other famous athletes who doubled as Marines. I even met Joe Coleman, the announcer for Padre games. In the picture below, Paul Stephenson holds of his picture of Eddie La Baron He had the fortune to meet many football players during World War 2, the Korean War and also the Vietnam War.
Well that sure wet my appetite and the more we chatted, the more information I received about the war years and of course Eddie La Baron. 'Amby' Schindler coached the future Washington Redskin star while he played quarterback at Stockton High School in the forties.
Schindler along with another coach taught La Baron the hidden ball trick. The quarterback would fake a hand-off to a back and hide it under his belly. With the other team going after the wrong man, he would take off and run with it
I took his phone number down and this would be our third breakfast meal. The 89 year old was fascinated with my Schindler story. And since the Motel Six now has phone hook-ups everywhere in the U.S.A I can make a date with Mr. Stephenson at any time, as long as it is early since he takes care of his lovely wife Mary, a invalid.
I am overwhelmed at his memory and good health even though he needs to bathe himself everyday and go to the VA for Agent Orange treatments. He and his wife live on a hill a block from the library, and with a good view of the Pacific.
Today, Tuesday the sixteenth of December, I met him again at seven o'clock at Dennis. The shell of his story is presented here. I decided to write his story since he knew a lot about Marine football during World War 2, the Korean War, and Vietnam debacle. He served for 32 years.
His old 52 Mercury, in-mint condition, was parked outside. He remembered, not bad for a 88 year old. And there he sat in the back against the window. It had rained and his home was only one block away on a hill overlooking the ocean.
"George do you wish to sit here or over there."
"Nice to see you. Rather sit over there, where it is roomier. What are you having?"
"The Pancakes and eggs. It is my treat."
I didn't argue with Paul since his $8,200 a month Marine retirement check made mine look anemic. I told the waitress the same. To save time and make it more exciting, I have edited out me and the trifles and regrouped what he told me. So those who need to buy a pop corn or licorice stick at the candy counter do it now during our intermission. And charge it to me.
"Last time you spoke about enlisting at 15 years of age. Why did you?"
He laughs and swallows the last of his pancakes minus the butter. His large warm face is covered by a Marine cap. He had told the waitress to hold the butter do to a health problem.
"We played soldiers on my block in Akron, Ohio. We marched in line everywhere. A member made fake rifles out of the old discarded two-by-fours. To get into our club, you needed to take orders and once in never to leave. In other words, once a regiment member it was forever."
"My Dad suffered from Epilepsy and he shook in the early morning hours. Mom had to put a piece of wood inside his mouth and we had to hold him down. He worked for the railroad and we didn't have much...In Akron, we made a dollar to hold the ropes when the blimps went and retrieved them when the blimp came down."
"In Vietnam, one of my jobs was watching our bombers, particularly in Da Nang. I learned later agent orange had been placed on them since somebody screamed for us to get away when they placed the poison onto the planes. were used to spread agent orange into the foliage to make it easier to find the enemy."
"I needed to wear metal underwear. It was uncomfortable but necessary. A good buddy in my regiment hit a booby-trap and lost all of his limbs. What a shame. We called him Clark Gable since he was handsome. I waved to an helicopter and they dropped down and removed him from the battle field. . They saved his life minus legs, arms and a penis. He died a day after I had seen him in Victorville."
At that juncture I asked him for the formation his team used. He mentioned the name of a Stanford coach whose name I can't spell. He initiated the T formation with the quarterback under center and two blocking backs and a fullback He drew the formation down on a napkin for me.
Of course above was his T formation with the Quarterback under center. "The fullback did the blocking for one of the two backs and the guard would lead the sweep to one side. Usually the ball would be handed to a back and the sweep would go around end.
"Eddie La Baron Played for the Redskins and we got to know each other in 1952. Nobody could scramble the way he did...There were hundreds of Marine teams that took on colleges, or other teams."
Our exchange began at seven and ended at eight o'clock. No I did not need a recorder or stenographer. My mind recalled every word.
Now I know why HE wishes me to be homeless. You are forced to run-into people who will surely change your life.
"George, ain't ya going to finish your eggs?"
"No Paul, my energy soaked up your story, and I have no energy left to pick up a fork."
