"The Odd Couple" - Submission #44

If I do the math, I can figure out that Janet (Bill’s wife), became pregnant with their first child in early October of 1975, about a month after I had moved in with them.

I’m not sure when they actually made the big announcement. It was probably in November or December. I was excited to hear the news. It never occurred to me, at least early on, that this news would have any dramatic effect on me and my situation. But eventually, it did.

As I have mentioned earlier, Bill made next to nothing working for the church. They had to meticulously budget in order to make ends meet. As an example of their poverty, I never… ever… remember Bill filling his car up with gas. It was always putting in a dollar’s worth at a time… two dollars if he was awash with cash. But never more than that.

The financial impact of having a child would be significant and Bill had to plan accordingly. And so, before I had completed my junior year, Bill and Janet sat me down… and gave me the news that would jolt my world. The bottom line? I would not be living with them any longer.

Janet’s grandmother, they called her “Gummy,” owned a house in Chino, California… about 45 minutes away from our apartment in Norwalk. She also owned a house in Oklahoma and split time between the two states. As a way to help Bill and Janet save money, Gummy offered them the opportunity to live in the Chino house… rent free.

They accepted her offer. And now… they had to break the news to me.

I felt shocked and devastated by the news. I had been so happy and content since moving in with them in September and now, it felt like the rug was being pulled out from under me. I was bewildered and lost. I know that Bill felt horrible about doing it, but it really made sense for his family.

Obviously, Bill wasn’t going to throw me out on the streets. He had developed a plan prior to breaking the news to me. The problem was… it was a horrible plan.

A “down on his luck” guy had started attending our church. His name was Chuck Beard. Chuck was a scruffy looking character… probably 40ish, always wearing the same clothes. I was pretty sure that he didn’t own a razor or a toothbrush and if you found yourself downwind from him, it was obvious that he didn’t have much access to soap or a shower. But he seemed nice enough.

Apparently, Chuck was looking for a place to live. He worked part time doing odd jobs and couldn’t afford a place on his own… so… you guessed it… Chuck was going to be my new roomie. What??? Uh… yeah…. The odd couple.

Chuck and I moved into a different apartment complex, around the corner from where I had been living. No TV. No phone. I paid rent with the social security check I got from my dad’s passing away.

Oh… and how did I get to school now, you ask? That’s a great question and I thank you for asking.

Before Bill and Janet headed for Chino, they had secured my transportation. An old, girls’ bicycle, previously own by Janet’s younger sister, Donna. It was old, it was rusty, and it was butt ugly.

As ugly as the bike was… I couldn’t leave it outside or it would get stolen within minutes. It was a bad neighborhood. So, the bike was stored in the cramped living room of our upstairs apartment. Every morning, I would ride that bike three miles to school, steering with one hand and holding a stack of books and notebooks in my other hand. I rode the busy streets of Norwalk and Cerritos, through heavy Mexican gang area on Norwalk Blvd and 166^th Street… peddling as fast as my feet could go.

I missed school frequently and would write my own excuse, forging Bill’s signature at the bottom. At some point, the school administration noticed the forgeries and requested a meeting with Bill, who was my legal guardian. I don’t remember the outcome of that meeting, but I know that I quit missing school after.

I spent my evenings listening to the Dodger games on a little radio as I stared out the front window. It was my only source of entertainment. Chuck and I never spoke to each other beyond any necessary communication. On occasion, Bill would stop by the apartment and I would be so happy. I craved his company so badly that I would always try and think of ways to get him to stay just a few minutes longer. Every time he left, I would be consumed with sadness.

Chuck and I were approaching the one-month mark in our apartment together and rent was due. I remember riding the bike home after school, I think it might have been the last day of the school year, because I was earlier than normal. I carried the bike up the stairs, stuck my apartment key into the locked door and pushed it open. Chuck was on the living room floor with a bed-sheet spread out in front of him. The few belongings that he owned… a couple dirty shirts, some silverware, a couple pots and pans… hobo stuff…  were on the sheet and he was pulling up the four corners, making a knapsack of sorts.

