The Voice

“Are you going to church?”
From that I knew that my lovely wife was staying home. Usually I stay home when she wants a break from church. God’s with us wherever we are, and you can have church wherever you are. Sometimes I will put on a local TV preacher, but the one that I liked is no longer on the air. Sometimes I’ll play some gospel throughout the day and consider that my church service. Other times I’ll go outside and putter in the yard, remembering Dad’s favorite (only) Bible verse, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.” Except Dad swapped out help for health. Anyway, those days are nice, and sometimes I get the feeling that after 55 years of attending church that most services are a little rote. Sometimes it feels like a rehashing of what we already believe or a review of why other systems are wrong. Precious little time it seems is given over to “Because of the life and words of Jesus and the guidance of the Holy Spirit, here’s what you can do tomorrow.” Dad used to say “ACTION!” meaning if you sat in church and listened and didn’t go out in the world and actually do something, what good was any of it? I have taken to calling the rote repetition the Church of Blah Blah and it applies to almost any church you might attend.
“Yeah, I’m going,” I said. I had heard a voice inside me saying, “You need to go.” Now, I don’t know about voices. Some call it God or the Holy Spirit; others call it your own still small voice. In any case I didn’t argue with it. Not with Nicholas in a coma.
Nicholas is my son-in-law’s cousin. He is in his early 20’s and was in a car accident and was severely injured. The doctors have done what they can and now Nicholas has to wake up before they can see what can be done about his injuries. Patience and prayer are all that’s available. He may wake up but certainly his life will be critically altered. The other side of the coin though, is that he may pass from this world all together.
I only had one extended conversation with him a few months ago and found him to be bright, fully engaged, confident, sociable, and full of vision, ambition and energy. So why would this even happen? It’s the question that we can’t answer sufficiently and one we can’t help from asking. So like all the rest of us who know about the situation, I go about my day doing all the regular things and Nicholas comes to my mind and all I can say to God is “Please, God.” But the hard part is the result of our pleading is out of our control.
I wanted to be in church, even with the knowledge that being in a certain place, a location, a building, to think about and pray for Nicholas and his family had no particular advantage. We do things like going to church instead of not going under these circumstances, just in case it might favorably tip the scales of fate or God’s will.
So I showered, shaved, put on my Sunday clothes and my Sunday shoes, which between the two of them, one was a little tight while the other gapped on the sides. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? I don’t know. I only need dress shoes for church, weddings and funerals, anyway. I headed west down Butler thinking about the universal Church of Blah Blah and whether it was as widespread as I imagined or if it was mostly in my mind. I was thinking that it was up to individuals to take the gospel and make it into a serviceable action. Then I thought of Nicholas and realized there aren’t any actions to be taken. Only prayer. I know that cousins and aunts and uncles had gone to Chico where he and his family live, 250 miles away, to comfort and pray for his parents. Some of them will undoubtedly bring food or encourage Clint and Carla, his parents, to go home and rest for a while. Those are all notable and good direct actions. But I am on the outer fringe of their family circle, and so I pray, “Please, God. Please. I know you can heal Nicholas.”
In the narthex a greeter pulled me aside and asked how that young man that Grace had told her about the week before was doing. When I told her that he was about the same, she told me about a similar case in which the person in a coma still hasn’t awoken years later. I told her about my friend’s nephew who awoke after two months. I took my program and went to sit down.
It turned out that my conversation with the greeter meet that I missed “Joys and Concerns,” the opportunity to ask the congregation to pray for Nicholas. I wasn’t discouraged though. I saw my friend Richard near the back and that same voice from earlier in the morning said, “Go sit by him.” There were several empty seats so he was in the middle and I was near the aisle, but the voice said, “Sit closer. Right next to him.” I complied, wondering what was up with the whole voice thing. I was almost annoyed somehow, except for the fact that Richard is a good man and he was glad to see me. I was glad to sit by a good man, a man faithful to God.
The sermon involved an Old Testament story and God offering His people the land that was Israel. They sent people to scout out the land and the report was there were four different enemies and the place was well fortified. There was much debate and doubt about whether they would be able to occupy the land, what with multiple enemies who, it was reported, were all much bigger than the average Israeli man. The story was unsettling to me. I had heard it before but now, this week, with Israel willing to accept high percentages of “collateral damages” to stop Hamas, the phrase “occupy the land” had an unpleasant twist. The hero of the story was a man who spoke up and said he was claiming God’s promise and was sure they would be victorious. The message of the sermon was to claim the promise and not worry about the outcome, and in our day to day struggles—jobs, relationships, health—that message is ok, but the original source of that lesson, a guy saying yeah, let’s do this, let’s go to war, let’s conquer our enemies, just wasn’t the story that matched the moment we were in. I thought maybe if there was a passing comment about the Israel/Hamas conflict. But there was no mention of it. I know that Hamas uses the strategy of living with civilians but the end result was Israel decided that striking schools and hospitals as well as residential areas was ok. A thousand people were dead and well over 50% were civilians, including women, children and the elderly. I couldn’t imagine referencing the story without expecting the parishioners to think of the current issues. It was a matter of unfortunate timing.
And then there was the lesson itself. Cling, tenaciously, like a dog that won’t let go, to God’s promises. Also, or simultaneously, stop focusing on what the result will be. How can we not focus on the result? All these people praying for Nicholas, what are they praying for? They’re praying for a miracle. That’s the result. Maybe a few of them are praying for God’s will to be done. That leaves the door open for a no to the miracle. So what do we do, give God both options and call it good either way, or petition God for desired results? The results though, are not under our domain. What are the promises then that we are to cling to? “Pray for one another that you made be healed. The prayer of a righteous man has great power in its effect.” That’s the book of James, my favorite book. Action as the measuring stick for your spiritual worth. Here though it appears that even though James emphasized action, there would be times calling for prayer. Who among us is righteous though?
I was annoyed, then confused, then sad. Then the voice spoke again and said, “Look at this sermon through Richard’s eyes.” Richard’s wife died of cancer almost two years ago. Trust God for the result? Hang on to God’s promises? I knew they did both. But they got results other than what either of them wanted or asked for. Now he’s hearing this. How does he feel? How is he getting through this right now? I looked at him and the voice spoke again and said, “Put your hand on his shoulder.”
I didn’t want to at first because I was afraid something in him might break. But I felt that this might have been why I was supposed to come to church that day. So I reached out with my left hand and let it rest on his shoulder just for a few seconds. He made a sound like a sigh with consonants in it. I looked at him and his head was moving up and down. His hands moved like they were trying to speak for him.
“Richard, there was nothing you said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do…”
“I know, I know.”
“You and Marti were faithful to God.”
“I know.”
Church had ended and Richard was having a tearless cry. I sat with him. I wasn’t sure if I had any right to say anything else, or if I should have said anything in the first place. I didn’t know any answers; I couldn’t even formulate questions. I only knew that Richard lost his wife and didn’t want to, and Marti left this world and before she wanted to, and that Nicholas has a life to live, anybody who has met him can see that and that his parents and family are experiencing pain they never imagined and are stuck and can’t go back and for now can’t even move forward. Bad things happen and we try to make meaning out of it. Sometimes though, all we have is the voice, along with a hand to place on a shoulder, and a prayer.
“Come on,” I said to Richard.
We didn’t want to break down in church in front of everyone.
“Ok.”
We sat together a little longer and finally got up and went on with our respective lives, along with everyone else. The voice speaks and sometimes we hear it and sometimes we respond. Maybe hearing and responding should be our ceaseless prayer.

The Snake, Loose Change and Watermelon

“Don’t move, boys,” Steve said in his cowboy voice.
“I don’t see it though,” I said.