"Working on a story about Amby Schindler, who played football for U.S.C. in the 30's. He ordered pancakes without butter and looked over at some material I had been writing
"Well George, I did play football for the Marine team while at the Quantico Base 1952. The city is just outside Washington D.C. My would you believe my quarterback was non-other than Eddie La Baron. I played guard for the Marine team then and met lots of football players during World War Two.We played other colleges during 1952 just before the Korean War.
"During World War Two, I had the fortune to meet Ted Williams, George Halas, Alvin Dark and other famous athletes who doubled as Marines. I even met Joe Coleman, the announcer for Padre games. In the picture below, Paul Stephenson holds of his picture of Eddie La Baron He had the fortune to meet many football players during World War 2, the Korean War and also the Vietnam War.
Schindler along with another coach taught La Baron the hidden ball trick. The quarterback would fake a hand-off to a back and hide it under his belly. With the other team going after the wrong man, he would take off and run with it
I took his phone number down and this would be our third breakfast meal. The 89 year old was fascinated with my Schindler story. And since the Motel Six now has phone hook-ups everywhere in the U.S.A I can make a date with Mr. Stephenson at any time, as long as it is early since he takes care of his lovely wife Mary, a invalid.
I am overwhelmed at his memory and good health even though he needs to bathe himself everyday and go to the VA for Agent Orange treatments. He and his wife live on a hill a block from the library, and with a good view of the Pacific.
Today, Tuesday the sixteenth of December, I met him again at seven o'clock at Dennis. The shell of his story is presented here. I decided to write his story since he knew a lot about Marine football during World War 2, the Korean War, and Vietnam debacle. He served for 32 years.
His old 52 Mercury, in-mint condition, was parked outside. He remembered, not bad for a 88 year old. And there he sat in the back against the window. It had rained and his home was only one block away on a hill overlooking the ocean.
"George do you wish to sit here or over there."
"Nice to see you. Rather sit over there, where it is roomier. What are you having?"
"The Pancakes and eggs. It is my treat."
I didn't argue with Paul since his $8,200 a month Marine retirement check made mine look anemic. I told the waitress the same. To save time and make it more exciting, I have edited out me and the trifles and regrouped what he told me. So those who need to buy a pop corn or licorice stick at the candy counter do it now during our intermission. And charge it to me.
"Last time you spoke about enlisting at 15 years of age. Why did you?"
He laughs and swallows the last of his pancakes minus the butter. His large warm face is covered by a Marine cap. He had told the waitress to hold the butter do to a health problem.
"We played soldiers on my block in Akron, Ohio. We marched in line everywhere. A member made fake rifles out of the old discarded two-by-fours. To get into our club, you needed to take orders and once in never to leave. In other words, once a regiment member it was forever."
"My Dad suffered from Epilepsy and he shook in the early morning hours. Mom had to put a piece of wood inside his mouth and we had to hold him down. He worked for the railroad and we didn't have much...In Akron, we made a dollar to hold the ropes when the blimps went and retrieved them when the blimp came down."
"I enlisted when fifteen. My brother was one year ahead of me. I ended up at Elliot Field in San Diego before I shipped out. The one battle I will never forget was the one at Bougainvillea. It must must have been over one hundred and twenty degrees with high humidity. I will never forget the mosquitoes. I constantly tried to keep the buggers off of me without any effect.
"The Japanese used to plant cigarettes on the dead soldiers. They knew we loved cigarettes and used the scent of them to smoke us out. But it didn't work. We were smart enough not to touch the dead Japanese soldiers. knew where we were from the scent of the cigarettes. Sometimes the dead Japanese soldiers were booby trapped, so we pulled their feet with a rope not to take any chances.""In Vietnam, one of my jobs was watching our bombers, particularly in Da Nang. I learned later agent orange had been placed on them since somebody screamed for us to get away when they placed the poison onto the planes. were used to spread agent orange into the foliage to make it easier to find the enemy."
"I needed to wear metal underwear. It was uncomfortable but necessary. A good buddy in my regiment hit a booby-trap and lost all of his limbs. What a shame. We called him Clark Gable since he was handsome. I waved to an helicopter and they dropped down and removed him from the battle field. . They saved his life minus legs, arms and a penis. He died a day after I had seen him in Victorville."
