A Tarnished Gem

Although the yacht Araner
Was an absolute gem
To my untrained eye,
She had been much
Abused and neglected,
And was in fact,
Falling apart at the seams.
There wasn’t even
A single lifeboat
On board the boat
Until we picked up
A local beach bum,
Who traded his
Ragged old surfboard
For a equally dilapidated,
And dreadfully
Less than seaworthy dingy.
Nonetheless,
Neither my aunt,
Nor my brother,
Nor myself
Were overly anxious
To look our gift horse
In the mouth.
Had we done so,
We might have had
Second thoughts
About the wisdom
Of our pending adventure.
Then again,
We probably would have
Sailed anyway.

The Campus Circus

During my Freshman year,
The campus was a hotbed
Of radical political theories
And student activism.
It was a time of hippies
And Flower Children,
Free love, chemical stimulants
And a social revolution
That turned education upside down
And the country inside out.
For the most part,
I was a by-stander,
Observing from the sidelines,
Watching the circus go by.
I dressed the part, however.
My uniform consisted of
A pair of large, floppy,
Stripped, bell-bottom pants,
A florescent Nehru Shirt
And beach sandals.
We were the Woodstock generation.
The university pulsated
With the rock music
And protest lyrics,
And I soaked up
The chaos of it all
Like a proverbial sponge,
Blissfully unaware
Of anything beyond
My small universe.

A Dream that Became Reality

On the summer break
After my sophomore year
At the University,
I wanted to get away
From the tedium
Of my studies,
And do something
Outrageously adventurous.
Besides, that year had been
Almost a let down
After the commotion of my
Freshman year.
Though I had never been sailing,
Didn’t have a boat,
Or even know anyone who did,
And had never traveled
Beyond the US border,
Except for brief excursions
Into Mexico as a child,
I decided to try
Sailing around the world.
All I had to go on
Was naive enthusiasm
And resolute determination
Not to let anything
Stand in my way.
On shear impulse,
I called my younger brother
And my aunt over in Hawaii
And told them
What I intended to do.
To their credit,
They didn’t try to inject
Reasonableness or sanity
Into my dream, in fact,
They wanted to go too.
I flew over to the big island
To join them,
And two weeks later,
We set sail
For the South Pacific
As crew members
Aboard a 109 foot
Gaff rigged ketch.
A patently absurd dream
Had taken hold
And convinced reality
To go along for the ride.

The Tree Fort

I was the oldest of four
And I didn’t get along
With my siblings,
Strange as that might seem!

About the only way
That I could get away from them
Was up in a tree fort
That I personally built for that purpose.

We had a giant Eucalyptus tree
In back of our yard in San Diego
Wedged in a corner of our fence
With an eight foot diameter trunk.

I remember a number of times
When a branch the size of a normal tree
Would come tumbling down
Crashing into our yard.

The mighty Eucalyptus is a brittle tree
And ours was topped off
Several times over the years
Only to grow back.

I started out my fort
At fence top level
Leaving the ground level
For my pesky siblings.

I built the fort out of
Lumber scavenged from the neighborhood,
A hodgepodge of two-by-fours
And plywood that I nailed together.





Whenever my younger brother
Learned how to climb up,
I would build another floor
More difficult to get to than the last.

There was a neighbor carpenter
Who wanted to lend a hand
But my father said no
Out of concern for cost.

The guy was probably worried
About my safety up there,
And I am sure that he didn’t understand
The intention of my design.

The construction went on for years
And when we finally moved,
My fort was eight stories high,
A monument to sibling rivalry!

Many years later
I went back with my kids
To show them where I grew up
But the tree and fort were gone!

Though it is no longer physically there,
The old fort remains inside my head,
Part of the richness of my life
And the flavor of my youth!

The Desert Rat

I tended to spend
Every waking moment
That I wasn’t at school
Traipsing through
The surrounding desert
And local mountains
There in Las Vegas.
I would set out walking
And go for miles.
I was so conditioned
To desert survival
That I never needed
To take water with me.
I could walk all day long
In 120 degree heat
And suffer no ill effects.
I knew the desert
Like the back of my hand.
I knew the old Indian trails
And watering holes.
I knew where I could find
Chuckwallas and desert turtles,
Scorpions and centipedes.
I knew the all the old mines,
And had explored many
Of their abandoned shafts.
I had climbed
The stark barren rocks
Of Sunrise Mountain
Numerous times
And had encountered
Some of the desert hermits
Who lived amongst
The piles of refuse discarded
At the edge of civilization.
The desert was home to me,
And it was there
That I found peace
And solace for my spirit
As a teenager.