“Are you blind?” Bruce asked derisively, “It’s right there.”
“Just don’t move. You don’t have to see it. You can hear it can’t you?” Steve asked calmly.
“Yeah, sort of,” I answered. It sounded more like dried leaves being dragged on cement than a rattle.
“So what’re we gonna do?” Bruce asked.
“Let’s run for it.” I suggested.
“Are you nuts?” Bruce said.
“You got a plan?” I snapped.
“You better shut up, boys,” Steve said, both arms out like he was surfing.
“It’s ok. Snakes can’t hear too good,” I said trying to stay calm.
“No. They’re blind. They can’t see,” Bruce said.
“Well that’s why we should run, right?” I said, thinking that Bruce was faster but Steve was slower than either of us.
We had walked during quiet time together up a trail that went from the cabins to the lake. We moved off the main road maybe in search of a short cut and more likely just for the heck of it. Ah yes, now I remember: we were there because we were advised NOT to be there. What other incentive would junior high school boys need? We were told about rattlesnakes off the main road, and not to go off of it, so of course that’s what we did. And now we were encountering the very danger of which the staff had warned us. Except I couldn’t see the snake. I kept scanning left to right and then from my feet to the horizon, but all I saw was rocks, dirt, shrubs, more rocks, more dirt and more shrubs. I even looked up in the sky, which seemed higher and clearer and bluer than I had ever seen it before.
“I don’t see anything,” I said.
“It’s right there,” Bruce said. We stood still, three awkwardly placed talking lawn figures without any lawn. “Man, if we ever get out of this you better get your eyes checked.”
“It’s a mama snake,” Steve said while he slowly began squatting.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I got a plan,” he answered solemnly.
“What the heck?” Bruce said.
“Ok, I got this rock here,” Steve began.
“A rock? You can’t throw a rock at a snake!” I exclaimed.
“Just listen,” Steve continued as slowly stood up again, the rock in his right hand, like he was going to underhand it in a game of three- pitch mushball.
“This ain’t gonna work,” Bruce said.
“What are the chances that you’ll hit the snake and kill it?” I asked, doubtful.
“Smaller than Twiggy’s titties,” Bruce said.
“Yeah, really.”
“And they’re not just small, they’re concave.”
“ You better shut up and listen, both of you. When you see my arm move, run like hell, boys,” Steve said.
Bruce started to say something but I didn’t hear him. Steve tossed the rock straight up in the cloudless sky and I did not wait around for the results. I took off sprinting full speed and didn’t stop until we were in sight of our cabin nearly half a mile away.
“Did you see what it did?” Steve shouted between gasps of breath as we stood with our hands on our knees at the front of our cabin.
“The snake?” Bruce asked.
“No, the raccoon,” Steve laughed.
“I didn’t see nothing. I booked outta there.” Bruce said.
“Wait, there was a raccoon?” I said.
“Yeah, Jack, all the animals in the forest were there, even Bambi!” Bruce said, making himself cross-eyed and pointing at me.
“I never even saw the snake. But I didn’t care.” I said.
“I saved your life boys,” Steve said.
“You couldn’t have killed that snake,” I said, “You lobbed that rock in the air.”
“Exactly, Jack,” Steve said in a paternalistic tone, “That’s why it struck at the rock instead of your leg.”
“The snake’s blind, remember?”
“It detected the heat from the rock and struck,” Steve said.
“Makes sense to me,” Bruce said.
“You’re a genius! You DID save us!”
“Hey, you guys,” Al said, emerging from behind the canvas door of the cabin, “keep it down out here. It’s supposed to be quiet time. You ran away from a snake, big deal.” He held his Bible in front of us for proof of his cooperation.
“You’re not supposed to have quiet time in the cabin,” Bruce said, “You’re supposed to outside somewhere, alone.”
“I was outside. I was sitting on a rock until my butt got sore,” Al replied sheepishly.
“We deal with a rattler. You dealt with a rock,” Steve laughed.
“Hi-ho, cabin-mates,” Albert greeted us as he approached.
“Albert, we got attacked by a snake!” I shouted.
“Attacked by a snake? Fiddlesticks. They don’t attack people. What kind of snake was it?”
“A big ol’ honkin’ rattlesnake,” Bruce said.
“Pish-bash, rattlesnakes won’t bother you unless you bother them,” Albert said.
“Yeah, but Steve threw a rock,” I said.
“Well of course he attacked you,” Albert said, “You antagonized him.”
“No, no. The snake attacked the rock!” Bruce explained.
“Sounds pretty sneaky-snaky to me,” Albert replied.
“It was serious,” Steve said.
“If you ask me,” Albert said, “you guys have bats in your belfry.”
“They skipped out on quiet time. They went up the main road,” Al said, “And they got sidetracked.”
“Sidetracked by a sidewinder?” Albert said.
“Did you have quiet time?” I asked Albert.
“Yes, of course. I found a subsidiary to the creek not to far from here, actually. Great opportunity to read scriptures. I read the passages they wanted us to read and I read some of my own. Mostly Proverbs and Psalms.”
“That’s cool,” Bruce said.
“I’m hungry,” I said, “Is it lunch yet?”
“You got another hour,” Al said.
“Lookit Robert!” Bruce exclaimed, pointing. Robert was coming up a side trail in his swim trunks. With his towel slung over one shoulder, he looked like a favored client in a ritzy hotel.
“What’d you do, go swimming?” I asked.
“Took a shower, actually,” he replied. “Perfect time for it. I don’t like crowds and you get all the hot water you need.”
“Clever,” Albert said.
“Cheating,” Al said.
“That depends,” Steve said, “on whether he had quiet time when everyone else was showering.”
“Ha!” Bruce said, “Fat Chance. He was sleepin.’”
“That still might have been his quiet time,” I said.
“Gentlemen, we have bigger fish to fry,” Robert said.
“What might that be?” I asked.
“Sanford’s still ticked off about last night,” Robert explained, “He wants his money!”
“What happened?” Albert asked, “I slept through most of your yammering.”
“Sanford’s pants fell off the top bunk,” I began.
“”You mean Bruce tossed ‘em off,” Robert added.
“They were on my bunk!” Bruce exclaimed.