At that juncture I asked him for the formation his team used. He mentioned the name of a Stanford coach whose name I can't spell. He initiated the T formation with the quarterback under center and two blocking backs and a fullback He drew the formation down on a napkin for me.
Of course above was his T formation with the Quarterback under center. "The fullback did the blocking for one of the two backs and the guard would lead the sweep to one side. Usually the ball would be handed to a back and the sweep would go around end.
"Eddie La Baron Played for the Redskins and we got to know each other in 1952. Nobody could scramble the way he did...There were hundreds of Marine teams that took on colleges, or other teams."
Our exchange began at seven and ended at eight o'clock. No I did not need a recorder or stenographer. My mind recalled every word.
Now I know why HE wishes me to be homeless. You are forced to run-into people who will surely change your life.
"George, ain't ya going to finish your eggs?"
"No Paul, my energy soaked up your story, and I have no energy left to pick up a fork."
Saturday, December 13, 2014
San Diego Library on a Rainy Day.
The new San Diego Central Library opens at 12 o'clock on Fridays. I park my car at the Old Town Commuter lot. I don't need the hassle of looking for a space or paying for parking place
. The Green Line going south drops me off at the Imperial Transit station, only two long blocks from the Central Library. Of course I love to walk.
Hundreds of Mexican laborers, servants, domestics and the what-ever-else-there-is-to-be-done aboard when I leave. The represent the back-bone of San Diego. Without them, San Diego would not operate. The Transit Center is only two long blocks from the library, and the scenic walk with the Coronado Bridge to my back makes it memorable.
The Imperial Transit Center is where all trolleys and three bus lines meet. It is still raining. Hundreds of Mexican exit the Blue Line Trolley and enter the Green Line going to Santee. The come from across the border every day. They are the laborers, maids, servers and whatever-else-there-is-to-be-done. I open my umbrella and sit inside the Transit Café. I eat two of my tangerines to wash down the heavily spiced Mexican breakfast I had eaten a bit earlier. A few hardy workers carry trash bags of cans and bottles. They are going to a recycling plant a few blocks away.
The skies opened earlier that morning. No it was not the God of Moses opening up the Red Sea, or the blitz of London. I opened the door of my little Motel Six and a sheet of rain slapped me in the face. The deluge came down in the Mission Valley at exactly six o'clock.
In no way would I drive today, the trains and buses would do the honor. Streets flooded in about one hour of insistent, stubborn rain. Peering out my Motel Six window, I felt happy to watch the commuters' on the 8 going east were able to dance around freeway puddles and avoid a car that had rear-ended another.
Earlier the San Diego channel 10 provided pictures of San Francisco. Many streets appeared to be rivers as small boats weaved around submerged cars. Homes were flooded and the city counted more rain that early day than the entire month of December of last year. San Francisco suffered the worst rain storm in five years. Street are flooded and marine stores are selling out of rafts, life boats.
I walk my one-half-mile-way towards the new library. I enter by myself on the Tenth Street side. On the North side the doors are opened. A hoard of hundreds of soaked patrons stampede towards the escalators. Many of these homeless live in tents on Park Blvd,, close to the library. Their Ralph's shopping carts serve them as their kitchen.
Some have hollow-cheek faces upset that their teeth left long ago. Their bank is their E.B.T. card that E.B.T cards. wherare burned at the Seven Eleven or Starbucks where sodas and two hot-doggies serve and food. Some are young but without teeth appear older. Those who have lived under the stars at night have dark, too-dark skin with wrinkles fighting for space. Of course I fit perfectly into this herd of the homeless. None are Chinese or Mexican. They are mainly blacks in the majority and white in the minority.
Why one would have thought Macy's was having a once-a year sell. Many Library clients run t the little bathrooms which sit one-at-a-time. Others take up luxurious sofa-chairs facing large wall windows with a view of Petco Park and the South Harbor area.
I take the elevator to my eight floor computer station. I am the second one to log on. 'Laughing Gas sits across from me and Mr. Piggy sits two down. Mr. Piggy snorts every thirty second or so. The laughing one punches the computer with one finger. The computers become their play stations.
