Ricki by Ricki T Thues

Ricki

by Ricki T Thues

 

I am floating in pure warm darkness, rocking gently in perpetual sleep. Suddenly the world presses down on me with unrelenting force. I am propelled inexorably toward a singular point of piercing bright light. The light dilates into a burning sun. Someone is screaming. Growling, barking sounds seem to be encouraging the screams. I am propelled into cold, hard hands that hang me by the ankles and slap me. My lungs suck at the cold, thin air, and I scream. The hands place me next to warm comfort, and I feel suddenly at home.

 

My earliest actual memory was told to me. Even so, it has the color and texture of a real event.

 

I walked into the living room wearing my cowboy hat, gun belt, and spurs. My niece Page saw me from across the room. Just as I was beginning to draw, Page shot me dead with her finger. My gun clattered to the floor, and so did I, moaning in death throes. The adults in the room were laughing hysterically. I found out later that their laughter was because I was wearing my cowboy hat, gun belt, and spurs, and nothing else.

 

None of us students knew what to expect of first grade. I had no idea we were expected to pay attention. The third day of school, I arrived in class, put my three textbooks under the desk, and sat down. Ms. Baldywall stood at the front of the room and said, “Ok boys and girls, who wants to tell their story first?” In a moment of panic, I remembered her assigning us to prepare a short speech for today. I looked frantically around. Wanting to get it over with, I raised my hand. “Ok Ricki, stand up.” I reached under my desk, picked up the books, and spoke: “Books are made in different ways,” I said, a little too loud. “This one is stapled together. This one is glued. And this one has a swirling plastic on the edge.” I sat down.

 

“Very nice, Ricki. Well prepared.” I let out a long breath.

 

My parents were water skiers. We vacationed on the Colorado River with my Uncle Jack. Jack’s 80 HP Mercury outboard ski boat was way too powerful for a 7-year-old. My father’s 40-horsepower Evinrude was too powerful, too. So my father rigged up a ski rope, slipped it around his waist, and ran along the shore, pulling me out of the water. I was skiing!

 

In fifth grade, my class walked to the local library every week. I sprawled on the floor, surrounding myself with children’s readers and novels. Dr. Dolittle taught me to love creatures and people. Space Cat taught me that there was so much more in the world than just the world. Dr. Seuss taught the value of morality and rhyme. I fell in love with reading in the fifth grade. 

 

Mr. Tannenbaum was at the front of the sixth-grade class writing something on the board. I was busy making faces at the student behind me and twisting my ear, as Mr. T was known to do. People were laughing; I was smiling. I was discovering that I have an inner clown. The volume of laughter kept rising when I felt my other ear being painfully twisted. I turned to look over my shoulder. There was Mr. Tannenbaum, smiling broadly at me. “They’re not laughing with you, Ricki; they’re laughing at you,” he said. “I’ll see you after class.”

 

Three teachers in high school caused a paradigm shift in my thinking. Brother Kim taught me that in algebra, the equal sign means that everything on the left of the equation must be equal to everything on the right of the equation. If you do something to the left, you must do the same thing to the right. My biology teacher, Father Gaglia, taught me that all creatures were the same. My English teacher, Mr. Watson, taught me that the Universe was as large as our imaginations. 

 

When I arrived at the University of Notre Dame a week early for my freshman orientation, I walked the campus and took in one beautiful area after another. At the beach of Saint Joseph Lake, I encountered some junior-year students who were about to go swimming. They introduced themselves and said, “Wanna go for a swim?” I said yes; they took off all their clothes and jumped in the water, so I did too. Later, I found out that swimming in St. Joe’s wasn’t allowed but reasoned that I wasn’t really a student yet. 

 

Advised by my family doctor, I began my course of studies at Notre Dame as a premed. This was fine until analytical geometry, where I was told that postulates were something that you just had to believe. I asked my teacher what proof we have for postulates; he said, “There is no proof; you just have to have faith. Here’s a chart to look up the sine and cosine values.” I thought that faith was for religion, and not for math, and switched to an English degree. This changed everything. It was through exposure to the scientific method and study of the humanities that I learned my most valuable skill: critical thinking.