“And he lost like two dollars worth of change,” I said.
“Where?” Albert asked.
“In the gaps between the floorboards,” Al answered.
“They left way too much space between the two-bys,” Steve said.
“It’s like a giant wooden piggy bank,” I said.
“Ha!” Albert said.
“I just had a brainstorm!” Bruce shouted.
“You can’t have a brainstorm by yourself,” Al said.
“You could if you were schizoid,” Robert said.
“Look, you guys. You think Sanford’s the first guy to lose money under that floor?” Bruce said.
“I’m with you!” Steve said, “I get it!” We looked at each other and bolted inside the cabin.
“Let’s get a look,” Robert said, “Who’s got a flashlight?”
“I’ve got one,” Albert said, “Be careful with it though. It’s my grandfather’s.”
We were all prostrate on the floor while Robert panned the light up and down. There was a considerable amount of change.
“We struck gold!” I said.
“How do we get it out though?” Bruce said.
“Where there’s a will there’s a way, boys,” Steve said.
“Talk’s cheap,” Robert said, “Anybody got some ideas?”
“Yeah,” I said, “put some gum the end of a wire.”
“Not bad, Chavoor,” Robert said, “not bad at all.”
We unwound a coat hanger, put a wad of freshly chewed gum on one end and sent it on its coin fetching mission. There must have been a part of us that knew the coin would be parallel to the boards rather than perpendicular but we couldn’t resist the chance to be so close and yet so far. We were on our hands and knees in a silent, frustrated, collective reverie when Sanford walked in.
“What the French fry are you guys doing? Oh wait! Maybe I shouldn’t ask, ha!”
“We’re trying to get your dough back,” Robert said.
“That and everybody else’s,” Bruce added.
“Cool,” Sanford said, “how much did you get so far?”
“Nothing,” Al said.
“Oh great,” Sanford said.
“Came close on several occasions,” Albert said.
“Close only counts in horseshoes,” I said.
“And slow dancing,” Bruce added.
“Oh right, what would you know?” Al asked.
“’Bout as much as you,” Bruce replied.
“There’s some pretty foxy chicks here,” Sanford said.
“But I’m the only guy actually talking to one,” Steve said.
“Yeah?” Al said, “What’s her name? When’re you gonna make a move?”
“Her name’s Tammy and tonight during the Midnight Watermelon Feast you boys better not follow me around. That’s all I’m sayin.”
“I hear the cottonwoods whisperin’ above. Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love…,” I sang.
We all laughed.
“You’re just jealous because I can score with older women.”
“How old is she?” I asked.
“Sixteen,” he murmured.
“Jiminy Crickets,” Albert said.
We were all quiet for a while.
“You know what?” Sanford said, “You wanna get to the money all’s you have to do is pry up one of those boards.”
“Great,” Bruce said, “you got a crowbar?”
“I know where we can get one,” Steve said, “There’s a storage shed right behind our cabin. I know how to jimmy the door.”
He grinned in a grand, mock-menacing kind of way.
“Wait a minute, now. Listen to yourselves,” Al said, “I mean, crowbars? Busting into tool sheds? Prying up boards?”
“We’ll put everything back,” Bruce said.
“We’ll divide all the money up, even-steven,” I added.
“After my two dollars,” Sanford said.
“We’re Christian friends at a Christian camp!” Al said, “See what I’m saying?”
“It is ironic in the very least,” Albert said.
“And except for Sanford’s two dollars, it’s not our money,” Al said.
“Finders keepers,” Bruce said.
There was a general consensus that the old schoolyard adage still had sway.
“If we don’t do it, Sanford won’t get his money,” I said.
“And once we do that we’d be dumb to just leave the rest of it there. We’re Armenians, aren’t we?” Sanford said.
That sealed the deal.
“Gimmie some skin on that one,” Bruce said, and they slapped five.
“What about Mike?” Al asked.
Mike was our counselor.
“He doesn’t have to know,” Steve said.
“That way he won’t get in trouble,” I said.
“We’re all in this together, boys,” Steve said, “even if we get caught. But we won’t.”
And there again was that grin, bigger than any politician’s.
“Let’s go get some grub,” Sanford said, “We can figure this out later.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, and we headed off for lunch, scheming and hopping like goats on hot coals.
That afternoon at freetime we executed our plan. I went with Steve to the storage shed while Bruce—who could whistle loud and shrill—posted himself by a tree as a lookout. Pocketknife in hand, Steve approached the door to the shed but found that it wasn’t locked. We surveyed the assortment of tools and helped ourselves to a shovel, a rake, a hammer and a pickaxe.
“What do we need with a rake?” I asked.
“Haven’t you heard the saying raking in the money?” Steve answered.
We assembled in the cabin except for Bruce who posted himself in front of the canvas entrance very bouncer-like with his arms crossed and one foot against the exterior wall. We argued about which two by four to extract and how many of them and who should have the privilege and at what angle the pickaxe should be placed. Outside, Bruce was telling us in a stage voice whisper to hurry it up while inside, the debate on how to proceed raged on. We finally got one board raised and another dispute arose; some wanted to take out enough boards to actually climb down to retrieve the loot while others wanted to try other methods without risking structural damage to the cabin. Eventually we realized that the hanger and gum method would now work beautifully and we by the time we were done we had amassed twenty-three dollars and twenty-eight cents, which amounted to three dollars for each of us after Sanford reclaimed his two dollars. Steve kept the extra 28 cents for himself, saying that it was a surcharge for knowing how to break into the storage shed. I let him slide on that one; I didn’t even say anything to him after we returned the tools.
The lights moved like a hundred conductors waving their batons, each one to a different concerto. A hundred flashlights lit the road from the cabins to the lake and the light darted up, down, left and right. You could see the swirling dust; then you couldn’t. I could see my friends in one moment; I could only hear them in the next. We were shuffling our way to the Midnight Watermelon Feast. I saw Steve ahead of me and to the right with what must have been Tammy, a scrawny girl with no apparent curves. Steve had his arm around her shoulder and they were walking slower than anyone else. He was hunched over, apparently trying to hear what she was saying. A moment later I passed them.
The stars were as crowded as seeds on a strawberry and the sky looked like a spilled bottle of silver glitter. I walked alone for a while, thinking that if Steve could talk to a girl, why couldn’t I? All that I had learned in my 14 years was that funny could pass for cool and laughter was like love. I knew how to be funny and I knew how to make people laugh; all I had to do was find a girl and not be afraid, and the big crowd moving along en masse made it easier somehow to not be afraid.
“Oh, hello,” I said.
“Hi,” she said cheerily, “What’s your name?”
“Jack-Jack bo-back, banana-ana fo-fack!” I sang.
“Fee-fi mo mack! Jack!” she finished, laughing heartily.
Well, this is pretty easy, I thought to myself.
“Can’t use my brother’s name though,” I said.
“Why not? What’s his name?”
“Chuck.”
“Chuck? Chuck-Chuck bo-buck… Oh, my! Uh-oh! You’re right!”
She laughed louder than the time before.
“Oh well,” I said shrugging.
“I’m Mary.” We shook hands with exaggerated decorum.
“Mary, Mary! Where you going to?” I sang, sticking with the musical theme.
“Oh I get that all the time!” she said. “I was a big Monkees fan. Not so much anymore though.”
“Where you from Mary?”
“San Bernardino.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s kind of boring there.”
“Boring? How could it be boring? You live there!”
“Oh that’s so sweet! How about you? Where are you from?”
“Me? Oh, I’m from my mom!”
“From your….”
She stopped walking so she could laugh.
“Yeah, it was kind of boring there though.”
“I guess so,” she started laughing all over again.
“You like Bill Cosby?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of? You know his version of Noah’s Ark?”
“I don’t think so.”
So I recited all of Cosby’s Noah’s Ark bit. She liked it and laughed with gusto. I figured I was on a roll so I recited all of “The Chickenheart Who Ate Chicago” and by the time I got to the part about smearing Jell-O everywhere Mary was laughing so hard she had to hold my arm to keep from falling over. I figured that she now knew that Cosby was funny and therefore cool and I hoped that I would get some residual credit for being able to replicate his tone and timing. As for laughter equaling love, if it were true at all, the girl was clearly madly in love with me.
The road leveled out and we came to the lake. The stars doubled their number and incandescence. It was time to do something, but I wasn’t really sure what exactly that something was and whether or not I should be doing it. I sensed that when everyone arrived Mary would look for her group and my monopoly of her time would be in danger of abruptly ending.
“So who’s your counselor? Is she nice? Ours is cool.”
“My counselor? Oh! Oh, that’s funny. I’m, I AM a counselor.”
“Oh, sure you are.”
“I’m 17. I’m, I look younger or something, I guess,” she said, her tone suggesting she had just peered into my panicked thoughts.
“Um, you want some watermelon?”
“Thanks, but I think I have to find my girls. It was very nice to meet you, Jack. You’re a really funny guy. Crazy!”
“Thanks.”
I was sad, elated and relieved all at once. She walked away.
“Who’s that?” Albert asked. He had been standing unnoticed not far away. He had a large slice of watermelon in each hand.
“I dunno,” I said.
“The dzmerook is exceptional. Very sweet, and ice cold.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” I said.
“Aren’t you going to get any?”
“Yeah, that’s what we’re here for.”
As I worked my way toward the flatbed truck and the tables where the watermelon was being served it seemed as though everyone was citing the same Bible verse, Psalms 8:3-4, “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him?” And yet, He is mindful of us. Compared to the magnitude of stars on a perfect night and the breeze moving my t-shirt over my skinny waist and arms and my heart beating steady and the clean pine scented air filling my lungs and my friends out there somewhere, talking, pondering, responding, thinking and laughing, the fact that Mary, that there was a Mary at all to even think about or worry about seemed ridiculous. And the watermelon was the best I have ever had.
Back in the cabin, ensconced in our sleeping bags we began pestering Steve for the details of his adventures with Tammy, but Steve was not cooperating.
“No boys, I can’t tell you about her,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Ah, leave him alone,” Bruce said.
“Yeah,” Sanford said, “we can figure out what happened.”
“She’s got a lot of problems,” Steve said, “I mean a lot.”
“Like what?” Al asked, “You shouldn’t have said anything at all. Now we’re all wondering what it was.”
“She’s trouble, that’s all. I tried to talk to her, tried to help her, but there’s just too much,” Steve said.
“Maybe only God can help her,” Al said.
“It wasn’t gonna work out that’s all I know,” Steve said.
“Hey, guys,” Albert said, “I suggest we get some shut-eye.”
“I don’t know,” Bruce said, “All the watermelon we ate, we’ll probably flood out the whole camp tonight.”
We all laughed.
“What a week, boys, what a week,” Steve said.
“Yeah, the snake, the loose change and ice cold watermelon,” Bruce said.
“Just one more thing,” Robert said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Sanford talks in his sleep!”
“Shut up, Robert, I do not.”
“It’s true. If you stay up long enough, you’ll hear him.”
“What’s he say?” I said. I liked talking until it was just impossible to stay awake.
“Well, usually it’s like That Robert, ur, ratzafratza, urrr.”
“Shut up, Robert,” Sanford said, “You snore.”
“Why don’t you all just shut up?” Albert said, with a little edge in his voice. And eventually, when it was impossible to stay awake, we did.
The next day during freetime we all went to the main camp to spend our loot. I was torn between a chocolate malt and a hot fudge sundae and ended up choosing the malt which was so good I never gave the hot fudge sundae another thought. It had been quite a week. Although the camp experience is usually highly structured, we had found time to create our own havoc and then find out how well we could adjust on the fly. I was anxious though to get home and carry on with my regular summer routine which consisted mostly of walking down to Verdugo Park, going swimming or playing ping-pong, buying a box of popcorn for a dime, and maybe talking to a girl.

