Seasons by Mike Freeman

 Seasons

By Mike Freeman

It is 1961, and my third-grade friends and I have a problem. We need a place where we can gather to form secret clubs and make our plans. It has to be a place free of annoying siblings, yucky girls, and nosy parents. They get in the way and make our lives more complex.

We know it is just a matter of time before we come under nuclear attack. Once a month during school, we wait for the wailing of distant air-raid sirens. When we hear the sirens go off, we duck under our school desks and cover our heads. This protects us from the imminent nuclear devastation of inbound Russian missiles.

We develop a brilliant solution. We will build a treehouse in Jimmy's backyard. Girls, little brothers and sisters, and our parents can't climb the tree and won't know about our hidden, booby-trapped entrance. Only we know how to enter and exit safely.

We scrounge around for building materials. George's garage provides some two-by-fours and other lumber for framing. We find plywood scraps in my garage that will become floors and walls. Additional building materials are in Jimmy's garage.

We begin sawing and hammering immediately. We nail the support boards directly into the tree limbs. They form the foundation for the rest of the treehouse. Careful analysis determines the number of nails required for each board. When in doubt, add an extra nail. We hope we nail enough of them straight through the boards to reach the tree limbs.

Our treehouse design morphs as we add each piece of plywood for flooring or walls. We end up with a split-level treehouse. Our on-the-fly architectural skills amaze even us. We build the treehouse entry and decide on booby-trap locations for unwanted visitors. There is enough wood left for a roof that provides shade. Two days of feverish building activity produce our treehouse masterpiece.

Jimmy's dad comes out to inspect our work. For some reason, our parents are nervous about our activities—something about the high location in the tree, broken arms, and disastrous collapses concerns them. Jimmy's dad gives us a thumbs-up. We pass inspection!

We begin our meetings in our new luxury abode. We make a list of who is allowed into our new fortress. It is very short. There are three names on it. People not on our list will suffer the consequences of our booby traps.

One night, Jimmy's parents host a small party with my parents and some other adults. Jimmy's mom and my mom decide to investigate our architectural wonder. They climb up the tree and enter our private quarters without triggering any of our security measures. My mom gets a leg cut on a stray nail. We find out about this the next day and are horrified. The failed security measures are a larger concern than my mom's injury.

How do we stop this from happening again? We take out every other step to the treehouse to make climbing more dangerous. We make the entry smaller to prevent large adults from entering. Designing a new anti-adult and anti-girl booby trap becomes a top priority.

A fierce storm with heavy rains and wild winds rolls into our neighborhood one night. The tree holding our fort shifts and sways.Water soaks our plywood floors and walls. The roof collapses. Our dads immediately revoke our building permit! They commence dismantling our architectural masterpiece. It ceases to exist.

George, Jimmy, and I revert to an old strategy. We will dig a deep underground bunker on one side of my parents' home. An underground tunnel will connect to an identical bunker at George's home. The tunnel will run underneath an alley that runs between our homes and connects our cul-de-sac to a local park. Parents discover our plans and immediately veto them. Just like that, our underground empire dissolves before the first shovel hits dirt.

The three of us are like ships with no home harbor. We have no base of operations or refuge. The park behind my house has trees along its perimeter. We climb our favorite tree and hold emergency planning sessions to determine our next move.

A miracle happens. My dad begins construction of a clubhouse in the small side yard of our home by the alley to the park. It is about 5 feet wide and 10 feet long, with a door on each side. It covers the exact spot where we previously dug our deep, secret bunkers.

He is an engineer and overdesigns the entire project. Inspired by our split-level treehouse design, he builds a two-story clubhouse. The second floor has a large window area overlooking the alley connecting our cul-de-sac to the park. My dad builds a shingled roof over the entire structure. Then he paints the building's exterior.

My status in the neighborhood soars. No one has a clubhouse like this. My friends and I now have a secure meeting place. We put locks on the doors to keep the riffraff out. We create a trapdoor on part of the second-floor roof so we can see if anyone is spying on us from our blind spot between the clubhouse and my parents' home. We draw up defense plans to put skyrockets at each corner of the clubhouse for protection. We will use smoke bombs on anyone attacking our fortress. Anti-adult and anti-girl booby-trap development efforts reignite.

Our talented hands build further improvements. A cabinet to store our chemistry set supplies and a table along the second-floor window facing the park alley. We begin pursuing research with our chemistry set chemicals to develop explosives, smoke bombs, and other weapons of mass destruction to safeguard our new castle.