I find computer number 805 on the eight floor and begin to settle in and write. I hear a commotion. Maria, who I met two months ago, comes in and helps one of her five children reserve a computer. I place my finger over my mouth. She shouts like always. They think that the library is a day-care-center or a playground. One signs her kid on one of the computers. I know it must be a school day, since her boy is old enough for third grade but still baby sits for her younger one.
Across from me he laughs as usual. Another girl is carrying on a conversation with her boy friend. A few more hollow-cheek homeless walk in with their straggling girl friends. The one with a cane brings a dog with him. He lumbers to a lounge chair with a southwest view of the Harbor. I wonder how much of their EBT card is used for dog food.
I have learned to filter out the noises and yearn for the days when libraries behaved like libraries. Now it is a place to socialize, toilet, or scroll their smart phones. Each homeless one owns a cell phone. Many live outside inside tents that litter Park Blvd. It is no wonder many refuse to entertain this Zoo. Many argue about where to park and how much it will cost.
After my computer work, I go upstairs to the ninth floor to watch some microfilms and JPG some pages for my football story. I love this California Room. Few people know about it so I will be quiet.
Yes the new Library is a zoo. But I am one of the animals and it is exciting. On the first floor I play chess with another who creams me in five moves. One Friday each month they have a swing band play on the ninth floor.
If only this thirteenth wonder of the world had been built on the Westside, the California room would be occupied by many rather than two or three. I can only guess that the decision to build it in the center of the homeless population was to keep them away from the rest of the city.
The library is opened every day. It opens at ten each day but weekend ones. The Blue and Orange lines drop you off at Market Street and from there it takes only a minute or two to walk there.
. The Green Line going south drops me off at the Imperial Transit station, only two long blocks from the Central Library. Of course I love to walk.
Hundreds of Mexican laborers, servants, domestics and the what-ever-else-there-is-to-be-done aboard when I leave. The represent the back-bone of San Diego. Without them, San Diego would not operate. The Transit Center is only two long blocks from the library, and the scenic walk with the Coronado Bridge to my back makes it memorable.
The Imperial Transit Center is where all trolleys and three bus lines meet. It is still raining. Hundreds of Mexican exit the Blue Line Trolley and enter the Green Line going to Santee. The come from across the border every day. They are the laborers, maids, servers and whatever-else-there-is-to-be-done. I open my umbrella and sit inside the Transit Café. I eat two of my tangerines to wash down the heavily spiced Mexican breakfast I had eaten a bit earlier. A few hardy workers carry trash bags of cans and bottles. They are going to a recycling plant a few blocks away.
The skies opened earlier that morning. No it was not the God of Moses opening up the Red Sea, or the blitz of London. I opened the door of my little Motel Six and a sheet of rain slapped me in the face. The deluge came down in the Mission Valley at exactly six o'clock.
In no way would I drive today, the trains and buses would do the honor. Streets flooded in about one hour of insistent, stubborn rain. Peering out my Motel Six window, I felt happy to watch the commuters' on the 8 going east were able to dance around freeway puddles and avoid a car that had rear-ended another.
Earlier the San Diego channel 10 provided pictures of San Francisco. Many streets appeared to be rivers as small boats weaved around submerged cars. Homes were flooded and the city counted more rain that early day than the entire month of December of last year. San Francisco suffered the worst rain storm in five years. Street are flooded and marine stores are selling out of rafts, life boats.
I walk my one-half-mile-way towards the new library. I enter by myself on the Tenth Street side. On the North side the doors are opened. A hoard of hundreds of soaked patrons stampede towards the escalators. Many of these homeless live in tents on Park Blvd,, close to the library. Their Ralph's shopping carts serve them as their kitchen.
Some have hollow-cheek faces upset that their teeth left long ago. Their bank is their E.B.T. card that E.B.T cards. wherare burned at the Seven Eleven or Starbucks where sodas and two hot-doggies serve and food. Some are young but without teeth appear older. Those who have lived under the stars at night have dark, too-dark skin with wrinkles fighting for space. Of course I fit perfectly into this herd of the homeless. None are Chinese or Mexican. They are mainly blacks in the majority and white in the minority.
Why one would have thought Macy's was having a once-a year sell. Many Library clients run t the little bathrooms which sit one-at-a-time. Others take up luxurious sofa-chairs facing large wall windows with a view of Petco Park and the South Harbor area.