Chuck was caught off-guard and he stammered and stumbled over his words. Obviously, his plan was to be long gone by the time I got home. Finally, these words came tumbling out of his mouth, “I can’t afford to live here anymore.”

I stood in stunned silence as he quickly strode by me and out the door with his bed-sheet of earthly possessions slung over his shoulder… the sound of his pots clanking in rhythm with his steps. Chuck was gone but his body odor lingered.

Thanks for the memories, Chuck.

I put the kick-stand down on the bike and sat down on the couch. I looked up toward the ceiling, as though speaking to God and said, “Now what?”

"Culture Shock" - Submission #43

From day one in California, I immersed myself in a new lifestyle. Gone were the vices of weed, cigarettes and alcohol. Gone were the days of self-medicating to escape the painful realities of my life. I no longer wanted to suffer through life, I wanted to embrace life... a new life... and drink it in.

As I started to attend church, much about me was in stark contrast to who I was just months earlier when I attended that church service with my brother. My appearance was quite different. My hair was much shorter. My wardrobe now fit in with the other “church goers.” My attitude and countenance now reflected a teen, eager to learn, as opposed to one that couldn’t wait to escape a sanctuary of individuals so different than myself.

I was in the midst of turning over a new leaf... which was a good and noble exercise. A concerted effort to execute a complete makeover of my attitude, inclinations, habits, thoughts and actions. But even though the church setting and living with a preacher served as a backdrop, my early acts and evidences of transformation were not the result of a religious experience or a confrontation with God. The changes in me were the result of my overwhelming desire to live a life that had zero resemblance to the life I had lived up to this point. This distinction was lost on me at that time. It was also not understood by those observing my changes play out.

More on that later.

My arrival didn’t give me much time to prepare for the start of my junior year of high school. I lived within the boundaries where students were assigned to attend Excelsior High School in Norwalk. This was a very old high school and one that would end up getting closed down a few years later. As a point of interest, after it closed down, it became the movie set for “Grease 2” and a number of other TV shows and movies.

Of one thing, I was certain... I did not want to attend Excelsior High School, a school well known for its frequent gang activity. This truly frightened me and caused me to lose sleep.

Frankly, no school in the area was exempt from some sort of gang infestation but some had better track records than others. One such school was Richard Gahr High School in Cerritos. Gahr was known to be pretty racially balanced with minimal gang issues. Luckily for me, my brother, Butch, lived within the Gahr boundaries. So... I “borrowed” his address and enrolled at Gahr.

Despite the fact that attending Gahr ended up being a good choice, the first few weeks of school was an exercise in massive culture shock. I had attended California schools from Kindergarten through the 4th grade but that was a long time ago in “kid years.” My formative years, ages 10 through 16, were spent in small town Iowa. I went from attending a lily-white high school in the Midwest, with less than 200 students to a racially diverse high school in Los Angeles County with over two-thousand students.

Almost everything about school was different in California. There were no inside hallways… every passageway was outside. Our lockers were outside. Most everyone ate lunch outside in the area known as the “Quad.” For the most part, the various races stuck together during lunch period… blacks with blacks, Mexicans with Mexicans, Asians with Asians and whites with whites. Unwritten rules… I guess. I normally sat alone during those early days.

Many students fell into specific categories or cliques that seemed to have their own peculiar dress codes and languages… like the “Stoners,” the “Surfers,” the “Cholos,” the “Preps,” and, of course, like most every high school in America… the “Jocks” and the “Nerds.”

As for me, my style was pretty simple... all the basic colors of corduroy pants
and black wallaby shoes.