We create plans to expand our citadel. New trapdoors on the bottom floor will lead to a vast underground bunker and laboratory. This new refuge will be strong enough to survive a direct hit by a Russian nuclear missile. Our parents will thank us and think we are heroes when we let them and our families join us in the safety of our new sanctuary.

We quickly discover another benefit to our two-story establishment. It provides absolute control of our little brothers' and sisters' access to the park, its play areas, and pool. We let adults and teenagers travel the alley both ways free of charge. Our siblings and young neighborhood girls must pay us homage or some other type of fee. Those refusing will suffer the wrath of our rubber band guns, water balloons, dirt bombs, and other weapons.

My new clubhouse makes us masters of the universe. We have sleepovers in it during the summertime, guarding it from burglars and others who desire our technological developments.

Occasionally, our parents allow our little brothers and sisters to have sleepovers in the clubhouse. We lock our valuables inside our cabinet and ensure our siblings are aware of the spiders and black widows living in our headquarters. We tell them the spiders only come out at night and are invisible during the day. They are fierce biters and poisonous.

Our minds and bodies change and grow as each summer goes by. Our heads begin bumping into the clubhouse ceilings. Our interests expand beyond our yards and neighborhood.

My clubhouse stands for years. It goes from sibling to sibling over the years. Our bustling home becomes an empty nest. A retired engineer finally pulls down the weathered wood of a memory machine he created. Some things are built to last. Others are built to be remembered. I am grateful for them both.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heaven:

A time to be born and a time to die,

A time to plant and a time to uproot,

A time to kill and a time to heal,

A time to tear down and a time to build,

A time to weep and a time to laugh,

A time to mourn and a time to dance,

A time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

A time to search and a time to give up,

A time to keep and a time to throw away,

A time to tear and a time to mend,

A time to be silent and a time to speak,

A time to love and a time to hate,

A time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Turn! Turn! Turn! Recorded by the Byrds in 1965

Learning to Love by David Molina

 Learning to Love

by David Molina

I can hear the last bell of the last day of grade school, sprinting, screaming like banshees, jumping with joy for our freedom, smelling the fragrance of the cut  grass, I remember every moment as clearly as yesterday.

My first love, Sandra Foxton, is a year younger than me.  It is my 14th summer, the summer before high school. 

She is almost as tall as I am, athletic and dark-skinned from sunning in her backyard swimming pool. She has short, black hair,  a pixie cut, and striking blue/gray-steel eyes. Her gaze and her smile are free and sincere. At the age of thirteen, she has already blossomed into full womanhood.

She is my first love, a love unexpected and exuberant, intense and yet so pure. We hold hands while we walk together around the block, while dusk turns into night. The stars and the streetlights are brighter than they could ever be after this summer. We hold hands, confiding, laughing, dreaming. I am so very young, a boy, and she is a woman. Without a doubt, she loves me.

Without a doubt, I don’t know how to handle a woman. But hand in hand is close enough that summer.

As the summer fades into fall, I realize I will soon be leaving for high school. I recognize that our summer love will fade as well. I know that fate is not to be bargained with. 

I choose to let go our summer love.

I know that it can very well be the best summer and the best love of my life. 

It is my choice - letting go of this perfect love.  To this day, it warms the memory of my youthful, stoic heart. It is an inevitably sweet, this inevitable goodbye. 

Sandra is my first love.

My second love, still a teenager, lasts three years. 

Paulina is three years younger than I. I am a junior in high school; she is fourteen. The distance between a 17-year-old young man and a 14-year-old girl is deep and wide. The heat and hormones of my 17th summer make it the perfect time to fall in love with love. 

I aim my sights on Paulina.

 

But before I fall in love with Paulina, I fall in love with her family. I fall in love with her home, El Retiro, a three-story Spanish-style mansion perched at the top of the highest hill in Hacienda Heights. El Retiro will be the dazzling backdrop for the fantasy romance I will create.

Paulina’s oldest brother of the seven children, Manuel, is a Servite freshman soccer teammate. Her father, Manuel Sr., is Doctor Fernandez, a well-respected surgeon. I meet Paulina at the first of many family parties at El Retiro. Dr. Fernandez and his gracious wife, Aurora, host all of Manny’s Servite soccer buddies, including their families.