 

Walking between the two lakes at Notre Dame, I encountered the stations of the cross. In my head, Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer" was playing. When I arrived at the clearing, where Jesus hung from a cross, the lyrics

 

“In the clearing stands a boxer

And a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders

Of every glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out

In his anger and his shame

"I am leaving, I am leaving

But the fighter still remains”

 

sang in my head. Jesus was the boxer, and I was the fighter that remained. This dance with religion did not last long, but it gave me faith in everything that was to come. 

 

Armed with a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Notre Dame, I became a bus driver. I drove a dial-a-ride bus, complete with groupies and little old ladies. I drove a bus in West Hollywood for the Westside Jewish community, taking elderly people to a kosher meal. On one of those trips, a little old Jewish man, who was a rich stock investor, heard on the radio that the Russians had just landed a spacecraft on the moon. He yelled out for everyone to hear, “That’s not possible! The moon is only this big,” he said, putting a small circle of fingers up toward the sky. Everyone has a right to their opinion.

 

A bunch of high school friends got together at a bar on the Newport Beach peninsula. Men and women paired off until only Paula and I remained. We walked on the beach for hours and fell in love.

 

Hurdling toward our wedding, I began to work for Paula’s father, Fred. Precision Cabinets was where Fred taught me everything I needed to know to begin a long and interesting foray into woodworking. I advanced to an architectural mill where I learned to turn raw wood into cabinetry and staircases. Later, I was hired at Disneyland for the Fantasyland project. We built the Dumbo Circus Calliope and repaired coffins in the Haunted Mansion. Next was a trade show exhibit house where we turned designer renderings into traveling exhibit structures.

 

In 1984, I bought a Macintosh computer for $666 (a nod from Steve Jobs to the sign of the beast). One of the programs was MacProject. At the exhibit house, the foreman used a whiteboard for the project Gantt charts. I brought my Mac to work one day, pointed to the whiteboard, and said to the owner, “We can do that with this computer.” “Can you do it?” he asked. I said, “Yes.” So he gave me an office and a salary.

 

As the de facto IT manager and company Ombudsman, I led the exhibit house into the Internet Age. Design and Graphics used Apple hardware and Adobe software. The salesmen loved the multiple renderings and computerized proposals. My boss actually ordered me to explore this new Internet thing for a couple of hours a day. It was a time of discovery in my life.

 

When the exhibit house was sold, I reinvented myself as the iMentor, a private Apple Computer consultant. This was my favorite career. The average age of my clients was a grateful 78 years. I placed them in front of the computer and consulted them on how to solve their own problems. My motto was “I can teach you half as much about computers as your kids know.” Word-of-mouth referrals were the secret of my success. 

 

When I was a young man in school, I doodled spaceships and astronauts floating on my notebook pages. I did not want to be an astronaut to fly in a rocket ship. I wanted to float inside the rocket ship weightless, like Space Cat. In 1977, Paula put a parachute jump on our bucket list. We went to California City on the way to a Grand Canyon vacation and made our first skydives. Five seconds out of the airplane, I knew that freefall was the realization of decades of flying dreams.

 

Later, watching a magnificent thunder and lightning show over the Grand Canyon, we talked of nothing but our skydives. On the way back home, we stopped at Cal City and made another jump. We both became skydivers. Our hobby took us all over the United States. Soon we foresaw another bucket list item: to skydive in every state. This goal took 35 years to complete. Each of us had over 5,000 jumps when we found ourselves 10,000 feet above Dillingham Field, Oahu, Hawaii, kissing each other in freefall. The 50th state of the Union was the 50th state we jumped.

 

Paula and I spent five years looking for a house to retire in. As far north as Bend, Oregon, and as far east as Loveland, Colorado, we found nothing that checked all the boxes. Then, on a whim to see southeast rural Riverside County, we stumbled upon Lake Riverside Estates in Aguanga, California.

 

The house is a small barn-red “A” framed cabin on a ridge with four acres of land at 4000 feet MSL. The horizon is a stunning 360° view of four mountain ranges, with an aviation/equestrian valley community below. We stood on the edge of the backyard cliff and said to each other, “We can live here.” It is the last house I will ever buy.