Gahr High School was relatively close to where I had attended elementary school before dad died and we moved to Iowa. So, it was interesting to come across some kids that I knew but hadn’t seen in more than six years… like, Chet Beatty, Bobby Hernandez, Mike Green, Paul Pugh, James Felton and Ted Walton… these are a few of the names that pop into my head as I type away. Regardless of that past connection, there was no re-connection with any of them during my next two years of high school. Chet Beatty and I ended up at the same church about 15 years after graduation and are still friends and in contact today… but he’s the only one from that group.

To say that I was anxious, intimidated and lost... was a substantial understatement. I watched the clock in each class incessantly, trying to will it to move more quickly. The best part of each day, for me, was hearing the dismissal bell in French class and walking out to see Bill’s turquoise, 1971 Malibu, waiting at the curb to pick me up.

Slowly but surely, over the course of my junior year at Gahr, things began to get more comfortable as the culture shock started to melt away. I got used to my surroundings and formed a few casual friendships. But even through the tough parts of my move and acclimation to my new surroundings … I never… ever… regretted moving to California.

My fondest memories of that time period of my life was living with Bill and Janet in that cramped little apartment across the street from our church. Janet would cook a full meal every night and all three of us would sit around the dining table, talking about our day. I couldn’t tell you the last time I had sat down for a family meal prior to that point.

Bill had a big aquarium with some really cool looking fish and it wasn’t long before I got a 10 gallon starter tank for my bedroom. Bill and I would go to the pet store on Pioneer Blvd about once a week to buy supplies, new fish or just to look around. That was always a highlight.

We really got into UCLA basketball too. It was
interesting to watch the team in their first season without coaching legend, John Wooden.

Every night, at 10:30PM, we would laugh our way through black and white reruns of The Honeymooners with Jackie Gleason and Art Carney. And then throughout the week, Bill and I would find situations where we would quote Gleason and do our best to imitate his bombastic voice… “To the moon, Alice!”

Life was good. Life couldn’t get much better.

And then… a bombshell.

To be continued…

"Thanks God" - Submission #42

The day of my departure finally arrived. I was moving to California. I was leaving a family, a town and a period of my life that had pushed me to the brink.

Would this move facilitate the remedy that I had so desperately sought, or would it just transfer my struggles to another geographic location?

I slept very little the night before I left. Despite the fact of a late afternoon flight, I was up early the next morning with my suitcases packed and sitting at the front door. I sat in the living room and watched the clock. Time slowed to a crawl.

Eventually, I heard some stirring in mom and Jack’s bedroom. Muffled voices, some crying and the sniffling from a runny nose. Their bedroom door opened, Jack, my step-dad, walked out and shut the door behind him.

He stood there for a moment, looking at me with a half-smile on his face.

“Let’s take a ride.” He said.

Odd. Very odd. In the four years he’d been married to my mom, he’d paid very little attention to me. I don’t recall too many conversations with him at all. But apparently now... he wanted to talk.

We got into his Buick Electra and headed west on 2^nd Street… toward downtown.

Occasionally, he’d look over at me, as though he were about to say something. I’d look back at him in anticipation, only to have him smile and turn his eyes back toward the road in front of him. He seemed to be searching for the right time and the right words. I think we both felt awkward. We had never forged the type of relationship that would make this type of conversation, comfortable.

He turned south on Main Street. We passed the post office and drove over the bridge above the railroad tracks. I looked out my window as we passed the houses of several of my friends. We turned into the entrance of Edgewood Park. I couldn’t help but think of all the memories I made at that park. So many football and baseball games played there. The dances at the log cabin where I awkwardly tried to show my moves… but only after consuming alcohol or smoking weed.

Jack pulled into a parking space by the tennis court and turned off the engine.

He looked at me with serious and sober eyes. “You know you’re breaking your mother’s heart, don’t you?”

“Yes.” My eyes looking downward.

“She cried all night.” He continued, “She’s still crying.”

I nodded my head as I bit my lower lip. I was uncomfortable and struggled for an acceptable response. I avoided eye contact.