Month after month, we return to El Retiro. George Magula plays his classical guitar. Paul Delgado, Richard Ceniceroz, and I - Los Magnificos Tres - provide the music for all to sing.

I cannot help but notice Paulina: her brownish-green eyes, dark, glowing, clear complexion, innocent lips. She is completely unaware of her beauty, and clearly unaware that I am aware. 

I fall for her. 

In such a large group of guests, there is no way I can speak to her one-to-one. It is unrequited love from afar for a year. Fantasy outruns reality, and sweetly so. The stories I tell myself are shared with no one, particularly not with her.

In Spanish culture, a girl’s fifteenth birthday is very special. A quinceañera is a family celebration of a girl’s passage to womanhood. Dr. Fernandez will not be having any such party, perhaps because he cannot face that his eldest daughter will be leaving him one day. He can face surgical complications all day and night, but the thought of daughter complications is too much, too early.

On her fifteenth birthday, I finally throw myself at her. I commandeer my two Magnificos, Paul and Richard. It is my moment to take the matter into my own hands. Even more, hoping into my own arms.

In the early morning darkness we descend the long, steep driveway, clutching a Gainesburger apiece. It is my idea - a mordida, a bribe - to appease El Rey, a Great Dane as large as a horse, and whose bark rattles the windows of El Retiro.

I remember the terse, nervous jokes we whisper to one another during the long approach. We stumble through the blackness. What are by day mere trees and bushes become leering, threatening night creatures. Suddenly, we freeze. A huge, lone sentinel looms out of the darkness directly in front of us. It takes us half a minute to realize that it is a huge, loaned cement mixer, not El Rey, that blocks our path.

After a heated debate, we finally guess which window is Paulina’s. Then, for a moment, we three stand in awe of actually finding ourselves on the morning of her fifteenth birthday. With a deep breath, we exhale the last surge of anxiety and hesitation. The first note cuts like a razor through the silence. We begin to sing.

“Estas son las mañanitas...”

(Mexican happy birthday song...)

Our voices are barely a whisper. The words waver a moment, throats constricted by the cold morning air, and the thrill of actually being in a dream.

It turns out to be just that - a dream. And not the good type.

It turns out that this dream is as foggy as the morning mist. After a few songs, we notice no lights lit, no curtains rustling, no sound other than our guitars plunking, and our hoarse throats trying to find the right key and the right lyrics.

Our Quixotic imaginations fall flat on our faces, as flat as the strings on our guitars.

 “¡Ay, qué pinche pendejos!”

(Mexican expletive remark meaning ‘what dumb fucks!’)

So that doesn’t work.

The following year, I visit the house, solo. Paulina and I are allowed to be together alone, and we spend some Sunday afternoons. We have little in common. She is not a conversationalist. Her world and mine float about in different orbits. Still, she is a remarkably beautiful young woman. This keeps things going for a while, but one autumn afternoon, I explain to her that it is time for me to be going. I feel a sadness for what could have been, but doesn’t. 

This, my second love, is frustratingly intangible. I owe it all to myself. 

For decades after, when her birthday - August 23rd - rolls around, I remember her fifteenth. 

Paulina eventually marries a good man and raises two girls. Most likely she is a grandmother.  She lives uphill from El Retiro next to the driveway where decades ago we stumbled in the dark and fumbled our serenade. 

The score so far - boy with woman: first base (barely). Man with girl: second base (barely). Next up: Man with woman. It won’t end as you think it does.

I am a freshman at USC. I live in a decrepit dorm room with a fat, impersonal introvert roommate. He never says a word to me for an entire semester. I can live with that; however, he sits at his desk blaring country western 24 hours a day. It is a toss-up, whether to shoot him or me. Fortunately, I do not have a gun. Instead, I barely escape insanity and freaking Rawhide Radio. I get my wagon rolling over to Esther Urista’s off-campus apartment.

Esther is a graduate student, five years older than I. She befriends me and writes poetry about how much we have a beautiful friendship despite our age difference.

 

Qué raro, ¿verdad? tu mente y la mía - todavía posees la inocencia de juventud y al mismo tiempo tienes ya las cualidades que te van a sobrellevar después de que la juventud inocente desaparezca...

How rare that, truly, your mind and mine still possess the innocence of youth and at the same time have already the qualities that will blossom after innocent youth disappears...