 

My retirement has brought me together with a group of high school classmates and our English teacher to help form a writers’ group called Writers Anonymous. Together we have published two collections of short stories. I have been inspired to write my own two books of short stories. “Technically Human” is a curation of blog episodes from my iMentor Hints and Rants. “Skydivers Know Why Birds Sing” is a collection of short stories about Paula and my 40 years of skydiving adventures.

 

I call my property Raven’s Ridge after the ravens that play over my backyard cliff. Life here is a slow, challenging, satisfying, quiet, and calm adventure. As Paula likes to say, we are on an Adventure of a Lifetime. 

Don't Let the Truth Get In the Way of a Good Story by David Molina

  Don't Let the Truth Get In the Way of a Good Story

 I was born at a very early age, which was very common back then.  Pretty much everyone in our family has one eye bigger than the other; to such an extent that if Picasso did our family portrait, we’d look normal.

Speaking of Picasso, part of me was French. Which part, I have not a clue except that one cousin of mine said that the French are assholes. This cousin was not on the asshole part of the family tree, but he did quote my henchman Frenchman by the name of Gustave Flaubert:

“To be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost.”

Me being French, I worked on perfecting the stupid part of his advice, and it was off to the races.  Stupidity was not lacking. No sir, not on my watch.  At a very early age - somewhere between my birth and today - I was stupid enough to run away with the circus. But then they made me give it back. Probably had something to do about my French connection.

My childhood was also hampered by my speech impediment. I could not pwonounce my awes. Whenever I screwed up, I exclaimed to my parents “NOBODY’S POOFECT.” They thought it was cute.

I lived on the streets. Mostly Rushford and Lashburn, the meanest streets in Whittier. The 1950’s was a time when families had so many kids their parents couldn’t count them.

We kids owned the street until well after dark. We had no fancy toys, we entertained ourselves mostly with rocks and sticks. We had no phones, or computers, or even video games, so you can see how we had a lot of time on our hands. What hobbies we had were pretty lame - we had stamp collections and coin collections. All you could do is look at them.

But on the other hand, we had electric guitars. We could raise the roof off the garage, providing us the joy of irritating old fogeys who could have turned off their hearing aids if they really wanted to. The House of the Rising Sun was the only song we knew, but that was enough.

Well, that’s about it for my autobiography. Oh wait, there’s more.

Servite High School served us to smoke weed and High was our middle name. The late 60’s was the end of a decade. We were smack in the middle of the end of that decade, and then had to face the beginning of the beginning decade. They called it the 70’s. Thanks to Mr. Speas, we did the math ourselves without the help of Mr. Speas, who wasn’t a big help if you ask my opinion, though you probably won’t. Good on you, I’ve got more autobiography coming. But I have to warn you, it’s not an “auto”  biography about cars, if that’s what’s hanging you up in traffic. You’ll have to have a good, long look in your back mirror, but I got to say it’s not your best-looking angle. 

English was more my cup of tea time, all about Anglos and Saxons and Jutes (Oh My!). The thing about language is that if you’re dumb, nobody will notice. I’ve never pretended because for languages, being mute is moot since my ship will never sail from the barn anyhow.

Which is to say I like my mixed metaphors, shaken, on the rocks, and with a pinch of salt. A big pinch of a little salt goes a long way, or say they say. And who is to say? Nobody I know.

But it wasn’t all for lost as far as Servite, just wait to see what happened at college. USC (Unspectacular Scatterbrained Clods) stood for football games more than stand and deliver in the classroom.

The first thing I learned as a learned guy was that unless you made a move on that girl during the first week of the semester, some guy would bring home the bacon as opposed to me who got toasted. I made it my pejorative to strike up (or often out) a conversation, any conversation south of the weather, if you catch my drift. 

One fine morning during philosophy class in Mudd Hall (gringo for adobe), I spied an empty seat between two hot tamales, you know (or don’t) that spicy goes nicely, but a two-some is rude sometimes as what this untimely time appeared to be heading. So I did the right thing and the right stuff and landed my booty between the two tutti-frutties.

Hmm. Huera vs Morena. Fair-skinned vs. dark skin.