I’m sure that a portion of my mom’s sorrow had to do with the fact that I was leaving home at the age of 16 and moving across the country. She was also fighting the guilt she felt for being so disconnected during the years that lead up to this point.

She had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned me shortly after my dad’s death. She traded her role as my nurturer, my comforter, my protector… in favor of a selfish pursuit of a companion… a fact that, years later, she would readily admit to and desperately seek forgiveness for.

Jack seemed to run out of words. He turned the key and the Buick roared to life.

That brief conversation was a mere formality. Jack knew it wasn’t going to change anything, but he needed to check that box and tell mom that he tried.

As for me… I just wanted to get to the airport.

 

I will never forget the feeling of elation that started in my head and rapidly moved all the way to my toes as the aircraft cleared the mountains and began to descend into the hazy LA basin. Through the ever-present smog, I could see the maze of housing tracts and the grid patterns of streets and freeways. Eventually, the Pacific Ocean appeared in view and we flew low enough to see the palm trees.

Oh… the palm trees. Why did seeing those palm trees trigger such joy in me? Maybe they became the symbol of my escape and my new-found freedom. Whatever the reason… palm trees, to this day, make me happy.

This was back in the days before TSA and security checks in airports. Back when you could walk into the terminals where passengers were exiting the airplanes.

I walked off the plane and Bill was there to meet me. Big grin on his face. He was just as excited as I was.

We made our way to the baggage claim, talking a mile a minute. We grabbed my bags and headed to his car.

We worked the LA freeway system from the airport to Norwalk. The 110 to the 405 to the 605. Did we run into any traffic? Of course, we ran into traffic. We were in Southern California! But I didn’t mind in the slightest because my brother and I were engaged in nonstop conversation. We were talking about all of the things we were going to do… baseball games, the beach, Disneyland. And those were just for starters.

Just days before I arrived, Bill and Janet had moved from a one-bedroom apartment to a two-bedroom apartment in the same complex. It was directly across the street from Baptist Community Bible Church, where Bill was the Assistant Pastor and his father-in-law was the Pastor.

That church would become the hub of my activity. More on that later.

I will never forget walking in that apartment door for the first time. The first thing that caught my eye was a stool, sitting in the middle of the living room. On that stool was a towel and a pair of scissors. I knew immediately what that meant… Bill was dead serious about reducing the length of my hair and apparently it was the number one item on the agenda.

But you know what? I didn’t care! I was still riding high on elation and there wasn’t a thing that was going to knock me off course. Cut it off! Cut it all off!

Janet came bounding out of the bedroom with a squeal and gave me a big hug. She was such a sweetheart!

Within minutes, I was sitting on the stool, watching my golden locks tumble to the carpet below. Janet snipped away as she chatted.

She held up a mirror and said, “All done! You look so handsome!”

For the first time in a long time, my hair was off my
ears and above my collar. I guess this was the prescribed look for my new life. “A small price to pay,” I thought.

Janet went to bed. Bill and I stayed up and talked until the wee early morning hours.

I took a shower and then went to bed… in my new room.

I remember lying there in the quiet of the night and in the solitude of darkness… with a feeling of contentment and peace that I hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

I opened my eyes and looked toward the ceiling with a heart filled with gratitude, I said two simple words. “Thanks God.”

"Little Box of Personal Expectations" - Submission #41

Immediately... upon my return home from California, I was consumed with anxiety, depression, fear, despair and dread. These feelings were only exacerbated when I thought about the start of the school year set to begin in a couple weeks.

At a time in my young life when I should have been excited about entering the final couple years of high school and planning my future... I was in a place of utter darkness. 

The day after I got home, I was surprised when Scott Lombardi and Mark Gibbons knocked at my door and wanted to hang out. At any other time, I would have been happy... thrilled to hang out with these longtime friends. But not now. Not in this frame of mind. I didn’t want to see or talk with anyone.

I told them that I couldn’t. Told them I had to go visit my sister. I lied.