Picture Puzzles

I learned to relish
The challenge
Of matching wits with
Multi-thousand piece
Picture puzzles
As a child.
I developed the ability
To pick out
Edge pieces at a glance,
And to spot
The slightest similarity
Of color, pattern
Or shape
Between pieces.
Some of my
Happiest recollections
Are of the hours I spent
Quietly solving
Those puzzles
As a child,
And I still enjoy them
Even to this day.

Not the Angel

I was not nearly
As angelic
As I thought I was
When I was
Growing up.
I was just
A regular kid,
Doing what kids do,
And suffering
The consequences.
If intelligence
Was guiding my life,
It definitely
Wasn’t my own.
Someone somewhere
Must have been
Looking after me,
Making sure
I didn’t get myself
In more trouble
Than I could handle.
If there was
An angel involved,
It wasn’t me.

Joey

Joey and I
Were best friends
When I lived
In San Diego.
We were just
Two normal kids
Out to live life
To the fullest,
But looking back on it,
We must have
Terrorized our parents
As well as
Our neighbors
In the process.
I don’t think
The two of us
Were overly rebellious,
Just mischievous.
We had fun
Testing the limits
Of what was allowed
And seeing how much
We could get away with.
The local canyons
And storm drains
Might not have
Been so attractive,
Or so enticing,
Had we been permitted
To go there.
As it was,
They became
Our playground.
We always wondered
How far and how fast
We could go
And tried to test
Those limits as well.
We used to race bicycles
And home-built go-karts
Down the neighborhood hills
At breakneck speeds.
We risked our lives
Careening around corners,
Playing “chicken”
With any cars
We encountered.
I watch the kids today
Practicing tricks
On their skate boards,
And I see reflections of
Joey and myself in them.

Go-Kart Racing

Living on top of the hill
Had its advantages.
My friend, Joey and I
Became experts
At building go-karts
And racing them
Down the local streets
When we were
Seven and eight years old.
We scrounged
Building materials
From wherever
We could find them,
And our little
Engineless-karts
May not have
Looked like much,
But they were
Capable of reaching
Near terminal velocity
Barreling down those hills.
We risked life and limb,
Careening around corners,
And playing chicken
With any cars
We encountered.
I think the obvious danger
Compounded the thrill.

Escape

One summer,
When I was six,
I was sent to a day camp.
For me it was
A hellish prison.
Since I didn’t want
To be there,
And wasn’t interested
In playing with
The other children,
I was locked away
In an empty room each day
To bide my time
Until I went home.
All I could do
Was pace the floor
And imagine myself
Being someplace else.
I got pretty good at that.
One day I discovered
A window had been
Inadvertently left unlocked,
And I made my escape.
After I was found
Wandering the forest
That evening,
I was given a ride home
By a friendly policeman.
That fortunately
Was the last I ever saw
Of the camp.
Now that I think about it,
I might even have enjoyed
My time there
If I would have allowed myself to,
But I was too upset
About being sent there
To let that happen.

Canyon Secret

From as early
As I can remember,
Joey and I heard
The canyon calling.
There was something
Wild, rugged
And untamed about it
That captivated
Our fascination
And had it become
Our playground.
The fact that we
Were forbidden
To go there
Only made it
More attractive.
The canyon was left
In its natural state,
Surrounded,
Yet never dominated
By man.
For two young boys
Interested in catching
Lizards and snakes,
It was paradise.
Near the mouth
Of the canyon
Was the entrance
To a large storm drain
Which ran back under
The City of San Diego.
We used to
Borrow flashlights
And venture into
The dark recesses
Of that tunnel
Where we could listen
To the traffic
Passing over the grates
And manhole covers.
I will never forget
How the sounds
Of our footsteps
And our voices
Reverberated through
That tunnel.
In all the years
We frequented
That canyon
And storm drain
I don’t think
Our parents
Ever discovered
Where we were going.
It was our
Best kept secret.