 I was cross-eyed at first glances. I looked to the left, then to the right, and when I went left it was right. Which is to say she had the right to not be left, since she was the right one. Which could have proved my point -  had it not been pointless. 

Long short story short, I got the girl, but that was only the beginning. One day, I don’t remember the date, she told me she was not a dating type, but rather a marrying type. She said she would give me sufficient time to think it over, but within a nonspecific time to think and give me an answer: yay or nay. 

So I decided to chew on that, not having the choice of having to choose one of either of the two choices too frivolously. But clearly it became clear - we were novios.  

Sooner than later (to wit, 4 years plus, so that was later) we marked up from novios status to wedded man and wife, and the rest is history.

Not in the sort of a history book story, more like more than half a century of a love story story. Just as we promised to be one for both, and both for one, we did good.

Some writers write  “Don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story.” Better than that, the truth is a good story, when a good story is the truth.

The end? 

Of course not.

Green Ham And Purple Potatoes By Mike Freeman

 Green Ham And Purple Potatoes

By Mike Freeman

Men have roughly 10 colors through which they evaluate the world. Black, brown, purple, red, orange, blue, green, yellow, white, and maybe pink. We feel very sophisticated if we can distinguish between colors like light and dark blue. Or maybe combine colors like blue-green. If a man uses the word "Burgundy," he is talking about wine, not a shirt color.

We love color, but keep it simple. We are too busy doing detailed spatial calculations with our brains. We associate color and the objects in the world around us in concrete terms. Green lettuce is good, but green meatloaf recently discovered in the refrigerator is not. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailors' delight. You can eat white snow, but leave yellow snow alone.

Women seem to see an infinite number of colors and give each a name. These color names confuse men and are beyond our comprehension. Women discern colors called puce, salmon, fuchsia, rose, coral, blush, and peach. Men see those same colors and call them pink. Pink adequately describes the world for us. God made us this way. I don't know why.

Some people see everything in black and white. Both men and women. I am excluding colorblind people because they have a medical condition. Seeing the world in black and white is a perceptual challenge. Things are either good or bad, pretty or ugly (pretty ugly doesn't really exist), right or wrong, and so on. There are no "shades of gray" or diverse opinions and perceptions. It is one way or the other. I am not talking about these kinds of people. I find it hard to spend much time with them.

Most people view the world through a rainbow of colors. These are the people I am talking about. Men classify these colors in roughly 10 basic groups. Women utilize half a kabillion groups.

Karen and Joyce invite me over to dinner one evening. Karen is attending San Diego State University and is one of my younger sisters. Joyce attends the same school and grew up in our neighborhood. I am out of graduate school, working my first career job as a system analyst/programmer in IT at a local shipyard.

Dinner with my sister and neighborhood friend should be an enjoyable, casual affair. I ask if I can bring anything to the dinner they are preparing. They say no, they have everything under control. I miss this first vital clue that mischief is crouching at my door.

I show up with a bottle of wine in hand. We exchange pleasantries at the door to their apartment and move into their living room. Smells from the kitchen are intoxicating.

As a bachelor, I have a few award-winning dinners that I serve to wow my date or friends. Some use a crockpot, others a brown-in-bag, and many a barbecue grill. The aroma emanating from their kitchen is delicious, and I am very hungry.

They can tell I am very interested in the scrumdilicious dinner they are preparing. We update each other on current life events and laugh over some shared memories of the neighborhood. Man, I am really getting hungry. We start to talk about what our future lives might look like. I find myself losing interest in my future as the hunger pains grow.

They scurry in and out of the kitchen, making sure all the different foods are to perfection. We’ll be ready to go in a few minutes. I am starving and thinking about putting ketchup on one of their couch pillows to eat.

"Dinner is served!" They chime.

I attempt to walk to the table with great reserve and dignity. Running to it is beneath a big brother's self-respect.

I sit down, look at my plate, and say, "Smells absolutely delicious!"

"We hope you like it," Karen says with a Cheshire cat smile. I miss this critical clue to the upcoming devilry.

Karen presents the first dish to me with a wondrous flair. It is a delectable green ham! The smell of it makes my hunger nearly insatiable. The look of it does something else to me.