This is turning out to be the old Mrs. Robinson maneuver: older woman vs. innocent younger man. She invites me to come over to her apartment one evening. “Make yourself at home...”

Her idea of making me at home is to ly next to me on her roll-out sofa bed facing a mirror. Hmm...

Something’s happening here,

What it is, ain’t exactly clear.

Is this really happening? Here? It is beginning to be exactly clear. 

I’m looking up at the ceiling; she’s looking at me. I’m looking at the ceiling.

“Qué es lo que piensas?”

What am I thinking? I’m thinking that I’m not ready to do anything more than thinking about getting out of here. I tell her that.

She is more exasperated than disappointed at this point. 

“Fine.”

She turns over; I walk home. Still friends, but not lovers.  

At least on my side of the bed.

You can’t hurry love.

You just have to wait.

But it ain't easy, ain't easy, 

Like my mama said...

Dolphin Kick

                                                     Dolphin Kick

                                                By Mike Freeman

We are a nation of rule-breakers. All of us! Ever steal candy from a store? How about littering, lying, or jaywalking? Do you light illegal firecrackers or fireworks? Making illegal U-turns and exceeding speed limits is popular, as is buying liquor below the legal age limit. Failing to report required online sales taxes is a growing contemporary crime. Not picking up your dog's poop in a public area occurs frequently.

These are man-made rules or laws. What about God's laws? Who does well against the Ten Commandments? Even when Jesus reduces God's law to the two great Commandments, we struggle. How consistent are we with "Love God with all your heart, soul, and mind" and "Love your neighbor as yourself"?

We love to rationalize our rule-breaking. Excuses include: It is a stupid rule. Everybody is doing it. I am going with the flow of traffic. No harm, no foul.

Are there times when breaking the rules is acceptable or recommended? Who decides?

Paul is one of my best friends in high school. We are on the water polo and swim teams. He is outgoing, flashes a quick smile, and has a way with women I envy. He is a mischief-maker. One of many reasons I like him so much!

Paul has strong shoulders and arms. One of his legs is much shorter and skinnier than the other because of the effects of polio. He is an expert at walking on his hands.

One day, a group of us needs to cross an intersection with heavy traffic. We press the crosswalk button and wait for the flashing green light. The light comes on, and we proceed across the intersection. People in the waiting cars point and laugh. We look behind us to find out why. Paul is walking across the entire intersection on his hands, legs flailing above his head.

Water polo is a wonderful, demanding sport with two strong legs. How Paul manages to play it so well is still a mystery to me.

He does the butterfly stroke at our competitive swim meets. The butterfly incorporates a dolphin kick that requires your legs and feet to stay together. Any separation of his legs or feet is an immediate disqualification from the race. Keeping his legs and feet together while swimming this stroke is physically impossible for him.

Paul wins awards for swimming the butterfly in many of our swim meets. His physical condition and the resulting dolphin kick are not an issue for swim meet referees. Competitors he beats never complain about his illegal kick.

One day, a referee disqualifies Paul from a butterfly swim race for an illegal dolphin kick.

"Lane four has an illegal kick disqualification," the referee declares with authority.

There is an eruption of protest from our team bench.

"You gotta be kidding me!" our coach shouts back. "No referee has ever disqualified him before!"

The referee takes his rulebook from his back pocket. He points to the applicable paragraph and says, "The rule requires disqualification from the race."

Everyone can see the reason why Paul cannot conform to the rule. Our coach screams back, "He has a leg affected by polio. He cannot do the kick legally."

"Then maybe he should be swimming freestyle or backstroke, where the kick would not be an issue!" the referee retorts.

Technically, the referee is correct. There is no exemption for the dolphin kick rule for polio-stricken people. Paul could swim other strokes legally. Paul loves swimming the butterfly. So he does.

Paul’s inability to neatly fit into a set of rules is not confined to a swimming pool.

Paul and I visit our friend, Mike, who lives in Garden Grove. We discover a wheelchair in his garage and start giving each other rides on the driveway. As boredom settles in, impishness escalates. A Teenstupid idea emerges.

Mike's house sits on the corner of two streets. One is a sleepy neighborhood road; the other is a busier arterial road. We look down the busy street waiting for a break in traffic. Paul rolls the wheelchair out and tips it over onto the side of the road. He lies down on the asphalt next to the chair. Paul is wearing shorts that clearly reveal his legs. We spin the wheel of the upended wheelchair for an added flourish. The scene looks like an accident that just happened. Mike and I hide in nearby bushes along his house. We all wait.