I was a mess.

In the depths of my despair, I began to think about what that preacher in California had said about Jesus and His desire to forgive me and to turn my life around. Would he? Could he?  Was this the glimmer of hope that I needed? 

I began to explore the ramifications of a new direction in my life. A direction guided by faith in God. A new path. A very different lifestyle. 

Would God be willing to have me? Was I willing to have Him? How could I learn more about Him? Did we need a third party to handle the introductions? Would He require me to quit smoking, change my taste in music and cut my hair? Would He require anything at all?

I had so many questions and very few answers but in those moments of deep thought about God, I allowed myself a sliver of hope... the hope that I could finally escape the misery I had endured for the five previous years.

One thing that I felt very strongly about was that I needed a change in location and environment. I needed to get out of that house. I needed to get out of that town. Heading back to California seemed to be my only viable option… but that would be a very tough sell. I couldn’t imagine mom loosening her grip on her baby… the last child still in the nest.

I wanted to call my brother, Bill. He was the one brother that might have a shot at making this dream come true. He was the brother who could teach me more about God. HeH

But he was also the brother that I all but shunned for the past two months. Why would he want to talk to me? Why would he want to disrupt his new marriage by taking on the responsibility of his misguided, mixed up 16-year-old brother?

I stared at the phone for a long time. Every so often, I’d reach for it, hesitate and then pull my hand away. I was filled with pessimism. I distinctly remember the battle raging in my mind about making that call. And it went on for days.

When I decided to finally make that call, it dawned on me to pray before doing so. I felt that God had somehow become a part of this process and so, in some sort of crude, non-eloquent fashion I invited Him to control the conversation and begged Him to grant my desire. I’m sure I also added the bargaining chip of my full obedience to Him… should He provide the specified outcome. You know… the foxhole commitment thing. But I was 100% sincere. I wanted my life to change and I was totally ready to dive into that process.

I don’t remember the specific words that Bill and I spoke on the phone that day, but I do remember that he was immediately in my corner. No hesitation. Full agreement. He wanted me in California, with him and my sister-in-law, Janet.

That turned out to be the easy part.

The hard part? Convincing mom to buy into the plan.

He called my mom that night. It was a short conversation.

“No chance!”

As much as I had expected that outcome… I was still devastated. Death of a dream. I had allowed myself just a small ray of hope and it hurt more than I had anticipated when that hope was extinguished.

I cried on the phone when I talked to Bill the next day. I told him that I had prayed to God about this and that He had failed me already.

Isn’t it funny how we tend to put God in a little box of our personal expectations?

As we were hanging up, Bill told me that he wasn’t done yet. He wasn’t giving up and he urged me to keep praying. I promised him that I would… and I did.

A few days later, a 3-page letter, addressed to mom, arrived in the mail. In the letter, Bill had poured out his heart to mom about me moving in with him. It was very moving and quite compelling.

I remember mom emerging from her bedroom with the letter in her shaking hand. She was crying. She stared at me for quite some time, unable to speak. Finally, she made a short, simple statement in a quivering voice. “You can move to California.”

Obviously, there were more details to discuss but, in that moment, mom wasn’t ready… or able to talk anymore about it. She made a hasty retreat to her bedroom and closed the door. I sat in stunned silence and listened to mom’s muffled sobs.

I felt horrible for my mom… but not horrible enough to reverse course. I was moving to California!

I called Bill and shared the great news. He was happy, but he was also specific and firm in his expectations. This wasn’t another vacation. There was a list involved… and that listed included things like attending every church service, chores around the apartment and… the worse one of all… getting my hair cut!

You know what? Bring it on! What else do you want me to do? I’ll do it! I was ready. I was so ready! I wanted change. I wanted focus and discipline. I wanted boundaries. I wanted structure. I had been without these elements in my life for so long that I craved them. This leaf was ready to be turned over.

I started packing that very night.