I take the elevator to my eight floor computer station. I am the second one to log on. 'Laughing Gas sits across from me and Mr. Piggy sits two down. Mr. Piggy snorts every thirty second or so. The laughing one punches the computer with one finger. The computers become their play stations.
I find computer number 805 on the eight floor and begin to settle in and write. I hear a commotion. Maria, who I met two months ago, comes in and helps one of her five children reserve a computer. I place my finger over my mouth. She shouts like always. They think that the library is a day-care-center or a playground. One signs her kid on one of the computers. I know it must be a school day, since her boy is old enough for third grade but still baby sits for her younger one.
Across from me he laughs as usual. Another girl is carrying on a conversation with her boy friend. A few more hollow-cheek homeless walk in with their straggling girl friends. The one with a cane brings a dog with him. He lumbers to a lounge chair with a southwest view of the Harbor. I wonder how much of their EBT card is used for dog food.
I have learned to filter out the noises and yearn for the days when libraries behaved like libraries. Now it is a place to socialize, toilet, or scroll their smart phones. Each homeless one owns a cell phone. Many live outside inside tents that litter Park Blvd. It is no wonder many refuse to entertain this Zoo. Many argue about where to park and how much it will cost.
After my computer work, I go upstairs to the ninth floor to watch some microfilms and JPG some pages for my football story. I love this California Room. Few people know about it so I will be quiet.
Yes the new Library is a zoo. But I am one of the animals and it is exciting. On the first floor I play chess with another who creams me in five moves. One Friday each month they have a swing band play on the ninth floor.
If only this thirteenth wonder of the world had been built on the Westside, the California room would be occupied by many rather than two or three. I can only guess that the decision to build it in the center of the homeless population was to keep them away from the rest of the city.
The library is opened every day. It opens at ten each day but weekend ones. The Blue and Orange lines drop you off at Market Street and from there it takes only a minute or two to walk there.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
The Mission Valley. San Diego
The Mission Valley area in San Diego is hot and dry most of the time. The 8 freeway winds around it as does the San Diego river. My lungs love dry but clean air.
The Motel Six is at the foot of Hotel Circle, where there is a sting of hotels and shopping centers I needed several days to recuperate from my insidious bronchial infection. About 53 dollars a night is what I pay for peace and bliss during the holiday season. Last week's typical day is described below - but those who know me can find no two days alike. In an earlier blog, I mentioned that San Diego is like dame wearing a different Victoria's Secret every day. Also I will video much of my work from now on. You may need sunscreen to watch me.
Like always, I woke up at about one o'clock and picked up my book about the life of Queen Victoria. Also I turned on my transistor radio to hear classical music. I began my new day at five thirty. Inside the warm shower I shampoo and shave. You see, I need to always look good - that is ever since my two grand daughters Summer and Spring were born.
Also I am thankful my number two daughter has given up Mr Nicotine and unpacked her depression pills. She now sees everything through rose-colored glasses.
My Motel Six spills out to the eight freeway. With a few turns I land on the eight headed east. I keep in the right lane that spits me out on the #168 downtown freeway. I exit on University Blvd and after a two quick right turns find my disabled parking lot in front of the Scripps Mercy Hospital. I take my left-overs from a earlier dinner and proceed to the cafeteria. At the counter waits my spinach breakfast along with two scrambled eggs.
"Sir is that all you wish? What about the usual two strips of bacon?"
"Thank you for asking. But last night I shared a dinner with my Jewish friend. In his honor I will eat Jewish this morning. At that moment I am thinking about our dinner and how the lawyers at Twentieth Century Fox picked the pockets of the studios new owners. But this story is not ripe for plucking just yet."
The daily medication has removed the snug film covering my bronchial tubes. This film is replayed every fall when the cold damp air is feasted on by these nosy sequestered bacteria. The dust and other pollutants are just what they need to feast on. But not today. I make sure to huddle myself in central air buildings.
I look over my manuscript and savor every spinach bite. Somehow, the greens taste better with eggs. I will try to wean myself off of toast. With the coffee it cost me just five cents over three dollars. The salad bar is only .35 an ounce which makes it a half as much as the one at Ralph's.
