From The Bean Wars to Retirement by Mark Farenbaugh

 From The Bean Wars to Retirement

By 

Mark Farenbaugh

I grew up in Orange County, California, the third of eight children—three boys, two girls, and then three more boys. In a family that size, privacy was more a theoretical concept than an actual condition. We all remember it: the station wagon, hand-me-down clothes, and large family meals where prayers were said and no one was excused without permission. It was a wonderful childhood because I had terrific parents and siblings.

My father was mostly German (80%) and French (15%) by ancestry, with a little Blackfoot Indian ancestry and, I suspect, some Scandinavian blood mixed in somewhere, judging by the fact that he, my brothers, and I all developed Dupuytren’s contracture, sometimes nicknamed “Viking disease.” My mother was a fifth-generation Spaniard. Together, they managed the controlled chaos produced by eight children. I didn’t really recognize it at the time, but I’m quite sure I contributed my fair share.

Some of my best memories involve food. What we ate often depended on the family budget, but some meals became memorable for reasons my mother never intended.

Mom learned Mexican cooking from her friends and became quite good at tacos, enchiladas, and pinto beans. The beans were made properly, using the ham bone left over from a previous dinner. It took her several attempts to perfect the recipe, but eventually she did. Unfortunately, my brother Chris and I discovered that those tasty pinto beans had a secondary tactical application.

Thus began The Great Bean Wars of 1959.

Chris and I discovered that the gaseous aftereffects of beans could be captured in a container and preserved for later offensive operations. We would wait until an unsuspecting brother was sound asleep, quietly lift the sheet at the foot of his bed, open the container, and withdraw.

Pee-youuuu! Followed by lots of laughter!

Chemical warfare had arrived, and it continued for most of the summer. But when hostilities spread into adjacent territory—the sisters’ room—the King and Queen of the house finally intervened and banned all further toxic warfare.

We still tell the war stories.

The Viking blood.

Four brothers slept in one bedroom containing two sets of bunk beds. I had a top bunk conveniently located next to a small crank-opened window. I was an energetic kid, a very light sleeper, and eventually discovered that the window offered freedom……after everyone was asleep, I would quietly slip through it and wander around the neighborhood. Especially when there was fog. I never went very far and, amazingly, never got caught. To a boy sharing a room with three brothers, however, walking alone through the quiet nighttime streets felt like crossing into another world. There was probably something prophetic about those little escapes. Even then, I wanted to see what was beyond the window. Looking back in time, I blame it on the Viking blood.

At Servite High School, I made friendships that have lasted much of my life. I am blessed. But even then, I was already looking toward something farther away. I wanted to become an Air Force pilot. More importantly, perhaps, I wanted to get out of a very crowded house, finish college, see the world, and make a life of my own.

When an opportunity to enter construction came along after high school, I jumped at the chance to operate heavy equipment. It was a rough world that sent me all over San Diego County. I enjoyed being outdoors, but I especially liked always being on the move. I was rarely bored—except, perhaps, by the lack of good dialogue.

Once I could afford college, I began my university studies in civil engineering. But I needed to earn a degree more quickly to meet the Air Force entry schedule, so I turned instead to what had always been something of a hobby: Spanish. That decision would later prove far more important than I could have imagined. Spanish opened doors to military assignments throughout Latin America.

I joined the United States Air Force in 1981 with what I considered a perfectly sensible plan: see the world, serve twenty years, and move on. I stayed for twenty-three.

The Viking in me was happy indeed.

My career began in air defense and command and control—basically, everything involving radar and fighter aircraft. Assignments took me through Canada, Washington State, Florida, Germany, Colorado, Egypt, Israel, Hawaii, Nicaragua, Korea, Colombia, Arizona, Ecuador, and elsewhere. What began as a desire to see the world became a career in which the world itself became my workplace.

I had the privilege—and occasionally the headache—of working with military officers, diplomats, ambassadors, foreign governments, intelligence organizations, contractors, pilots, maintainers, and people from almost every imaginable background.

The travel was extraordinary. I had joined the Air Force to see the world.

Mission accomplished.

In December 2003, I retired from the Air Force. The rank mattered, of course, but what mattered more was what stood behind it: twenty-three years of experiences, mistakes, friendships, responsibilities, and opportunities I could never have imagined when I first climbed through that bedroom window in Orange County.

I consulted at U.S. Southern Command in Miami on counterdrug and counterinsurgency operations, security cooperation, and embassy-related programs. Later, I moved into defense contracting and program management, where much of my military experience proved surprisingly useful. I managed aviation operations in Colombia involving more than a hundred aircraft and hundreds of personnel. I installed voice communications systems and assessed maritime radar systems there as well.

Spanish, which had once seemed simply an interesting university subject, became one of the most valuable tools of my career.