Two Haircuts, Half a Century

 

I was 8 years old. My parents were in Boston for two weeks. I was dropped off in Fresno with my cousins, which was fine. Kirk was a year younger and Debbie was a year older. My brother was in Fresno but he was staying with Tom, a mutual cousin closer to his age. I would have preferred seeing him a few times in the two-week stretch but I knew the adults controlled the situation and for whatever the reason I don’t remember seeing him at all. I don’t know where my sister was or where she was staying. I was well taken care of and was old enough to understand pretty much that two weeks was a manageable amount of time, but it was lonesome and troublesome being away from Mom and Dad and our house and city and routine.
Some days it felt like the absence of those precious possessions made the inside parts of my body invisible, although I somehow kept walking around. Aunt Mary did her best to keep us busy. We went to summer school, we went miniature golfing, we went to a drive in movie, and we rode our bikes around the neighborhood. But every once in a while I would get the feeling, not just that I was empty inside but the two weeks would never end, that this would be the regular routine and Mom, Dad, and back home, Burbank, would be the special treat. I pushed back against the idea but it kept coming back.
I don’t remember how the argument between Kirk and Debbie started or how it escalated so rapidly, but siblings will argue and that’s what my cousins were doing one morning after breakfast. Uncle Richard was at work and I don’t know where Aunt Mary was. I suppose she left Debbie in charge because that’s the role she assumed, but Kirk wasn’t having any of it. Maybe there was some of that male privilege stuff going on because it all sounded familiar to me. Kirk was 7 but he wasn’t taking any direction from his sister. Things got louder and before I knew it, Kirk and I were outside and Debbie had locked the doors. Kirk got in a state that bordered on frenzy. He was pounded on the back door hollering, but Debbie would not relent. While I could understand both his outrage and her desire to keep her brother out, at least while he was in such an altered state of mind, my instinct was telling me to get away from them both. I had been around agitated people before—my dad, sometimes my sister, and the neighbor lady next door—and I had used the same strategy, get as far away as possible and return when things are quiet again.
The bikes were in the patio. Kirk and I were probably planning to go for a ride but now there was a disruption in the flow of the day. Kirk was fully engaged in getting back in the house, while I was figuring we were eventually going outside anyway and leaving Debbie alone would probably be more effective than increasing her indignation. So with Kirk rattling the doorknob, banging on the door and shouting out threats of telling on his sister, I went round and picked Debbie’s bike so as not to further upset Kirk and rode out away from the house and the trouble. Kirk was so engaged in getting his sister’s attention he didn’t notice me.
I rode through the neighborhood without direction or purpose. The most distinctive difference between Burbank and Fresno on a summer morning is no matter how hot it might get in the afternoon in Burbank, the morning was cool, like a new start. In Fresno during a heat wave the heat hung around overnight and the air conditioning would be already running in the morning so that walking outside was like walking into an a fired up oven. The shock of heat always caught me off guard and I liked the surprise of it. It wasn’t so bad that morning, though. There was a bit of a breeze with traces of cooler temperature in it. The neighborhood was quite; the lawns and hedges were neat and trimmed. It was as though the houses were tucked in carefully and still asleep.
I had it fixed in my mind to accomplish something on my bike ride. I rode away from the house where I was staying and rode away from my cousins without a word of explanation. I felt I needed to do something to merit riding off as I had done. I don’t know at what point I got it in my head to get a haircut, and I don’t know how I had money in my pocket. But the amount for a haircut in those days was only a dollar as I recall. In any case I got to Dakota Street and then Fresno Street over to Ashland where I recognized Gong’s Market with the big sign and the silhouette of a man hitting a gong and went there. Right next to it was the barbershop. I put the kickstand down and went in.
The middle-aged barber who looked to me like a doctor in his white barber smock greeted me warmly.
“Haircut, young man?”
It was only 10 in the morning and I might have been the first customer. No chance to thumb through Sports Illustrated, Argosy, or Mechanics Illustrated magazines.
“Yeah.”
He had picked up the booster, but as I approached him, he put it away. He snapped the pinstriped cape as only a barber back then could. The familiar sound gave me a boost in confidence that told me I had made the right choice.
“How would you like your haircut today?” he said as I climbed on to the chair.
“A butch.”
“All right.”
He went about his business and the buzz of the clippers was another familiar, calming sound that made me feel at home. There were pictures of baseball players on the wall. There was something comforting about being there. He was very precise and methodical and sometimes hummed a familiar sounding tune. In a few minutes and a few questions, the barber knew I was from out of town, staying at my cousin’s house and that my parents were temporarily in Boston for some reason or another. It all seemed plausible to him because he was not pressing for information; he was just making conversation.
He slapped the straight blade on the salmon colored belt, dabbed some hot shaving cream around my ears and gave me some very clean sidewalls. He asked me what sport I liked and I told him football. He reminded me it was not football season and asked if I liked baseball. I told him it was ok, although I didn’t care for it much. Then came the talcum powder and the brush on the neck, and the final snap of the cape. Done. I got off the chair and stood waiting for my piece of Bazooka bubble gum but the man only walked to the cash register so I assumed that free bubble gum was a Burbank custom. The one-dollar key on the register was nearly worn off and the ringing tone when he pressed the key concluded our business.
“Thank you very much, young fella.”
“Welcome.”
“Next time you’re visiting Fresno please come again.”
“Okay.”
I got on Debbie’s bike and headed back. The smell of talcum powder and shaving cream stirred by the breeze from the bike gave me that clean, squared away feeling that everything was right in the world, and everything was in order and not at all unpredictable or chaotic. That feeling doesn’t come often in life. Not just the general good feeling, but also an understanding that for a moment nothing can go wrong, not a single thing. Sometimes you might feel it a little bit let’s say, on payday or when you get a full tank of gas or every so often I get that feeling, believe it or not, when I take the trash out and they’re all out there, evenly spaced and standing at attention. Not too often, though. The only other time I can recall that really good, perfect, peaceful, all’s right with the world feeling is when I played football in high school and when we came out of the huddle and lined up, waiting for the quarterback to call signals. That moment, that four or five seconds, everything’s lined up, everyone’s waiting, nothing’s gone wrong, everything’s perfect and calm and quiet. Sometimes it felt better than touchdowns or winning, even. When the snap count came—usually it was on two—all hell broke loose with only the possibility of success and reward; it was where the theoretical became instant reality and order may or may not emerge from chaos.
When I got back to my cousin’s house everything was back to normal. Kirk was back in the house and was watching TV. Debbie had ensconced herself in her room.
“Where were you?” Kirk asked, looking away from the screen for a moment.
“Oh, I went and got a haircut.”
“What?”
“A haircut.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at me, raised his hand and then let it drop. Then he shook his head, laughed a little and after that we watched a re-run of a sitcom. It was quiet and calm. I touched the top of my head for that new haircut feeling. The next thing I knew fifty-two years passed. I found myself in the year 2014 returning to the barbershop I went to in 1962.In between everything good, bad and irretrievably lost and partially forgotten or reassigned had happened. Like the song that has the greatest bridge ever, “Sometimes the light’s all shining on me. Other times I can barely see. Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it’s been.”
So I wondered about and marveled over the fact that the barbershop was still there. Half a century of haircuts, magazines, the snapping of the cape, the buzz of the clippers, the thank you and please come again. I had not stood in front of that glass door for 52  years; I had no reason to, I guess.