"Was He Talking to Me?" - Submission #40

Getting stoned out of my mind that night in June of 1975... the first day of my California vacation... well, that seemed to set the tone for that summer. Day one was the template for day two, and day three and so on... as long as I was staying with Bob and Ginny.

Sleeping until noon, eating like a king, rocking out to Bob’s amazing collection of 70’s rock albums and then smoking weed until we crashed in the early morning hours. Every day... 

It seems that every night, at least one of Bob’s friends would stop by for a late night of smoking and drinking. Bob kept his stash in a Tupperware container in his coffee table. Once he pulled it out, the party was on. My goal was to keep up with the big boys... hit for hit, drink for drink... and before long, I did just that.

For me, this wasn’t so much about entertainment. It wasn’t so much about having a “good time.” This was self-medication... plain and simple. This was an exercise... an activity... a substance to help me to forget about my life back home. And it worked... at least for periods of my days but reality would set in at some point and the feelings of depression and dread would once again consume me.

This pattern really helps me to understand how some people become drug addicts or alcoholics. So often, addiction stems from some sort of trauma in one’s life... a death, physical abuse, sexual abuse, a broken relationship. Looking back... addiction seemed to be my eventual destination. I was laying that foundation and didn’t even realize it.

The plan was to split my time between my three brothers. That didn’t really happen. By far, I spent most of my time with Bob. I spent some time with Butch. I spent very little time with Bill.

My first day with Bill happened to be a Sunday. Of course, that meant we’d be going to church. Not my idea of a good time.

Bill was the assistant pastor of Baptist Community Bible Church. I rode a bus to this church when I was in elementary school... prior to dad’s death and our move to Iowa. Back then, it was called Community Bible Church. Somewhere along the way, they added “Baptist” to the name.

I hadn’t attended this church... I hadn’t attended any church for more than six years. Bill, on the other hand, had grown up in this church... since the early 1960’s. After high

Janet and Bill shortly after they were married.

school, he graduated from Bible College and along the way, married the Pastor’s daughter and joined the staff of the church.

I sat in the back row and just soaked in the experience. I remember seeing a good group of teens sitting together on the left side of the sanctuary. They seemed to be enjoying themselves... talking, laughing... and plugged into the church service, once it started.

Actual photo of the congregation of Community Bible Church

I couldn’t be more different than these kids. They were clean cut, seemed happy and were engaged in worship. I had long hair, hated life, wreaked of pot smoke and was totally confused about matters of faith.

Pastor RG Osborne

Pastor RG Osborne, Bill’s father-in-law, delivered the message that morning. He preached about Jesus. He told us that we could be forgiven, saved from our sins and delivered from our sinful lifestyle.

Was he talking to me? Did Bill tip him off that I would be in attendance? Did this preacher craft his sermon exclusively for the rebellious, long haired 16 year-old in the back row? It certainly seemed to be the case.

That church service had an effect on me. I was intrigued by what I saw and the the words that I heard but I wasn’t sure how to process it... how to interpret it. Was all that stuff true? Could Jesus make something positive out of my life? Doubtful. I was too far gone.

After the service, Bill asked me how I liked the it.

“Fine.” Standard answer. Conversation stopper. I didn’t want to tip my hand. I didn’t want him to know that the service had given me a bit of a jolt. 

That Sunday night, I went back to Bob’s. We smoked a joint and drank a few beers. I went to bed with a buzz and yet, my mind was racing about the church service I had attended.... the teens, the preacher and his message.

I saw Bill only one more time and I made sure that it wasn’t a Sunday. I didn’t want to risk another disruption to my heart and mind with the stuff that went on at that church.

Instead of church, this time we went to Disneyland. We had a great time. We stayed until it closed. Rode the rides and laughed all night long. I didn’t realize that religious people could have this much fun. 

The month in California flew by. The date of my departure was rapidly approaching and I was anxious and depressed. The thought of school... the thought of that blue Nova... the thoughts overwhelmed me.