I have confronted green ham before in my life. It occurs too often in the refrigerator of my bachelor's apartment, along with moldy cheese, old mayonnaise, brown lettuce, and stale bread. Regretfully, it always gets thrown out.

But this green ham smells incredible. It is actually healthy to eat! The food color she added to it confuses the eye and brain. I take my first bite. It is beyond delicious, especially with a dash of pink mustard. My taste buds are all in! My stomach screams for more.

The big brother in me cannot allow my little sister to have this moment at my expense. Family gatherings will never be the same. When the group is large and the time is right, I know Karen will jump into the existing conversation, turn to me, and say, "Remember the night I stuffed your face with green ham… and you liked it!"

Being the eldest of six children carries many responsibilities. You have to break in your parents regarding every life experience, good and bad. The eldest has to be a role model for the younger spawn. Younger siblings think the eldest have it easy since everything they receive is new. The eldest does not have to deal with hand-me-down clothes, toys, and reputations. There is one sacred rule for the eldest. Never, ever, let a younger sibling pull a successful prank on you.

It is tempting to reply to her green ham introduction with a sarcastic response saying, "I read the book, Sam I am, you know my feelings, for green eggs and ham!"

I decide not to. With the mental strength of an eldest child, I focus on taste and not sight. The ham is delicious.

The agility of my eldest-child mind gushes forth, helping me to turn to my sister and Joyce, saying, "Best ham I have ever tasted! Don't tell Mom I said that. What other incredible dishes do I smell for dinner?"

Then comes the introduction of purple mashed potatoes. I quickly determine to defeat the color purple and my sister's evil scheme.

"Pile them on!" I roar with glee. "I love mashed potatoes, especially purple ones!"

I am successful in getting Karen and Joyce to laugh with me and not at me.

"What else have you got? Pink rolls? Black broccoli? Red milk?" I ask in a loud, theatrical voice.

Joyce proudly brings out the blue corn.

We dig into our banquet. My  brilliant eldest-child mind now wonders. Could I use the ages-old strategy of "turning the tables" on my younger sister and Joyce? Typically, it works well on young siblings and can even be devastating. It is time to find out.

"Please pass the butter." I quietly ask.

I know there must be an ambush lurking beneath the butter dish cover. I take off the cover, grab a large slab of grey butter, and lavishly spread it on my turquoise roll.

I smack my lips as I eat the roll with relish and glee. Karen and Joyce momentarily lose their composure at the sight of me eating. The grey butter squishing into my mouth is too much for them. I finish with a flourish by doing the "big brother open mouth" chewing routine.

They recover quickly, but my moment of triumph is forever!

The feast continues as we all laugh over their clever dinner plan. We are amazed at the impact different colors have on the tasty food in front of us. It violates our trained perceptions of acceptable edible food colors. It is an incredible struggle for our taste buds and hunger to override our visual understanding.

We discover that exposure to the new color schemes over time helps us fully appreciate our mouthwatering banquet. The food flavor explodes as our minds adjust to the new color status.

Perceptions are tricky. We discover the mind-bending value of viewing the familiar from a new perspective or a different color.

Our perceptions and worldview well up from our past experiences and biases. Testing them with new colors helps us keep an open mind. As a male, I can now tell the difference between pink, salmon, and fuchsia. I can now discern when eating green ham is a safe and tasty idea!

Sand by Don Taco

                                                               Sand 

                                                                                                                                                                             copyright 2026 by Don Taco

                                                  

I went to the beach, with my young daughter, like you do. She loves to dig around in the sand and discover things. I like to sit still and not think about the work I need to do. It's a match made in heaven.

Ever really looked at the sand? We toss the word around like it's a common, generic item, barely worthy of our attention.

Ever looked at a mountain, and realized that it was mostly an enormous piece of rock that got all displaced by the forces that shape our world, slowly, oh so slowly, but inexorably all the same. And all around the mountain are the pieces of the rock that have broken off and fallen downhill. And at the bottom of the valleys, that the rivers make when the rains run down the mountain are smaller and smaller pieces of rock that water and wind and weather have broken up, tossing them around, and smashing them against each other, and wearing the edges smooth. Down to the gravel that fills the places between the rocks, and the sand that fills the places between the gravel.