My first impression was that the place was well, not grimy, but worn down. Things back then seemed to exude optimism and certitude; today was good and tomorrow was going to be even better. Now there was only the stubborn, tired, aching will to stay standing. There was a need of paint and tears in the wallpaper. The floor was not sparkly, only dull and doggedly determined.  I was greeted by what must have been the proprietor and then greeted again by a woman who appeared to be his wife.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like a haircut.”
“Ok. There will be a chair available in just a minute, ok?”
“Yes.”
I looked up at the wall an ink sketch of a bullfighter. I looked at the flat screen up in the back corner and the World Cup was on and every face in the place was fixed on the screen. When I looked to see if my chair was ready I saw that husband and wife had been talking. She smiled broadly at me.
“Ok, here you go.”
“Thanks.”
I seated myself while she took a few final swipes with the broom around the chair. I wondered which chair I had sat in back then, and if it was the same chair.
“Maybe Junior can his hair,” the husband said to his wife.
“He could,” she said.
Junior took half a step toward us and then stopped. His mom didn’t look at me, but she was waiting for a reply from someone. I didn’t know whether they wanted their son to practice on me or was it Mom who didn’t have much haircut experience and her husband was trying to spare me from what might have been his wife’s less than professional skills. It was a question I did not know how to pose tactfully, not to mention the fact no one was speaking to me, not officially; the conversation was about me and going around me.
“This is fine,” I said, as ambiguously as possible.
“All right, then,” the wife said.
“Great,” I said, not sure what the outcome was going to be.
“How would you like you haircut?” she asked.
I saw Junior sit down in the waiting section and pick up a magazine, then toss it aside to watch the game.
“Well, it’s getting just a little long.”
“So, you want it a little cut?”
“Uh, no. But it’s sticking out over my ears. And uh, it’s a little long….”
“Off the ears? Short on the top?”
“Yeah.”
That was the familiar phrase everyone used after butch haircuts became passé.
“Ok.”
She picked up the electric clipper and looked at it, turning it this was and that. She turned it on and held it away from her and considered for a moment and then carved out the highest sidewalls I have ever had. After that she dabbed at the top of my head with the clippers as if she were painting a picture.
“You like soccer?”
“Yeah. This is the USA playing?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty close game.”
“Yah.”
I was the only one in the shop though who didn’t cry out every time there was a shot on goal, and every time there was a shot on goal or something near to it all progress on all haircuts stopped. She didn’t say much while she worked but she was cordial. There was a little of that feeling you get when you walk into a bar where everyone knows everyone else but not you. But we were all trying to overcome that.

The haircut was not the best I’ve had, but it was all right. I went to a wedding three days later and I looked fine. I wasn’t there for the haircut; I was there to see and hear and feel what it was like to return there half a century later, and I was feeling all the years and experiences and joy and misery and triumph and humiliation and all the sitting and waiting  for things like a car to be repaired or to be checked in or out of a hospital or the cutting of a watermelon or a knuckle or picking up after a dog or seeing the cluster of a million stars in Maui and everything, everything else. Sometimes it was sunshine and puppies; other times it was raining bricks, and then there were times when I expected one and got the other.
“There you go. How you like that?”
I didn’t look to see if Junior or Dad were checking the results.
“I like it just fine, thanks.”
“Good.”
She shook the cape like a cat had slept on it.
“How much I owe you?”
“That will be seven dollars.”
It was ok. Everything was ok. Her husband looked at me to check and I nodded. I even tipped her a dollar. The barbershop was still here. Barbers and clients were in it, giving and getting haircuts. Some things there and in the neighborhood and town and state and country felt lost or misplaced but maybe it was just my 8-year-old mind or the young, ambitious 186-year-old country. I do miss the youthfulness, trust, confidence, community and optimism from a time and a place that is difficult to imagine anymore. But I’d rather be here in more complicated and worn down times than stuck in time based on the world as I saw it as a child. Things aren’t right with the world, very few things ever get squared away clean; as adults we have to accept our imperfect world, even in its state of decay.
In Bernard Malamud’s novel, The Natural, there’s a line that says almost everything about what life’s journey does to us. “We have two lives. The one we learn from and the one after that.” I think that in 1962 I was still living the life from which I was learning, and by 2014 I was living the life after that. Not that I’m done learning but we finally and ultimately get in that place where our experiences inform us and have made us what we are and are pretty fair indicators as far as what we’ll probably do next. I’ve been lucky because so far the good is ahead of the bad. And I’ve been blessed because in the bad, hard, scary, stupid, heart-wrenching times God was there, into, through and beyond it and when I look back and see what I did and what I didn’t do or I should say what I should have and shouldn’t have done or said, I can see that in the big picture I didn’t fall off the good path, not permanently anyway, and for that I am thankful to God and to all the good people in my life. We are the good or the less than good in the world. My dad taught me it is our obligation to play fair in the world no matter how the world plays. Ok, those weren’t his exact words but it was how he conducted his life.
I’m not sure if I wrote what I set out to say, and it seems when I get in this mood I always end up saying I’m grateful. But I can tell you that last week my four-year-old granddaughter, Violet, and I were watching an episode of Veggie Tales and the lesson was “A grateful heart is a happy heart,” and she likes that particular Veggie Tale very much and we have seen it nearly a dozen times in the last three weeks or so. I think she’s on to something.