School was still six weeks away, why couldn’t I stay longer? I called my mom on a Saturday night... strategically... I knew she’d be drunk. I told her I was staying another month. She agreed and I stayed with Bob the rest of the time.

But it simply prolonged the inevitable. I spent the next month under the influence a good part of the time. I was desperate to push thoughts of going home out of my mind with only limited success.

Despite my best efforts to make time stand still... the day of my departure arrived. School was starting in a couple weeks and I had to get back. I think I cried. I'm sure of it.

I said my good byes and got on the big bird at LAX.

Downtown Madrid, IA

My mom and step-dad, Jack, picked me up at the Des Moines Airport. Not surprisingly, they had gotten there early and spent an hour in the airport bar. Both were inebriated. Nothing new. I cannot believe how often Jack drove while highly intoxicated. 

We made it back safely to Madrid. 216 East 2nd Street... on the main drag of town. I lugged my large suitcase up to my front door and turned to see a car driving by very slowly. It was the blue Nova and I got sick to my stomach.

"Temporary Reprieve" - Submission #39

Obviously... I didn't do it. I didn't harm myself. Partly because I didn't have the guts to go through with it. But mostly because I had received a reprieve of sorts. I had decided to throw a Hail Mary and ask my mom if I could go out to California for part of the summer. You know, spend some much needed bonding time with my three brothers... chill out at Huntington Beach... maybe attend church a little... try to find myself. 

After days of psyching myself up, I presented my case with passion, emotion and yes, even a few tears. I was desperate. It paid off.

To my utter amazement... she agreed. Miracle! I was heading to California! Far away from my patchwork, dysfunctional family and toxic home life. Far away from the hostility of those whom had once been my friends. Far away from the small, Midwestern town that seemingly did not like me anymore... if it ever did at all.

"One month," mom told me. A one-month vacation in California.

There were a couple negative aspects to taking this trip. 

One... I'd have to miss my sophomore year of baseball, as the Iowa high school baseball season took place in the summer. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a deal breaker. Miss a baseball season? Are you kidding me? But during this season of my life... yes, I would gladly miss a baseball season for this great escape.

Two... the plane tickets purchased included a return trip. The escape would be temporary. The thought of this depressed me... so I tried not to think about it.

As the final days of my sophomore year counted down, I kept quiet about my pending trip to the golden state. I'm not sure why. You'd think that I would be shouting it from the mountain tops. Maybe I thought talking about it would jinx it. Or maybe I thought revealing my plans would result in a stronger urgency for those who wanted to do me harm. Or maybe... I just thought that nobody would care.

I don't remember the exact date, but it was in the month of June... 1975... when I flew into LA. My brother Bill (the preacher) picked me up at the airport. He seemed genuinely excited to see me as he rattled off all that we could do while I was there.

As it turned out, I spent very little time with Bill while I was there... which was ironic given the events that would unfold in the months to come. More on that later.

I chose to stay with my brother, Bob, first. I'm not sure exactly how that choice was made but I'm certain it had something to do with his plentiful stash of cannabis, pipes, rolling papers, hash oil and other related paraphernalia. In my massively misguided thinking, these were key components to my summer "escape."   

Bob lived in the Orange County community of Los Alamitos. The small, 2-bedroom house he rented was crammed onto a small piece of property that held two houses... One in the front and one in the back with a shared driveway. Bob lived in the front. He had no garage and a front yard about the size of a postage stamp. A chain link fence enclosed the property.

Bob worked the swing shift at his job and wasn't home when we arrived. His live-in girlfriend, Ginny, greeted us cheerfully at the door. Ginny was a pretty, dark skinned Latina with long, thick black hair and an ever-present smile. She was cheerful and had such a servant spirit about her that it was almost uncomfortable at times. Very Stepford wife-ish.

Ginny was a waitress at a local restaurant that Bob frequented... the "Casa Castillo," an upscale Mexican restaurant in a busy strip mall on Seal Beach Boulevard. That's where they met.