If you take a good look at a handful of sand, with a magnifying glass, or through a microscope, you'll see that it's anything but homogenous.There's every kind of shape and color imagineable, all ground down and thrown together by the waves and the friction of the world. And every sort of material, from the darkest obsidian to the gaudiest garnet, with plenty of granite, and even man-made materials like colored glass, and undoubtedly some plastic, plus seashells and bits of stick, perhaps some dried kelp, and possibly even whalebone, although not enough to even begin to duplicate your great-great-aunt's corset. Maybe one for an actual ant. Not to mention any and every color you ever dreamed of.

So, there I am, resting in the sand, giving no consideration to the wonder of it all, when my daughter races up to me with her plastic bucket full of bits of broken glass and shells and tiny stones, in all the glorious colors that caught her eye that day, and says, with all the love that's in her, "I got something for you!"

And I, with all the love that's in me, say, "Oh? And what is it?"

And she hands me the pail, full of broken colored bits, and says, "It's a box of rainbows!"

What happens to us when we get all caught up in the machinery of being an adult and working to survive and thrive and suffer the indignities of this troublesome world, what happens to us is that we forget how to see the world and the wonder in it. But there's always a new generation who haven't forgotten yet, and in that is where all our hope for our future lies.

"It's a box of rainbows!"

Road Reflections By Mike Freeman

Road Reflections

By Mike Freeman

My parents ride their bicycles throughout Europe on their three-month honeymoon. They take an ocean liner home to the United States. My conception occurs during that watery journey. That is what the math says. Their first wedding anniversary present to each other is me. Travel is my destiny!

My first travel memory is looking out an airplane window at either a sunset or sunrise. My mom joins me as we enjoy the splashes of color across the clouds. I am four years old. We are traveling to visit my parents' families in Michigan and Vermont. I have no other memories of that trip.

I am now 11 years old, and the eldest of six children. My parents take the entire family on a three-day, two-night train trip to Chicago. We explore the large, glass-domed car, where passengers view the majestic countryside. We find adventure eating in the dining car and sleeping in small compartments.

The train is making stops along the way. For an unknown reason, I am curious about Denver and get off the train. The train whistle signaling departure blows loudly. Looking out the train window in horror, my mom spots me wandering on the platform. There is a shrill shout. My father dashes off the train, scooping me up just in time to safely return to the train. My mother is relieved. My brother and four sisters are apathetic. They miss the entire show. I could have been an orphan in Denver. I suspect my siblings would enjoy that.

We visit the farm my mom grew up on in Michigan. My brother and I pass the time throwing fallen apples over the barn. The local farm boys watch in amazement. Working the farm leaves them little time to play baseball. We try to teach them to throw properly, but with little success.

The next day, they take us to a corral with a large brown horse.

"Jump on," they say. "He is easy to ride. You don't need a saddle!"

I jump on the horse from the corral fence. The horse takes off running. I panic and grab its neck, hanging on for dear life. I finally find a way to get off the horse without killing myself. Everyone laughs but me.

My respect grows for the farm boys, even if they can't throw apples over a barn. I am envious when I discover they drive tractors at the age of 12. The downside is that they drive them to work the fields. I begin to realize that people live vastly different lives.

We continue our travels to visit family in Vermont. One day, we are barbecuing steaks with my cousins. They wrap their steaks in aluminum foil before grilling. I find this odd. We season our steaks and throw them directly on the grill. We love the barbecue flavor. My cousins do not. I gain another insight. Different people enjoy different things. And that is wonderful!

I take a two-week trip to Mazatlan, Mexico, with my friend Ralph and his family. I am 15 years old and excitedly drive the car on occasion. We stop at Guaymas on the way south to snorkel. We see numerous color-strewn fish and hammerhead sharks. Large manta rays are playing around our small boat. They leap out of the water and do loud belly flops on the surface. My wonder for nature, different cultures, and languages begins to flourish.

Everything we see underwater is enthralling. I forgot to reapply sunscreen, resulting in the worst sunburn of my life. I am like a reptile, sloughing my old skin off over the next few days. I gain another life insight. There are consequences in life for the things we do and don't do.