Mental Telepathy

When I was young,
The idea of
Of being able to
Mentally communicate
Thoughts and images
From one mind
To another
Intrigued me.
I spent hours and hours,
Both with my siblings
And alone,
Trying to develop
A telepathic ability.
But it always
Seemed to lie
Tantalizingly close,
Yet just beyond
My grasp.
Sometimes a pack
Of us miscreants
Would team up and
Focus our combined
Mental energies
On getting someone
To scratch a telepathic itch,
Or pick up on
That we were all
Staring at them in unison,
And occasionally they would,
But we never knew
If that was merely
Coincidence or not.
I remember playing cards
And trying to
Read other peoples minds
To see which
Cards they held
But if you watch close,
Many people
Will inadvertently
Give away their hand.
Most people are just not
That good at bluffing.
It’s more the art
Of reading body language
Than reading their minds.
There are plenty
Of other occasions
Where it is pretty obvious
What is on someone’s mind,
And it certainly
Doesn’t require
Any feat of mental telepathy.
Maybe that is why
I have been told
A time or two
That I have bedroom eyes.
It wasn’t my mind
They were reading.
I learned to pick up
On subtle verbal cues
And nonverbal clues,
But doubt I ever really
Had privy to
Anyone else’s mind
By anything other than
The words they use
And the things they do.

Masters of the Wheel

I learned to ride a unicycle
As a teenager
On the streets of Las Vegas.
It was a fad
Almost like skateboarding
Is today.
Most neighborhood boys
In my area
Owned one.
Groups of us
Would often be seen
Riding up and down
The curbs
And along the streets.
A number years later
I rode a one-wheeler
Around campus
While a student
At Michigan State University.
Apparently the fad
Had been localized
Or never reached the Midwest.
Very few other students
Knew how to ride
Although many tried.
Riding was a sport
For people like me
Who liked to make
A spectacle of themselves.
There are few things
More exhilarating than
Spring riding season
On the university campus,
The time when
The flowers and coeds
Were in full bloom.
Twenty or more years later
My oldest daughter, Becky,
Decided to follow
In my footsteps,
And took up the wheel as well.
It took her several weeks
Of determined effort
To get the hang of it,
To learn to avoid
The invisible boulders,
And to master the curb.
Once she did,
We enjoyed riding together
Around the neighborhood,
Watching all the young children
Run out to see us ride by.
You don’t see
Too many riders these days,
And many people,
Particularly younger ones,
Have never seen
Anyone ride
A one-wheeled bike before.
Our days as a riding team
Were numbered, however.
When Becky met Sal,
He picked up the sport as well.
After that,
She seemed to prefer
Cycling with him
More than me
For some reason!

Levitation

I read stories
When I was young
About Indian mystics
Who supposedly
Mastered the art of levitation,
And I watched magicians
Who created the illusion
Of objects and people
Floating in space.
I wanted to believe
That levitation was possible.
I remember lying there
On my bed as a child
Concentrating
With all my might
Trying to levitate,
Wanting to feel myself
Getting lighter,
And being frustrated
When nothing happened.
In time I became
A skeptic of most
Of the possibilities
Of my youth.

An Alien in Their Midst

I was seventeen,
And maybe that is
The best excuse I have.
It had been a tumultuous year
At the University,
One marked by
Massive student protests
Against the War in Vietnam.
The campus was a hotbed
Of radical political theories
And mindless student activism
And I wasn't immune
To those influences.
When the break came
Between my freshman
And sophomore years
I decided I wanted to get
A summer job with a company
That was established
By a distant relative
At least a century before.
There were still
A number of relatives
In high level positions
Within the company.
One of them happened to be
The Chief Executive Officer,
So after I hitchhiked
From Michigan to
Baltimore, Maryland
Where the company
Was headquartered,
And called him up.
To my complete suprise
Idiscovered that
He had passed away
Two weeks before,
And miracle of all miracles,
His funeral was that day,
So I was invited.
Not knowing any better,
I showed up as I was,
Decked out in striped
Bell bottom pants
And a flowered shirt.
Though the clothes
Fit in well at the university,
They weren’t exactly
Accepted funeral attire,
Thus I stuck out
Like a sore thumb
In a crowd of some
Five thousand people.
I didn’t have sense enough
To keep my mouth shut either,
And my radical notions
Confirmed beyond a doubt
I was an alien in their midst.
Fortunately for me,
One of my uncles grabbed me
And pulled me out of there
Before I got lynched
By the somewhat less than
Appreciative crowd.
Needless to say,
I never ended up working
For that company.
In hind sight,
That was probably a good thing
Because even to this day
I don’t think I could fit
Working within a factory setting.