Along the way, I married, scuba dived, ran marathons, attacked the game of golf with little success, sailed whenever I could, and eventually began writing about some of the unusual characters and experiences I encountered during a lifetime of moving around the world.

Today, I am comfortably retired, and I consider that an accomplishment too. There is something deeply satisfying about reaching the point where Monday morning no longer carries quite the authority it once did.

I started life as one of eight children in a crowded California house, conducting bean-gas warfare against my siblings and slipping through a bedroom window at night simply to experience a little freedom.

Then I saw the world.

Billy Bob Pruitt by Ricki T Thues

 Billy Bob Pruitt by Ricki T Thues

 

Billy Bob Pruitt was at his desk in the American Gun Distribution Company. It was a plain, undecorated cubicle in a room drowning in telephone sales calls. He was dressed in the unofficial uniform of the company: blue jeans, flannel shirt, and cowboy boots. His belt was loose, and his shirt was tight. He was sweating ‘cause the gad dang office was never cool enough. Cheap son of a bitch of a boss. CP Performance’s website was on Billy Bob’s computer.

“That’s a dang pretty chrome exhaust kit.” He gave a long, loud whistle in his head.

He was about to check out the price when there was a slap on the back of his head.

 

“What the…” Billy Bob started to say as he whirled on his boss, standing behind him with his arms crossed.

“CP gonna start sellin’ guns?” asked Ottis Plunkett.

“Ah, ya never know, boss.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You’re buy’n something for that souped-up speedboat of yours. If you weren’t my brother-in-law, I’d fire your ass right now.”

“It’s almost quit’n time,” looking at the clock, “give me a break.”

“I’ll give you a break, right on that dim head of yours. You can’t afford that boat anyway.” Ottis read the clock: 5:01. “Get out of here.”

 

Billy Bob shut down the computer and bolted for the door. He took the stairs to the parking garage by twos. Getting out of the office never came too soon. He climbed into his custom lifted  F-450 truck and burned rubber on the slick concrete garage floors. The truck fishtailed onto the street, and Billy Bob was free.

 

On the freeway, traffic was heavy with after-work rush hour, but it did not slow Billy Bob down. He tailgated one car after the other until a too-small space opened up. He wove across all three lanes, both American flags flying in the wind. “Get outta my way,” he yelled at old ladies, young drivers, and average commuters. If they didn’t pull over for him then, well, they were just idiots.

 

It was a miracle that no policeman saw him, no fenders were scraped, and no one died. Billy Bob’s driving was not expert. It was just lucky.

 

When exiting the freeway, a ten-year-old on a bicycle rolled off the road into a ditch to avoid the truck running the stop sign. “Stupid kid,” he said, shaking his head.

 

As he pulled up to his house, he saw his kids’ bikes and toys in the driveway, so he parked on the street. He looked at his watch and said, “Saved eight minutes today!”

 

He kicked kid debris off the walkway as he marched up to the front door.

 

When Billy Bob opened the door, his two kids, 10 and 12, were right there yelling at him.

 

Brandy Lynn screamed at the top of her lungs, “Hunter hit me, daddy!”

“She hit me first,” was Hunter’s wide-mouthed answer.

 

“Both of you go outside and pick up your stuff from the driveway. I can’t park with all that mess.”

The children shook their heads, stomped their feet, and dragged their feet out the door.

 

Tammy Jo was standing in the hall, her mouth a thin line. “How was work?”

“Oh, that mistake of a brother of yours was in a bad mood. He’s always holding you over me at work. Just because your father owns the company.”

“What did you do this time, Billy Bob?”

“Noth’n. I was just looking at parts for Overdraft.”

“That’s about the best name you could’ve given that boat of yours, ‘cause our checkbook is overdrafted to hell.”

“It’s all about aerodynamics. When you’re flying down the lake at eighty miles per hour, you gotta get over that wind draft. See… Overdraft, it’s science.”

Tammy Jo just shook her head. “We gotta figure out how to pay for Brandy Lynn’s teeth and Hunter’s karate lessons. Not to mention the food and the mortgage. You need to back off on the Overdraft’n.”

 

Billy Bob pushed past his wife to the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and stomped into the den. He sat at the computer, switched from the Fox News page to CP Performance’s website to check the price on that chrome exhaust kit. “OO-we that’s pretty.”

 

It never occurred to him that he could have lost his job, could have been in an accident, or might have killed the kid on the bicycle. Instead, Billy Bob wondered why he bothered to save eight minutes on the drive home.

UPS Guy by Ricki T Thues

 UPS guy - by Ricki T Thues

 

The UPS drivers are my friends. Every one of them is an interesting story.

 

My house is at the end of a thousand-foot dirt driveway. And I understand why delivery drivers might find it foreboding, especially at night. The driveway is long, it's dirt, and from the street you can't see the house. For all they know, there's a guy at the end of it with a shotgun and a chainsaw.