I turn 16 and am off on another family adventure. My parents pack the entire family into a 25-foot-long RV for a one-month trip across the United States. Eight of us are living in a 200-square-foot space, traveling at 65 mph. How can there possibly be any problems? Our experience helps us quickly learn lessons about sharing space and privacy.

We arrive at our grandmother's farm in Michigan. The barn is a playground. We swing on ropes, jump from rafters into piles of grain, and find endless hiding places for hide and seek.

Now, my future All-Star softball sisters can throw apples over the barn. The local farm boys still cannot. They have low enthusiasm for our games in the barn. I avoid riding any horses. Despite our differences, we enjoy several wonderful days together.

Our trek continues to a lakefront home outside Montreal. The owners are my aunt and uncle. We swim, canoe, and wage massive water fights with local kids. We enjoy their French Canadian accents. They accuse us of having a southern drawl. Endless arguments erupt about pronouncing certain words.

Tracy, a fun-loving, blonde, French Canadian girl, becomes my first crush. Our few days at the lake quickly go by. My uncle and I scheme to delay our departure. He tells me to remove the rotor from the RV's engine distributor, which prevents the engine from starting. The night before our departure, I wrestle with the devious act of sabotage. I decide not to.

The next morning, my uncle informs my father about our plot. My dad, understanding my hopelessly love-sick condition, goes to test the RV's engine. It starts up immediately. We depart right away, leaving my broken heart in Canada.

We arrive in Vermont and visit a local swimming pool with 1-meter and 3-meter diving boards. I am a diving competitor on my high school swim team. I decide it is time to show off my skills to the people of the great state of Vermont.

I perform a 2 1/2 front somersault off the high dive. Next is a back 1 1/2 somersault, layout position. Finally, I wow the crowd with a reverse one-and-a-half somersault, tuck position.

Bernie, the pool lifeguard, walks over and introduces himself. A fast friendship forms. He introduces me to the local youth, including his sister, Pat. They become friends for life. I am discovering there are incredible people everywhere in North America.

We travel down the East Coast, arriving at our nation's capital. I notice a gathering crowd as we wander around the Washington Monument. A large number of uniformed Nazi party members are speaking to the growing crowd. They speak poorly about Jews, Blacks, and people who believe in democracy. Everyone in the crowd must be Jewish, Black, or believe in democracy. The crowd becomes very agitated and shouts down the uniformed speaker. The group of Nazis cannot understand why people do not support them. I learned a vital lesson in public speaking: read the room.

We turn west toward home, soaking in the vast beauty and diversity of our country. Our one-month expedition is quickly over.

I am 19 and struggling to find a job to pay for my college. The economy is very rough.

One Sunday afternoon, my father pulls me aside and says, "Your grandparents will give you a job in Vermont for the summer. You will earn a minimum wage of $1.65 per hour and work 5 1/2 days a week. They will supply your transportation, food, and housing."

I am sweeping the floor of my grandfather's heating supply store in Vermont within a week. I reconnect with Bernie and Pat for the Fourth of July celebration at the local pool. We find many adventures together that summer. I visit my aunt and uncle outside Montreal twice. Tracy is at the lake both times. I fall in love all over again.

The drinking age for alcohol in Vermont is 18. I savor the newfound freedom of going to bars and buying beer. Returning to California is depressing. The legal drinking age there is 21. The two-year wait in California to legally purchase beer goes by very slowly. I learn patience regarding different rules in different places about the same thing.

Pat and Bernie have a one-week vacation a year later. They journey across the USA to visit me in San Diego with two of their friends. They stay for three days and two nights. I throw them a huge party. Then they drive straight back to Vermont. Only incredible friends drive both ways across the USA in nine days to visit me.

I decide to hitchhike across the United States after my friend, Linc, encourages me. He is an expert hitchhiker with deep travel experience. His water polo nickname is "The Missing Linc." I think it is a worthwhile adventure before starting graduate school. At the last minute, Linc cancels.

I announce to my nervous parents that I am going anyway. They make me an offer I cannot refuse. I can drive their Fiat automobile if I take my sister, Kathy, and my next-door neighbor, Cathy. I agree. I begin my trek with boundless optimism and $500 for all my expenses.