A car approaches. Our victim gets closer and slams on the brakes. Paul is moaning and writhing on the asphalt.

The driver jumps out of his car, saying, "Oh my God! Are you OK?"

Mike and I jump out of the bushes and start laughing. Paul stands up and joins us. We tell the driver he is on our high school version of Candid Camera. It is a very popular TV show at the time. They use hidden cameras to catch people's reactions to awkward or unexpected circumstances. Typically, everyone ends up laughing at the end of each episode.

We vaguely point to a hidden camera somewhere in the bushes. The driver joins us in laughter. We thank him for being such a concerned citizen. He drives off feeling good about himself. It is a different time. We do this antic a few more times and then move on to our next caper.

We take the wheelchair to a nearby strip mall that has a payphone outside one of the stores. Paul sits in the wheelchair with his fully exposed legs, soulfully looking up at the payphone with a sad, yearning look on his face. Mike and I hide in a store watching through a large window.

A person walks by Paul and notices his sad disposition. Paul sighs and asks the man for help to dial a phone number. Paul can't do it in the wheelchair. The compassionate man dials the number and hands the receiver to Paul.

We discover there are many good people around us. Some people provide the dime to make the phone call. We decided that taking advantage of people like this is not right. We stop.

One sunny afternoon, a group of us cruises in my friend Mike's 1967 Toyota Corona. Japanese cars are starting to enter the USA market. His car features a rear trunk hood release that actuates from inside the trunk. An idea emerges from the group. Mike pulls the car over and parks.

Paul takes a red handkerchief and ties it around his head. It appears as if someone has gagged him. We tie his hands loosely together. We stick Paul inside the car's rear trunk. Then we hurry back into the car and continue our drive.

A traffic light turns red. We stop and wait. Many cars begin to stop behind us, waiting for the light to change. Mike gives Paul the signal.

Paul uses the internal rear trunk release and pops the trunk open. Then he gets up onto his knees and pretends like he's a kidnapped person trying to escape. The rest of us pile out of the car, seize Paul, and throw him back down in the trunk. We close the trunk hood and scramble back into our car before the light turns green. People in the cars behind us quickly move from puzzlement to laughter. The light turns green, and everyone goes their separate way in a lighter mood.

Unlike Paul, many rule-breaking people harm themselves and/or others.

My sister, Kathy, is a police patrol officer for the city of Anaheim. One night, she receives a call regarding a traffic accident involving a young man driving under the influence of alcohol. She sees his car smashed into a telephone pole when she arrives at the scene. No other vehicles or people are involved. City firefighters are at the site.

The young man lies on his back across the driver's side front seat. His legs are beside the open front door. His legs bow out as if he is riding a horse, but there is no horse. Kathy recognizes the hip displacement and knows he has a long road of painful, difficult therapy ahead of him. She has seen this type of injury too many times.

Kathy introduces herself and says, "You were driving under the influence of alcohol."

"Yes," the young man admits.

"You fell asleep at the wheel."

"Yes."

"You woke up just before hitting the telephone pole."

"That's right."

"You stuck your legs out to brace for impact."

"Yup."

"After impact, you opened the door and stepped out."

"Correct."

"Then you felt tremendous pain and fell back into your car."

"Yes, ma'am."

In this situation, the police officer has discretion regarding what to charge the driver with. She decides not to charge the young man with felony drunk driving. The firemen are very upset about her decision.

"He could've killed somebody!" they argue.

"You are right," Kathy replies. "He only hurt himself. He will have a long, hard recovery. If he does not learn from that, an additional felony charge will not help him."

Does the young man learn from his mistakes and take advantage of Kathy’s mercy? No one knows.

The young man is taken away in an ambulance. Kathy leaves the accident scene almost as unpopular as the young, drunken driver.

Back then, rules were obstacles or punchlines. Now I see them as guardrails. Sometimes firm, sometimes flexible, and always requiring judgment. Some rules protect us. Some need to be challenged. Some require mercy for wise application.

I still think about Paul in lane four, swimming a stroke he wasn't supposed to swim, moving forward anyway. His kick didn't fit the rulebook. But it carried him through the water just the same.

Maybe that's the tension we all live with: learning when to follow the rules, when to question them, and when to recognize that real life rarely swims in perfect symmetry.