Ginny was a recent divorcee with two children who lived with their father. Within a month of their meeting, they moved in together.

After a bit, Bill left and I spent the afternoon and evening getting to know Ginny better. Being 16 and somewhat socially awkward, I was pretty uncomfortable despite Ginny's efforts to make me feel at home. She made me the best tacos ever, followed by these huge chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven. Man... she could cook!

Bob and Ginny had only one car between them... a Volkswagen Beetle. Bob's shift ended at 11PM and so we hopped into the bug to go pick him up at about 10:30.

LeFiell Manufacturing Company had played an important role in the Munson family over the years. My mom worked there briefly in the early 1960's. My dad was a machinist at LeFiell up until he was stricken with cancer in 1968. My brother, Butch, got a job there right after graduating high school in 1967 and would retire from LeFiell some 48 years later. Bob followed the family tradition, working at the plant for 27 years... until he was let go after testing positive for marijuana somewhere around the year 2000.

Bob came strolling out with a stream of employees promptly at 11, empty lunchbox in hand. Ginny hopped out of the car and jumped in the back seat. Bob settled in the driver's seat, slugged me in the arm and pulled out of the parking lot.

We briefly engaged in some small talk before Bob pulled a hard pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket. He flipped it open and thumbed through the content before pulling out a tightly rolled joint. 

"Here we go!" I thought.

Driving south on Bloomfield Boulevard toward Los Al, Bob lit the joint and took a long drag... and then held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could before slowly exhaling. He handed the joint to me. I followed suit.

Ginny held up her hand and shook her head "no," and so Bob and I passed the joint back and forth until it was almost completely consumed. Bob opened the ashtray, retrieved a roach clip and clamped it to the end of the joint. I finished it off.

Within seconds, I was higher than a kite. I had been smoking pot for a couple years at this point but I had never felt such an intense high as that June evening in Southern California. I felt like I was floating inside the car... like an astronaut floating inside his space capsule.

"What the hell is this stuff?" I asked incredulously.

He told me the name of it. Said it was grown in the deep south of Mexico. It was known for its potency.

Um... yeah.

As if that wasn't enough... we got home and Bob rolled an "oiler." He put some marijuana on a saucer and used a toothpick to mix in some drops of a dark liquid from a small vile. Hash oil. He mixed it together... almost like a stir fry... and then rolled it into a joint using his Zig Zag brand papers.

 

We hit the "oiler" until it was gone... and then I was... gone. Waaaaaaay gone!

Bob had me lay back in his big, yellow bean bag chair and close my eyes. He put some headphones on my ears and cranked up the sound as Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Freebird" blasted my eardrums. The feeling of floating was quickly replaced with the sensation of spinning. I lay there for a minute or so... hoping that the spinning would slow down... or stop. It didn't.  

When I couldn't take it anymore, I quickly sat up, threw the headphones off and threw open my eyes. Bob and Ginny were sitting on the couch... but I couldn't focus my eyes on them because they were vibrating rapidly, up and down. 

I felt sick to my stomach and I knew I was about to hurl. I got up and dashed toward the front door, stumbling and falling before I reached for the doorknob. Bob ran ahead and opened the door as I groped my way past him.

On my hands and knees, I vomited violently into the flower bed. I'm not certain but I'm pretty sure that partially digested tacos and cookies didn't make a very good plant food.

Bob sat next to me with his hand on my back. Every time I threw up, he'd say, "Alright man... get it all out. You're okay. Now you'll feel better." A vomiting coach of sorts.

I stayed on my hands and knees for about 10 minutes... until I was certain that I was done. Eventually, I looked up at Bob and started laughing hysterically and asked, "What's for dinner? I'm starved!"

Wow! If that first night was any indication of what was to come that summer of '75, and it was... this was most certainly going to be a wild ride.

Welcome to California!