Our original plan is to travel up the West Coast to British Columbia. Relatives warn us about an early winter. We immediately decide to head east toward Michigan.

The first night, we camp out in southern Utah. A monster rainstorm drenches everything. I tell the two ladies to camp in the dry women's bathroom. They move there and are miserably cold but dry. Hand dryers provide no heat. I sleep in the car, dry but cramped.

Later, they insist I got the better end of the deal. I think I am being noble. This argument continues today. I gain the insight that some arguments are unsolvable.

We arrive at a fabulous feed at my grandmother's farm in Michigan. Eating road food is OK. Nothing is better than farm-fresh everything. We visit family and friends and continue to Montreal, Canada. Kathy and I renew old friendships while visiting our aunt and uncle. We introduce Cathy to everyone. It is a wonderful few days of splashing fun on the lake.

Tracy is there. My girlfriend, Shannon, is waiting for me in San Diego. I discover Tracy is also in a relationship. I am experiencing my first heartache dilemma. What to do? Tracy and I resolve to be just friends. Who knows our future?

Fall colors are blazing with brilliant reds, yellows, oranges, and greens. We decide to follow the color change down the eastern seaboard until it fizzles out, somewhere around Florida. My wonder for the beauty of nature continues to expand.

We head south to Brattleboro, Vermont, visiting my grandparents and friends. Time with Bernie, Pat, and friends quickly passes. We move 100 miles south every few days to enjoy the leaves changing color.

We arrive at our nation's capital just in time to meet our father. He is on a business trip and getting ready to return home. He treats us to a tasty dinner. My sister, Kathy, decides it is time for her to head home. Her boyfriend beckons. She also wants to help our sister Mary Beth, who has just given birth to my parents' first grandchild, Bryan. She leaves with our dad. Cathy and I continue our exploration.

We continue following the diminishing colors of fall. They fade in southern Georgia. Continuing into Florida, we visit Cape Canaveral, the Everglades, and drive out to Key West. Traveling up the West Coast of Florida, we pass Naples. Cathy decides she wants to go to Disney World. I have no interest. I have been to Disneyland too many times.

I drop her off at Disney World and journey to St. Petersburg. I enjoy a few beers on a beautiful beach. I drive back to Disney World, pick up Cathy, and we continue our road journey.

It is time to head west. We arrive in New Orleans. I take Cathy to the French Quarter to enjoy its unique music. We go into Preservation Hall to relish the Dixieland music masters. We begin discussing the next day's travel plans to Houston, Texas. I tell her I know a friend's family in Houston. I will call Kirk's parents the next day.

There is no need. I look at Cathy as we sit down. Kirk's parents are on the other side of her! What are the odds? They are returning to Houston the next day and invite us for a visit. Coincidences like this are common when traveling.

We enjoy everything in Houston with Kirk's family. Then onto Austin and the Alamo at San Antonio. I am running very low on money. It has been three months of travel across the USA. Five hundred dollars does not go as far as it used to!

Cathy and I beeline for home. We enjoy the national parks of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. The immensity, beauty, and diversity of our country are incomprehensible.

We arrive in San Diego on fumes. I literally have two cents in my pocket. I fall into the welcoming arms of Shannon. Cathy says goodbye and heads home to Anaheim.

This trip results in major life changes for me. I left thinking my career path would be as a high school literature teacher and water polo coach. Instead of earning a teaching credential upon returning, my growing sense of adventure guides me to do what was inconceivable as an undergraduate. I take business classes and earn a Master's in Business Administration degree.

The master's degree unlocks opportunities previously unavailable or unrecognized before my trip. My 40-year business career includes frequent travel all over the globe. I take a four-month break from it to backpack throughout Europe.

From the moment I gaze out an airplane window as a child to the miles crossed by train, RV, boat, and battered Fiat, travel becomes the thread stitching together my family, friendships, heartbreaks, lessons, and dreams. Each journey quietly shapes the person I become.

The road teaches me resilience, curiosity, humility, and gratitude for the vast diversity of people and places that make up our world. A childhood adventure grows into a lifelong calling, guiding my career, deepening my faith, and broadening my understanding of life.