The Kool-Aid Stand

I hadn’t seen all 47 years of Norman Rockwell’s Saturday Evening Post covers but I had a hunch the one scene of Americana I had in mind was one he must have done. Well, the Net is a wonderful thing; I just this moment discovered that it does indeed exist. A matter of fact, there are two that I was able to find. One is confusing though. It shows a boy selling lemonade to a girl but he is also selling apples. Apples? But the other one is classic: two boys selling lemonade. The hand drawn sign is there which must have served to convince a girl to part with her nickel. She drinks her lemonade while one boy hawks the product in search of the next customer and the other boy cleans the glass of what must have been a previous customer. The boys are wearing standard issue post-war, pre-Beatle attire –tee-shirts and jeans with rolled up cuffs.
That was Doug, my buddy and best friend who lived next door, and I. For a long time I couldn’t figure out why some people called him a “lonely child.” Later I found out the expression was “only child,” and so after that I began thinking of him as a brother.
There was certainly nothing lonely about him; he was like a ring leader for a circus, waving his arms and announcing events in our lives. I liked playing side-kick to him even though I was 2 ½ years older. I was 11, and Doug was not far from 9.
“You know what we haven’t done yet?”
“No.”
“We haven’t sold Kool-Aid from a stand for five cents!”
“Yeah, that’s sounds good.”
“Good? It’s great! Two friends, two buddies, couple of neighborhood kids, on a sunny day selling Kool-Aid; what could be more American than that?”
He should have become a promoter.
“Yeah, that’s great. You mean like today?”
“Of course like today. Look at that sky, perfectly blue. Think about the temperature, hot but not too hot.”
“Ok. Shouldn’t we be selling lemonade though? You know, like the All-American kids?”
“Too complicated. Too messy.”
“Oh, yeah. We want something that’s easy to make.”
“You forget, we’re two guys. We’ll get our mom’s to make it.”
“You sure they’re gonna do that?”
“Oh course! They’ll think it’s so cute, they make it.”
We went to his mom first. She was in the living room with the ironing board set up to face the TV. She would attack a pile of wrinkled clothes, taking long drags on her Salems while “As the World Turns” played out before her.
“So, you want Mom to do all the work and you guys make all the money. That it?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Doug offered bravely, smiling gamely.
“It’s Kool-Aid. It’s not hard or anything,” I chipped in.
“Thanks very much, Jackie. I think I could manage,” she took a drag and looked at me from the corner of her eye.
I felt embarrassed and found somewhere else to look. I stared at the painting of the flowers that hung on the wall. I remembered that Doug had once told me that without his glasses he could not see the petals of the flower clearly. No one was speaking. Had I annoyed her? I had never seen her cook anything, and Doug told me that she probably couldn’t boil water even if she wanted to. I envied that family; there were always going out to McDonald’s or Doug’s dad would make peanut butter and butter sandwiches.
“And what about Frances, Jackie? What’s she contributing to this business? She’s not leaving it all to one mom is she?”
“No.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say; an incorrect answer could quash the deal. Doug came to the rescue.
“Oh she’s letting us use their card table.”
Mom was likewise in the living room but she was reclined on the couch, eating an apple and reading a book. She nodded approval of our request, took another bite of the apple and resumed reading.
We wrestled the card table out of the crowded hall closet, set it up in front of Doug’s house, and Doug set about making a sign. I had to convince him that spelling the k backwards was not going to get us more customers.
We had the sign, the table, the Tupperware pitcher, the Dixie cups, but we had no customers.
“I told you we should have spelled the K backwards.”
“That’s not it.”
“Ya-huh”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Well what is it then?”
“The cars are going too fast. By the time they see us, they are already half way to Buena Vista.”
Doug thought about it, puzzled for a moment. Then he pointed his finger in the air like a mad professor.
“We gotta be like those guys.”
“What guys? What are you talking about?”
“Those carnival guys on the outside of the tent. They yell and stuff.”
“I’m not yelling.”
“We’ll go broke.”
“We can’t go broke, we didn’t spend anything.”
“Ok wise guy, we won’t make any money.”
“You yell then. It’s a family trait. On your mom’s side.”
“KOOL-AID! GET YOU ICE COLD KOOL-AID RIGHT HERE!”
“Yep. That’s loud all right. Don’t see anybody though.”
“FIVE CENTS!! YOU CAN’T GET ANYTHING FOR FIVE CENTS ANYMORE, FOLKS! KOOL-AID, RIGHT HERE!”
“Wow. That was louder than Mike Buckley.”
Mike could do a perfect Tarzan yell so loud that anyone could hear it two blocks away.
We were arguing about why I wouldn’t yell and whether it would do any good when we hear brakes screeching across the street. It was a new Mustang, the color of the blue sky Doug had been talking about that morning. The Mustang certainly held our attention but then two girls got out and waved cheerily at us. Doug waved back with one hand while poking me in the ribs with his elbow of the other. We were prepubescent but we weren’t going to let that stop us from dancing the dance.
“Pay dirt, buddy boy!” Doug said in the voice of a conspirator.
“You said it, brother.”
Here were Betty and Veronica, the blonde and brunette best friends, right out of the comic book, looking bubbly and happy crossing the street headed our way. The only comparable feeling I had at that time was waiting for your turn on the Slip n Slide.
“Hi guys!” they spoke in tandem, smiling like they were on the cover of Teen Magazine.
“Hello!” I chirped, grinning like Stan Laurel. Then Doug’s arm came across my chest and he shoved me back.
“I’m Doug; he’s Jack,” he said in a voice that suggested he was a diamond while I was a lump of coal, “What can we do for you ladies?”
“They want Kool-aid, Einstein.”
They giggled lightly. Then the blonde turned her attention to Doug.
“I’m Valerie, this is Vee.” Doug shook hands with them both, tipping his head sideways like it was something they did in King Arthur’s court.
“Oh Vee, that’s my brother’s girlfriend’s name. It’s really Veronica, but everyone calls her Vee,” I said, figuring common ground would be a good thing.
“Does your brother go to Burroughs?”
“No, he’s old, he’s in college.” They giggled again.
I filled the Dixie cups and Doug handed them out, but when they started to fish in their pocketbooks, Doug raised his hand.
“On the house,” he said nobly.
“How sweet,” Valerie said in a coquettish tone.
They stayed and chatted for a while, Doug gave them a second free round, and then they crossed the street, got back in the Mustang and took off. When the car was out of view I turned to my business partner.
“What the heck are you doing? Our only customers and you give the drinks away?”
“They’ll be back,” Doug said confidently, “the blonde likes me.”
“Likes you? Are you blind or crazy?” I said incredulously, “I had them both laughing at everything I said.”
“And who held Valerie’s hand?”
“That was a handshake, that doesn’t count.”
“Ok, tell you what I’m gonna do: You can have brunette; I’ll take the blonde.” He raised his eyebrows like Groucho Marx, I rolled my eyes. We weren’t rivals, but we loved the idea of playing at being rivals.
“No way man, no way. They like me better. Sorry, that’s how it goes sometimes.”
“You’ll see tomorrow when they come back.”
They did come back the next day, and they paid for their Kool-Aid this time. The day after that they gave us a dollar each and bought the whole pitcher. By that time we were like old friends, somehow. Doug was smart enough to set out four folding chairs that day. We talked and joked and Doug and I razzed each other. The fourth day though they didn’t show. We knew they wouldn’t ever come back. We sat in our folding chairs with the legs sinking into the grass. The ice was melting in the pitcher. Flecks of unidentifiable stuff floated in the Kool-Aid. We had made two dollars and ten cents and two friends who didn’t stick. We sat watching cars fly down Verdugo Ave. We had our arms on the other’s shoulders as was our custom when we were younger. Just before we put the stuff away Doug spoke.
“Heck of a week, eh Jack-boy?”
“Heck of a week, Doug-Doug.”