 

There isn't.

 

Usually.

 

The common carriers and FedEx are often intimidated. I'll come home and find a package at the entrance to the driveway, sitting in the dirt at the side of the road.

 

So I call customer service.

My irritation falls on the sounding board of policy.

“If the route looks dangerous, the driver will not proceed.”

“If the driver doesn't know if he can turn around, he will leave the package at the street.”

I understand. It's a thousand-foot dirt driveway. Anything could happen.

 

With FedEx, I can add a note to my account.

“Please drive up the driveway. It is safe. You can turn around in the paddock. There are no dangerous animals. There is no ambush. The guy with the shotgun is usually inside.”

 

Sometimes the driver reads the note. Sometimes the package is still on the street.

 

My UPS drivers are fearless.

Years ago, my new driver drove boldly up the driveway and stopped right in front of the house. I heard him get out. I heard him haul the packages around to the front door. Not having met him yet, I jumped out of my office chair, ran to the front door, and swung it open.

 

Nobody was there.

I ran around to the front of the house just in time to see the driver backing quickly down the driveway. He backed around the corner. Then he kept backing, dust flying up in front of the delivery truck. I stood there watching him disappear down the thousand-foot driveway. He reappeared at the street, swung around, and two-pointed it onto the road.

 

I thought, this guy is good.

 

The next time he delivered to my house, I intercepted him in the driveway.

“Hi, I’m Ricki.”

“Nice to meet you, Ricki.” 

“You sure are a skilled driver. I saw you back out of the driveway last time. You are fearless.”

“I've been driving a long time, Ricki. It just comes with the job. To tell the truth, this job just pays the bills; I really want to be a rodeo bulldogger.”

“That’s amazing. You really are fearless. Let me make this a little easier for you. You can use the paddock to turn around. Drive right on in. No horses in there.”

“Thanks.” He looked at his watch. “Gotta go.”

 

Phillip jumped into the big box of his UPS truck and drove into the paddock. He threw up dust, doing something between a brodie and a spinning bull ride. He dashed out of the paddock, swung onto the driveway, and gave me a rodeo wave, a hoot, and a holler.

 

I watched him disappear down the road.

I thought, I like this guy.

 

Uh-Oh by Mike Freeman

Uh-Oh

By Mike Freeman

Our family vacations are simple. Two weeks of camping, one week in Sequoia National Park, the other week at Yosemite National Park. My brother, Tim, and I sleep in our father's army pup tent. My parents and four sisters sleep together in a larger tent that you can stand up in.

One of our family camping goals is to come back with the same number of children that we left with. My parents would occasionally opine that losing one or two children along the way would not be catastrophic.

Camping vacations teach us how to set up and take down various types of tents, create campfires, read a map, and survive Arctic camping conditions. Our dad loves camping at high mountain altitudes over 5,000 feet, where lakes have near-freezing water temperatures and brilliant star-lit nights. Sometimes we leave a pail of water outside our tents before going to sleep and wake up the next morning to discover a bucket of solid ice. We are constantly attempting to develop ways to keep bears from invading the family ice chest for food.

We all have our favorite parts of the trip. It could be seeing the more than 2,300-year-old sequoia tree named General Sherman that stands 275 feet tall, driving our car through tunnels bored into fallen or still standing giant sequoia trees, or making friends with other campers. My favorite is the Yosemite Fire Falls, where park rangers dump a huge bonfire off Glacier Point at night, creating a waterfall of sparks, embers, and flames bouncing down the cliff.

This upcoming family camping vacation is different. It is 1969, and we are going to take our two family cars, not one. One is a green 1959 Rambler station wagon with large fins on the back. The other is a white 1965 Volkswagen Bug that cost my father approximately $1,600 new.

I am driving the heavily loaded Volkswagen Bug with my brother. My father is driving my mother and sisters in the Rambler station wagon that carries a similar burden of camping items. Packing becomes more of a challenge each year as the six children continue to grow in size, need, and appetite.

The Volkswagen Bug is a welcome addition to our family. One-car families are common in my neighborhood. Getting a second car is almost as exciting as buying a color TV. Both luxury items are celebrated when purchased. Having a second family color TV is beyond our comprehension or experience.

There is a time when all eight of our family members fit into the Volkswagen Bug. Dad drives; Mom sits in the front passenger seat with the youngest, Karol, in her lap. Four of us sit across the back seat. One of the younger sisters climbs into the small space between the back seat and rear window. Seatbelt regulations are still in the future. We often go to Mass this way on Sunday mornings. People laugh at us as we arrive in the church parking lot. We look like a circus clown car unloading a horde of humans going into Mass.

This is the first camping trip on which I can legally drive a car. I am very excited about this 230-mile opportunity. I have mixed feelings about spending five to six driving hours with my brother. I'm sure the feeling is mutual. We are leaving before dawn. Hopefully, he will sleep part of the way and I can listen to the AM radio in peace.

