Turning Points
I am sitting with my favorite drink in my rocker, looking east from my patio in Aguanga. The eastern clouds are painted pink as a 360° sunset wraps around my cabin on the hilltop. A cool onshore summer breeze shivers the Mesquite tree. The Cypress buzzes. An owl hoots.
My mind wanders.
Walking into my second-grade classroom, I am oblivious of a turning point in my life, a new vector wholly unexpected. The teacher shuffles papers. I place an apple on her desk… my mother made me do that. I put my books under my desk and settle in for who knows what.
“OK class,” says Miss Abernathy. “Who wants to give their speech first?” My jaw hits my desk. A vague memory of a forgotten assignment flutters just out of reach. “Remember, this will be an informative speech about something you know,” the teacher added. I am terrified. Wanting to get it over, I raise my hand. “Ricki. Please begin.”
I look desperately around and see my stack of books. I pick up the three books, set them on my desk. I stand up.
“Books are put together in different ways,” I begin. “This one is glued together. This one has staples in the middle of it. This last one has a squiggly plastic thing on the edge.” I glance around the room at surprisingly attentive students, smile, and sit down. “Very good Ricki,” says the teacher. You were very well prepared. Who is next?”
A raven soars up from the valley on the westward wind. It drops a stick from its beak. A fellow raven swoops upside down to catch the stick. My thoughts switch to the third grade.
I am gazing out the classroom window at the traffic. There is a droning noise behind me, drowning out the sound of cars honking.
“Ricki! Mister Ricki! I asked you to read the paragraph from our book. What is so interesting out there that you cannot participate in class?”
“Oh nothing, mam.”
“So nothing is more important than this class. Turn your desk around to face out the window. You can look at nothing until you decide to rejoin the class.”
Clueless, I spend the next four months looking out the window. My mother and I are called into the principal’s office.
“Mrs. Thues, your son is going to fail this grade,” said my teacher.
“Why is that?” asked my mother.
“He has not completed any of his homework, nor has he participated in class.”
Mother looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “Teacher made me face outside to punish me.”
Looking past the teacher to the principal, Mother says, “This is unbelievable. This is what is going to happen. She is going to give Ricki all the work he missed. In the remaining month of school, I will keep him on track to complete all the assignments, and if he can, you will advance him to the next grade.” The principal agrees. I do the work and surmount the odds. My confidence in myself soars.
A covey of quail scurries along the ridge of my property. The senior male hops up to a sentry position on the park bench and calls his approval of the spot. The female and all the chicks scratch for ants and seeds. When I clink my drink down on a side table, the sound sends them running.
In eighth-grade junior high, I am struggling with books as I try to open the classroom door. Mark, the class bully, pushes me aside, knocking the books to the ground. “What’s the matter Poindexter?” he says. “Never learn how to open a door?”
“Have you ever learned anything?” I quip.
“Smart guy,” said the bully, getting angry. “Meet me on the field after class and I’ll teach you something. Better show up!’
There is a small crowd in the field after class. I walk up to Mark. He pushes me in the chest. I close my eyes and swing my fist in a wild roundhouse that connects to the side of his face. Mark is shocked. He shakes his head, puts his hands on his hips, and winks at me.
“You’re OK Ricki.” For standing up to Mark, we became friends for the rest of the year.
A woodpecker is tapping holes in the oak tree. I imagine the squirrel hiding his acorns in the holes. He will only find about 25% of the acorns he hides, but there are other woodpeckers and other squirrels and plenty of acorns if only you look.
I begin my career as a woodworker working in my future father-in-law’s shop. He teaches me where everything is and how to turn it into kitchen cabinets.
“Where are the carriage bolts?” I ask.
“In the carriage bolt department,” says Fred.
I leverage my knowledge of cabinetmaking into a job at Walter and Cline architectural mill. There, we transform raw wood slabs into bookmatched cabinet doors, curved wood doorway heads, and newel posts for staircases. This knowledge prepares me for a job at the Disneyland Fantasyland remodel project. Old timers teach me how to modify and improvise an eight-foot lathe to make barley twists for the Dumbo Circus Calliope. That project vectors me into the Tradeshow Exhibit business, where the combination of woodworking, electrical, plumbing, and graphics prepares me to be the Ombudsman at GFB Exhibits. My job there is to coordinate designers’ dreams with salesmen’s promises, builders’ practical requirements, and accountants’ payables. I curate the company’s profit.
A flock of house finches flies into the acacia tree, chattering about the day’s adventures.
“I saw a swarm of no-see-ums in the puddle,” says one.
“This is a really good tree.”
“You are a pretty little thing.”
“It’s good to rest my wings.”
I think back on my time as a computer consultant.
My motto is “I can teach you half as much about a computer as your kids know.” Early on, I decide to teach instead of tell. The job of a consultant is to translate Geek into English. I am troubleshooting a problem with a client, explaining the solution. “If I enable you to fix this problem the next time it happens, then you will not have to call me to come out again.”
“But won’t that reduce your future business?” asked the client.
“No. You will tell your friends and family what you learned, and they will call me when they need help. You are now part of my salesforce.” My business grows on that policy.
Over my shoulder is my little red retirement house. The barn red has turned to burnt sienna in the sunset light. Colored clouds reflect in the windows. The last of the finches dart in and out of the tree. They begin to quiet in their roosts.
Memories of skydiving come to mind. From the first breathtaking step out of an airplane to hard-fought world records, skydiving has changed my life. Bucket list items, like skydiving in every state, have been fun and rewarding. There have, however, been events that feel more like work than fun.
One day at a large skydiving formation, I realize that I am trying too hard. My flying is not smooth. My focus is not focused. I yearn for the no-pressure company of my casual skydiving friends. The words of a mentor come to me. “If you are not having fun skydiving, there is no reason to do it.” I decide to focus on fun jumps with friends and stop chasing records and achievements. Skydiving has never been better.
The light starts to fade as the clouds around me burst into brilliant reds, golds, and purples. It feels like the color of my retirement.
My life experiences have taught me to plan, outline, and make lists. The list we made when Paula and I were looking to buy this house was the following:
- Rural
- 3000’ elevation or higher
- Small house on 3-4 acres
- In our budget to buy outright
- 1 hour or less to a skydiving center
- Beautiful view
Check, check, check, check, check, check.
This list has made all the difference.
The sky falls into darkness as the Milky Way is flung across the sky. I take one last drink and retire into the house for the night.
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