Sidewalk Sundae and the The Virginia Reel

I thought it would be one of the more popular “where were you when” days; as it turns out I have yet to hear anyone bring it up since July 5, 1976. I might be around when the U.S.A. turns 250, I mean, I’ll only be 72, but you never know. And besides it won’t be as cool as 200; only 300 will be as cool as that and odds are pretty long that I’ll be on planet earth at the age of 122. I was employed by the Salvation Army for the summer of 1976 as a camp counselor for Camp Gilmore right behind Tapia Park in Calabassas, California.
Gilmore was full of contradictions. We were 10 minutes from Malibu, one of flashiest, splashiest, richest towns in California, but we were in the mountains adjacent to a sewage water reclamation plant which would give off pungent odors at different times of the day. The assault on the olfactory presented a challenge to the notion of a breath of fresh air which camps are supposed to provide. Our campers were from some of the poorest, most dangerous neighborhoods in Southern California. On the application forms parents were asked to pay whatever they could afford to send their child to camp for a week. Sometimes there would be a dollar bill paper clipped to the application, other times a hand full of coins in an envelope.
The camp was to be a respite from inner city life and for the most part it was but in our cabin we had a rat that lived in the broom closet and chewed the base board all night until a camper by the name of Baby TC got out of bed and, “Got damnit, don’t nobody know how to kill a rat?” and he flung the closet door open and killed it with one snap of his beach towel. I didn’t feel much like I was living in Malibu at the moment.
The Salvation Army had been meeting the needs of the impoverished for over a hundred years by the time I got on the payroll. They hired an interesting assortment of people that year with a wide variety of religious and non-religious traditions. I don’t know whether it was due to an open-minded hiring policy or because there was a paucity of available Methodist camp counselors. We did have quite a collection of interesting characters though.
It was the most celebrated Independence Day in our lifetime, and I was happy to be away from the hoopla mostly because the hoopla was manufactured and something of a television event. There would also be more fireworks—both literal and figurative—than ever. But there was no TV at Gilmore, there would be no fireworks, and while I’m sure there was mention of the bi-centennial to the kids I thought just being with the kids, helping inner-city kids was the most appropriate way to celebrate the birthday of America. The kids were America; their plight was America; the Salvation Army and the hope for reclamation and salvation was America. They were the unseen America, the part we don’t show to outsiders, and oftentimes not even to ourselves.
Sunday morning was our half a day off; the out of state counselors rushed off to Malibu or Zuma but there were quite a few of us who just hung around and took it easy. It was nice to experience the camp when it was quiet and empty. Jill and I stood on a sizeable boulder back to back with both our arms linked. I looked at the trees and the mountains, while she looked at the road leading out of camp.
“I can’t have another week like last week,” she murmured. Jill was maybe five feet tall. Most of her campers towered over her. She had long brown Rapunzel length hair and hypnotic blue eyes. She did well as a counselor most of the time, downplaying her physical attractiveness as an asset for her girls and fending off idiotic comments from the boys without crushing their fragile junior high school egos.
“You won’t have another Tasha and Reenie. That was juvy week don’t forget.”
“Why’d they let those two come? They knew their record.”
“They thought they were ready to change.”
“They’re little con-artists.”
“Yep.”
“They shouldn’t tell us stuff they’ve done.”
“They still would have started that fire.”
“True.”
“And that other thing?”
“They beat up an 8 year old. Put in her in a coma.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“There were days when they seemed so happy.”
“Con-artists.”
“I guess.”
“What good are we doing for them, anyway?”
“What?”
“At some point I felt like I was just trying to survive the week, and then I realized that’s what their life is like most of the time. Just trying to survive.”
“We try to show them something different. Give them something to hold on to.”
“Doesn’t always work though.”
“True. Just have to hang on for the when it does.”
“Yeah.”
It was quiet. A lazy breeze rolled through the trees. Jill and I stood, quietly observing. The door to the office swung open.
“Who is it?” I asked. I was facing the opposite direction.
“Margo.”
“She didn’t go to the beach? I thought she was a Harvard girl.”
“She grew up in Redondo.”
“What’s she doing?”
“Jumping around.”
“Let’s go see what happening.”
“I’m gonna go take a nap before the kids get here.”
I jogged down to the office while Jill turned to go back to her cabin.
“Why so jubilant?”
Margo was heavy and round but always in motion. She was spinning like Lucy in a “Peanuts” special.
“I found this very cool record in the office.”
“What is it?”
“The Virginia Reel.”
“You mean Sweet Virginia”?
“No. I thought you hated the Stones.”
“I do, well not like Led Zeppelin. But I like that song.”
“Figures. I said the Virginia Reel. You know, folk music.”
“Oh yeah. I love folk music.”
“I’m not talking about Dylan.”
“Neither am I. So what’s this Virginia Reel?”
“We’re gonna teach the kids to square dance!”
“Oh cool! Think they’ll go for it?”
“Yeah. Don’t you think?”
“Well, it’s not like anything they’re used to.”
“So?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Mary about it?”
“Mary Booker?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh I get it. And why don’t I ask Michael Gaines. And all the other black counselors?”
“Well.”
“Well what?”
“I think square dancing’s a great idea. I just don’t know if we can sell it to the kids.”
“Oh but if we get Mary in on the deal, they’ll go for it.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m disappointed with you, Jack.”
She turned and walked away.
Fact of the matter was I got along well with Mary. When she showed up a half hour later she was happy to see me.
“Jack! What is happening?” She called out from her ’68 Corolla.
“Nothing.”
“Whatsa matter? Y’all bummed out offa something.”
The small car made her large frame appear even larger.
“Nothing. Everything’s cool.”
“Don’t matter. Mary got the cure!”
“What?”
She didn’t say anything but instead parked the car in front of the office and ran inside. In less than a minute a voice was disrupting the silence of the trees and hills and overwhelming the breeze and the trickle of the nearby creek. The PA system was never more severely tasked than it was that day.
“Tear the roof, we’re gonna tear the roof off the mother, sucker,” the voice declared and Parliament lurched into “Give up the Funk” and Mary turned up the volume loud enough to be heard from Malibu to Venice Beach. She emerged from the office with both hands in the air, her arms waving free and her eyes full of life.
“Come on now!” she shouted, “Dance wit me!”
“That your record?”
“Who you think it is? Matt?”
Matt was a gentle, soft-spoken counselor who was whiter than typing paper and was thinking about becoming a priest.
“Could be,” I said.
“Man, shut up and dance.”
“Don’t hurt me like last time,” I joked and we bumped for all five minutes of it.
“Gimmie some of that Armenian soul!”
“GIVE UP THE FUNK!” I sang as loud as I could, “GOTTA HAVE THAT FUNK!”
Later, I bought her an ice cream and we sat on the steps in front of the mess hall.
“I see you like that Sidewalk Sundae,” she said.
“Yeah it’s the best.”
“Not as good as this Drumstick.”
“Sidewalk Sundae’s are better.”
“I know why you like that.”
“Why?”
“Cause it’s like you. It’s vanilla until you get to the middle inside part, then it’s chocolate!”
“You sayin I’m black?”
“Not really. But you not white, not really. You Sidewalk Sundae.”
“Well, my people braided their hair and their beards.”
“See there? You somethin’ but you not white.”
“There’s good white people.”
“Not sayin they ain’t. Just sayin you different.”
“Well thanks. So, you went to the beach today?”
“To the beach? Black folks don’t go to the beach!”
“Why not?”
“What you see there?”
She held up her arm for inspection.
“Your arm.”
“We don’t need no tan. We got our tan.”
“Ok, I get it.”
“That’s not chocolate, that’s dark chocolate!”
“Yep.”
“All the times you went to the beach I know you didn’t see no kind of black folk there.”
“I did once.”
“Well, they must’ve been lost.”
We laughed.
“You’re all right, Mary Booker.”
“You all right, Jack Chavoor. I’m a come to your house and visit you.”
“My dad may not be too happy about that.”
“Why? Your dad’s racist?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Um. Okay. I mean you is or you ain’t.”
“Dad would say no. But let’s just leave it at that.”
“All right, then.”
“Am I still Sidewalk Sundae?”
“Maybe on your mama side.”
We were quiet for a while.
“You hear what Margo wants to do?”
“What?’
“She wants us to teach the kids how to square dance.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?’
“Why not? It’s something new. It’s good exercise. I did it in the fourth grade and it was fun.”
“You think they watch Hee-Haw or somethin?”
“No, but the whole idea is to show them something different. Square dancing most definitely qualifies.”
“Yeah, you right about that. It’s different.”
She started laughing.
“I mean, you showed an Armenian guy from an all white neighborhood how to bump and sing along to Parliament.”
“Where you live?”
“Burbank.”
“You rich?”
“No, most people in Burbank are middle class.”
“And white.”
“White or Mexican.”
“No black.”
“I never saw a black person until I was 15 years old and played in a football game against Manuel Arts.”
“Fifteen.”
“I was the darkest kid in elementary.”
“You lyin.”
“I’m not. But what about square dancing?”
“I think it’s about the funniest thing I ever heard.”
“It’s gonna be good.”
“You know I’m all about what’s good.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Where Ko-Ko at?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“She owe me five dollar. She better have her little Chinese butt over there in her cabin.”
“She’s Japanese.”
“Yeah, I know. Long as she got some American dollars bills.”
“Yeah.”
Mary got up slowly and looked at me with a puzzled look.
“Thanks for the ice cream.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Maybe I’ll try that Sidewalk Sundae next time.”
“Yeah.”
She walked off in a way that made me feel I had disappointed her along with Margo. I sat alone for quite some time until Vince came along.
“Hey Vince.”
He was a very intense guy with jet black hair which he kept plastered down, a shiny face and more freckles than regular skin. He wore his courdoroy pants high and he wore a short sleeve shirt with a t-shirt underneath.
“Hey. You seen Alex?”
“No,” I said.
“Good. He blasted me with the hose last time I saw him. I hate the guy.”
“That’s just how he amuses himself.”
“Ha-ha.”
“What’d you do with your half a day off?”
“Went to Mom’s. Turned the mattresses over. Stuff like that.”
“Cool.”
“Are the uniforms doing a devotional this week?”
“I guess. They came last week.”
“I didn’t like that one guy. I don’t care if he’s a captain or a general or a aide de camp to Jesus. I didn’t like him.”
“How come?”
“He said ‘God is like a father.’ My father beat the hell out of me on a daily basis. If God is like a half Italian, half Irish, 100% drunk, I’m gonna be an atheist!”
“Maybe he meant God is like an ideal father.”
“I didn’t hear ideal in there.”
I wanted to go back to the quiet earlier part of the day with the breeze and creek.
“Still though.”
“I don’t like the uniforms. They just show up like they know us or know what’s going on. Why they have to their uniforms on?”
“I don’t know. Just have to roll with it I guess.”
“I’m not a basketball.”
“Ok, man. Didja hear that Margo wants to teach the kids to square dance?”
“What? Oh man, that’s hysterical.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I don’t, but it’s hysterical.”
The campers didn’t have any objections; they had no history with or knowledge of American folk music or square dancing. They did think the word square next to dancing was odd but once they were placed in position and saw where the square came from they were ok with it and by the time they did it twice they were asking to do it three or four times. The truth is I don’t remember how many times Margo played that scratchy old record, maybe 8 or 9 times. The kids refused to stop. They wouldn’t go to bed, even when Rick, the camp director, blinked the lights off and then on again; that only inspired them and shouted “Play it again, play it again, play it again!”
I don’t know what happened on the Fourth of July, 1976 anywhere else. I didn’t catch anything on the TV. I didn’t listen to the radio that day. I didn’t read the LA Times that day or the following week. I do know that at 11:30 that night about 100 campers from South Central Los Angeles were square dancing to the Virginia Reel under the stars at a Salvation Army Summer Camp in the Malibu Canyon.
After a night like that, how would we get the kids to sleep? They had an entire week of activities ahead of them: mushball, swimming, relay races, long arduous hikes. At Vespers, also called cabin devotionals, anything could be happening from cabin to cabin. The counselor in the cabin down the way from mine was advising his middle school campers on the fine art of talking to women while I was trying my best to give them a mini-sermon. I was hoping it would calm them down a bit.
“See, God loves you and has a plan for your life.”
“Hey Jack, didja ever see the Holy Ghost?”
“No, Devon, I can’t say that I have.”
“Ah man, I seen it.”
“How can you see a spirit? Bible says the Holy Spirit is like the wind,” Cha-Cha put in.
“Man I ain’t lyin’. I seen it. I went to my auntie’s church this one time. “
“Oh I know what you talking about,” Terrell chipped in, “My mama go to church ever Sunday. People get the Holy Ghost and fall down on the floor and shit.”
“And be talking Chinese,” Xavier added.
“Nah, that ain’t what I’m talking about,” Devon said.
“Tell us about it then,” I said.
“Everybody was prayin’,”he began, “and it was like a light that came out of everybody.”
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“ Devon lyin’,” Xavier said calmly.
“If I’m lyin’ I’m flyin’.” Devon said defensively.
“You flyin’ then.” Xavier answered, laughing.
“Shut up, man,” Cha-cha said, “Let him tell it.”
“And the light made itself into a ball and the ball went straight up and blew a hole in the roof,” Devon continued.
“What?” Terell exclaimed.
“You ever seen anything like that Jack?” Devon asked.
“Uh, no.”
“But do you believe it?” he asked hopefully.
“I don’t think it’s impossible.”
“Ah, come on now man. God blowed a hole in the roof of a church?” Xavier asked.
“Well, we don’t always know why God does things,” I said.
“It don’t make sense though.” Xavier exclaimed derisively.
“Pastor Thompson said it showed God’s power,” Devon said.
“So like I was saying, God loves you and has a plan for your life,” I said, feeling guilty for having drifted off the lesson.
“Like your future or something?” Cha-Cha wondered.
“Hey man, you know what?” Xavier asked.
“What?” I answered.
“I brought me some RUBBERS to camp!”
The cabin exploded in laughter.
“You’re 13 Xavier,” I said when they quieted down to hear my response.
“Don’t matter if you got what it TAKES!” Xavier exclaimed.
Another explosion followed.
“Ok well that’s it for devotionals,” I grumbled, annoyed and defeated.
“How come?” Devon asked.
“’Cause it’s late and I’m tired. Just think about what I said. God loves you.”
“He didn’t love that rat too much,” Terrell joked.
“You mean Baby T didn’t love it.” Xavier said.
“Does God love rats, Jack?” Devon asked.
“He made ‘em,” Cha-Cha said.
“Hey, what happened to Baby T?” I wondered out loud.
“He sleepin’.” Xavier said.
“Yeah,” Terell said, “he don’t hardly breathe when he sleep. He look dead.”
“What about rats, Jack?” Xavier asked again.
“Rats are part of the eco-system,” I said.
“The what?” Cha-Cha said.
“You know,” I said, “like snakes eat rats, eagles eat snakes, like that.”
“Oh yeah, it’s a song like that,” Terrell said.
“A song?” I said.
“Yeah, you know There’s a flea on the wing on the fly on the frog on the bump on the log …”
“Yeah, Terrell, it’s like that. Sort of,” I said.
“Cool.”
“Wait a minute now,” I said, “where is Baby T. Did he sneak out?”
“Naw,” Devon said, shining his flashlight on BabyT’s solemn, motionless face.
“Ok,” I said, “turn off the flashlight. We got to get some sleep.”
“But…” Devon began.
“Cut off the light, Devon!” Terell said. The light went out. Finally, it was quiet. But Cha-Cha wanted the last word.
“Hey Jack.”
“What is it Cha-Cha?”
“Can we do that square dancing stuff again tomorrow?” They all chimed in for more square dancing.
“Yeah man, we can do that.”
“Cool.”
“Ok, good night.”
“Jack?”
“Yes, Devon.”
“I like that word doesy-doe.”
“Glad to hear it. Now go to sleep.”
It was a little after one in the morning on July 5 when they all finally fell asleep. We had celebrated America’s 200th birthday the coolest way I could have imagined, and the campers liked it so much they wanted to do it again tomorrow. I listened to them—it was as if they were all struggling for air—and I drifted off myself, feeling as though we had really done something of value that day, something that might stay with them.