We depart in the early-morning darkness. My father leads the way driving the Rambler. Both cars are underpowered. The Volkswagen has a top speed of 72 mph. I can make the car more aerodynamic by turning in the front window wing vents and gaining a few more miles per hour. We head north on I-5. Tim is sleeping, the radio playing, I am driving, and all is good in the world.

We drive through a very busy freeway interchange in Los Angeles. At the last minute, my dad suddenly lurches to the left, changing lanes and switching freeways. I try to follow him, but cannot do so safely. Our swerving car wakes Tim up.

An "Uh-oh!" escapes from my mouth. A look of surprise and confusion appears on Tim's face. We watch our dad drive our family away from us on a different freeway. As our separation increases, I realize we have no plan for this situation. Worse, we have no way to communicate with each other. Like seatbelts, cell phones are in the future. Such wondrous technology only exists in Dick Tracy Sunday comics in the 1960s.

What are we going to do? How do Tim and I reunite with our family for the camping trip?

I make a quick decision. Tim and I get off at the first off-ramp on our freeway. Early morning light is just starting to appear. I drop Tim off at a donut store on a cross street at the end of the off-ramp. He is less than enthusiastic about my plan.

I tell him that if Dad comes this way looking for us, he should stay at the donut store until I return. I am going to return to the freeway system and go the way our father went. I will get off the first off-ramp to see if he is waiting for us there. I tell Tim I will return to the donut store to pick him up either way.

Tim reluctantly gets out of the car. He has no money, and I do not think about giving him money for donuts. I want him starving and alert. I drive off to see if I can find my dad and family. I look up to memorize the off-ramp street name where I'm abandoning my brother. Once I have memorized it, I drive off and begin my early-morning search.

I get on the freeway route my father took and get off at the first available off-ramp. There is no sign of the Rambler or the family. I take a few surface streets to get back on the freeway and return to my brother. The way is complicated and I get lost.

I pull off the freeway and consult a map to find the street where I dropped off my brother. I find no street with that name anywhere on the map. The street name I thought I saw in the early morning light doesn't exist.

Another "Uh-oh!” escapes from my mouth. This one is filled with panic. What to do?

I admit there are times when I question my brother's usefulness and contribution to our family. Is he expendable? 

He is handy to have around when there is yard work to do. He is responsible for the front yard. I take care of the back. We also split the duty of taking out the trash cans every week.

He can be useful when it comes time to vote on which TV show we're going to watch on our one family TV. He tends to like the same shows that I do. We often vote together as one. My sisters do the same.

When my parents are in the room, deciding which show to watch is a very fair and democratic process. When they are not, tyranny reigns.

My brother and I are the eldest, so we are bigger, stronger, and smarter than my four sisters. The threat of an older brother farting in their faces typically quells any sister rebellion against our decision.

Next comes a more delicate negotiation. Who will get up from their chair, couch, or floor to manually set the TV to the appropriate channel? TV remotes that change channels are rare and reserved for the wealthy. My sisters are especially stubborn after losing the first decision and refuse to cooperate. If one of them cannot be coerced, I pull rank and have Tim do it.

I am blissfully living toward the end of the Golden Era of our family dynamics. As the eldest child, I am taller, stronger, smarter, and more experienced at everything in life than my younger brother or my sisters. I can beat my brother at any sport. I reign supreme over all of them.

I am not aware of the approaching Dark Ages when everyone grows up and things even out. Tim is a better athlete and can beat me at every sport. Sisters Mary Beth and Karen are the two school brainiacs of the family. Kathy is the most successful socially. Karol, the youngest, enjoys being spoiled and is the most easygoing. All four sisters are softball All-Stars. Fortunately, we all become friends as we emerge from the Dark Ages.

I refocus my thoughts on the unraveling disaster I am facing. I am lost in Los Angeles, my family is separating from me more and more each passing moment, and my abandoned brother is sitting at a donut shop on a street whose name I do not remember.

Another word escapes from my mouth. This time, it is not "Uh-oh." I get back on the freeway and attempt to retrace my route. Things are looking very different as the bright morning sun emerges. I start to panic.

Somehow, I end up on the freeway we were originally traveling north on. I look up and see a street exit sign. It's not the name I remember, but it does look somewhat familiar. I decide to take a chance and get off the freeway. I go down to the end of the off-ramp and there are the Rambler and my family in front of the donut shop. They are all very happy as I drive up. Is my arrival the reason, or are they finishing a donut feast?

We leave the donut shop united once again. The only difference is that now we have a clear plan should we ever be separated again. Tim spends the rest of the long drive telling me how great the donuts are and how many he ate. I did not know it then, but this is the beginning of the Dark Ages.

“Uh-oh!”

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.