Dr. George now makes his way to the medical library. Soon I hope to unveil the causes of dementia, asthma, and other diseases. But not today. The New York Times welcomes me to read about how the C.I.A. water boarded, kept prisoners awake for days, or made them eat from their rectums. No longer do I trust the government as our Statue of Liberty has run out of Kleenex.
I leave and go west to the Pacific Highway. A few bumps tell me I have passed the rail tracks. I made another right and another and park my car at the Old Town Station. I remove my nap sack and place the tuna sandwich and writing material inside it. A ride on the Green Line takes me to the Imperial Transit Station where I sit and eat some of my left over pineapple slices.
Several hundred Mexicans climb aboard going the other way. They are the workers of San Diego. None carry E.B.T. cards. Most work in hotels, the airport, or restaurants. Many wear construction metal hats. All serve San Diego and without them buildings would be built, ,and you might have to wait to get a burger at at the eateries.
The rest of my day I spent at the Central Library on their eight floor computers before climbing the stairs to the California room and the microfilms. My day is only half over at about two o'clock but you will have to wait since my time on the eight floor is soon to run out.
The Motel Six is at the foot of Hotel Circle, where there is a sting of hotels and shopping centers I needed several days to recuperate from my insidious bronchial infection. About 53 dollars a night is what I pay for peace and bliss during the holiday season. Last week's typical day is described below - but those who know me can find no two days alike. In an earlier blog, I mentioned that San Diego is like dame wearing a different Victoria's Secret every day. Also I will video much of my work from now on. You may need sunscreen to watch me.
Like always, I woke up at about one o'clock and picked up my book about the life of Queen Victoria. Also I turned on my transistor radio to hear classical music. I began my new day at five thirty. Inside the warm shower I shampoo and shave. You see, I need to always look good - that is ever since my two grand daughters Summer and Spring were born.
Also I am thankful my number two daughter has given up Mr Nicotine and unpacked her depression pills. She now sees everything through rose-colored glasses.
My Motel Six spills out to the eight freeway. With a few turns I land on the eight headed east. I keep in the right lane that spits me out on the #168 downtown freeway. I exit on University Blvd and after a two quick right turns find my disabled parking lot in front of the Scripps Mercy Hospital. I take my left-overs from a earlier dinner and proceed to the cafeteria. At the counter waits my spinach breakfast along with two scrambled eggs.
"Sir is that all you wish? What about the usual two strips of bacon?"
"Thank you for asking. But last night I shared a dinner with my Jewish friend. In his honor I will eat Jewish this morning. At that moment I am thinking about our dinner and how the lawyers at Twentieth Century Fox picked the pockets of the studios new owners. But this story is not ripe for plucking just yet."
The daily medication has removed the snug film covering my bronchial tubes. This film is replayed every fall when the cold damp air is feasted on by these nosy sequestered bacteria. The dust and other pollutants are just what they need to feast on. But not today. I make sure to huddle myself in central air buildings.
I look over my manuscript and savor every spinach bite. Somehow, the greens taste better with eggs. I will try to wean myself off of toast. With the coffee it cost me just five cents over three dollars. The salad bar is only .35 an ounce which makes it a half as much as the one at Ralph's.
Dr. George now makes his way to the medical library. Soon I hope to unveil the causes of dementia, asthma, and other diseases. But not today. The New York Times welcomes me to read about how the C.I.A. water boarded, kept prisoners awake for days, or made them eat from their rectums. No longer do I trust the government as our Statue of Liberty has run out of Kleenex.
I leave and go west to the Pacific Highway. A few bumps tell me I have passed the rail tracks. I made another right and another and park my car at the Old Town Station. I remove my nap sack and place the tuna sandwich and writing material inside it. A ride on the Green Line takes me to the Imperial Transit Station where I sit and eat some of my left over pineapple slices.
Several hundred Mexicans climb aboard going the other way. They are the workers of San Diego. None carry E.B.T. cards. Most work in hotels, the airport, or restaurants. Many wear construction metal hats. All serve San Diego and without them buildings would be built, ,and you might have to wait to get a burger at at the eateries.
The rest of my day I spent at the Central Library on their eight floor computers before climbing the stairs to the California room and the microfilms. My day is only half over at about two o'clock but you will have to wait since my time on the eight floor is soon to run out.
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