The Day JFK was Assassinated

I remember that day
As if it were yesterday.
I was in seventh grade
November 22, 1963,
When the teacher got a call
On the classroom phone.
I knew immediately
Something was drastically wrong.
Her body tensed
As she screamed NO!
Then began crying
And in tears told the class
President Kennedy
Had been shot to death.
John F. Kennedy embodied
The spirit of this country,
Made us proud
To call ourselves Americans.
He inspired our effort
To land a man on the moon,
And he was the one
Who championed
The US Peace Corps
Which I was to serve in
Many years later.
The trauma of that day
Lingers on in the national psyche.
It was a moment of vulnerability,
Fear and confusion
Welded into the consciousness
Of our nation.
We grieved and sighed
In collective disbelief.
Our hero was dead.

The Capitol March

In early spring 1970,
The season of delirium
On Michigan State University campus,
Protest marches
Against the war in Vietnam
Were in full swing.
A march to the State Capitol building
In Lansing some seven miles away
Had been organized.
I decided to tag along
With some forty thousand others.
The line stretched out for miles
Four to six abreast
And I was somewhere in the middle.
The riot police were out in force,
But we were an orderly crowd,
Mostly singing chants for peace.
I was half way there
When sirens started to scream
In the distance,
First one, then two, then dozens.
We were frozen in place
Not knowing what was going on.
The mood became explosively tense
As each of us prepared to run.
This struck fear in my heart
For I realized I was trapped
By the surrounding walls
And the sea of humanity around me
With nowhere to go.
Many of us would have been
Trampled and killed
Had the crowd started to run.
This was a time hatred abounded,
And the nation was torn apart
By those for and against the war.
A single spark
Could have ignited a riot,
And caused a catastrophe.
Something major was going on
And we didn’t have a clue
What it was.
Everyone waited nervously
Wondering and speculating
What would happen next.
Finally the word came down
That a drunk in an ugly mood
Had driven into the crowd
Hitting a couple policemen in the process
And injuring a number of marchers.
Somehow sane heads prevailed
And both the drunk
And the injured were rescued
Without further incident.
The march eventually continued
And I made it to the Capitol
Where everyone seemed to be
In a festive mood.
We crowded around the building
Getting our pictures taken
By cameramen with high powered lenses
Hanging out the Capitol windows.
I walked back to campus
With my friend, Carla.
Enjoying the rain along the way.
Some people stopped
And offered us a ride,
But we simply grinned
And quacked at them
Proceeding on our way,
Toward a perfect end
To an eventful college day.

Animal House Pranks

There was a movie
That came out
A number of years ago
Titled “Animal House”
That movie was probably
A fairly accurate depiction
What it was like
My Freshman Year
At Michigan State University.
I was assigned to Shaw Hall,
Then the largest all male
Dormitory in the world,
Where I was introduced
To college pranks
As a form of
Intramural competition.
There were a lot of
Talented pranksters
Among the 3000 guys
Living in that dorm.
It was room against room
And floor against floor
In competition
To “outprank” each other.
There were plenty lesser stunts,
Not quite state of the art,
Like putting shoe polish
One the phone receivers
Or “cellophaning” the toilets
Late at night
To catch them
When they least expect it.
We learned the art
Of wedging a door shut
By jamming objects like
Pencils or pennies
Between the door and the frame.
One of the dirtiest tricks of all
Happened when someone
With a deep understanding of fowl,
And the mess they tend to create,
Led a bevy hungry ducks
One winter day,
One cracker at a time,
Up three flights of stairs
And left them in someone’s room.
Winter was open prank season.
One set of roommates returned
From the Christmas break
Only to find their window left open
And their entire room
Embedded in three inches
Of frozen Jell-O.
One trick was a feat
Of pure engineering mastery,
And after all,
Engineering was what
I was in school to learn.
A mattress was tied to a rope
And hung out a window
While the other end of the rope
Was tied to the handle of the door.
Then the hinges were removed
And the door was locked
Ever so carefully.
When the roommate returned
With date in tow,
And opened the door,
It flew across the room
Crashing into the wall
With a horrendous noise
That reverberated through the halls
Ending any possible secrecy
To their midnight rendezvous.
The following year
Women were integrating into the dorm
Taming the place down,
And I was fortunately left
With little to do but study.