A Cigar for Everyone

1964
Eventually, Jack Darakji’s face and his saliva soaked cigar became one entity. He was never without it. It could be unlit, smoldering or extinguished, but it was ever present, any time of day, any occasion. He was an energetic man; animated in speech and gesture, as if everything he said and did came with an exclamation point. His face though looked tired. His jet black hair greased up and combed straight back, his little mustache, white short sleeve shirt over a white t-shirt, black pants, his short but strong looking frame combined with his energetic nature and his tired, bittersweet countenance, made him look like an exiled Mediterranean dictator. He wore the same combination of clothes, as if he had decided that if he couldn’t wear his uniform, then he would at least dress as uniformly as possible. His clothes hung loose on him. Clothes to him seemed to be something that didn’t merit his conscious attention, they were merely functional. They
were never dirty but they appeared to be well lived in and the smell of his trademark cigar permeated his clothes as well as his very being. His cigar fixation made it quite ironic that Dad—who was against smoking long before anyone admitted that it was poisonous—called him his friend. That irony, coupled with the fact that when Dad yelled at him, he yelled right back with relish and impunity, made Jack Darakji a source of fascination for me and my sister.
He was nice to us; we never realized that when he called us young lady and young man, it was because he didn’t know our names. He was a funny, entertaining character, a little bit off kilter. One day Shamera couldn’t resist asking a question that led a kind of dissertation on life and cigars.
“Mr. Darakji, how come you always smoke those cigars?”
“Well young lady, I’ll tell you. I like cigars. I’ve liked cigars since I was a young man. If I didn’t like cigars, well, I wouldn’t smoke them. You see?”
“But they kind of smell.” She wagged her hand manically in front of her face.
“They might smell bad to you, but to me cigars are wonderful. I think everyone should have a cigar. Every man. And women, too. Everybody! Even you and your brother here. Little babies in a baby carriage, they should have a cigar.”
The image of cigar smoke curling up from a baby carriage was tickling my brain. I couldn’t believe an adult would be so honest and wacky to say such a thing.
“That’s funny,” my sister said, no doubt amused by the same image.
“Nothing funny intended. Everyone should have their own cigar. See?”

“But they’re bad for you,” I put in.
“Well, sonny, you’re the son of your dad, all right. You don’t have to smoke a cigar if you don’t want to, but for me, I like cigars, so then, I smoke them, that’s all. It’s like me and your dad. Frank is a fine man. Very intelligent, your father. I’ve known him since before you were born. Since before your brother, even. How is your brother, anyway?”
“Fine,” I answered.
“That’s good. Glad to hear that. He’s a good boy, just like you. Yes, I’ve known your dad going all the way back to Fresno as a matter of fact. And you know, we don’t always agree on everything. I’m sure you’ve heard us arguing over various things.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Shamera said.
“Now you should know this: I don’t dislike your father and he doesn’t dislike me. When you hear us shouting and the like, well, that’s just like a, like a disagreement. But we both are trying to solve the same problem, that’s all. Just in different ways. Do you see that?”
“I guess,” I said, uncertain.
“You’ll get it a little better when you, when you are a little older. Grown ups just argue sometimes, that’s all. But me and your dad, well, most of it is about the Assyrian Hall, the club, the organization, you know, what’s the future of it and all, and he sees it one way and I see it some other way. And then maybe there’s someone else, maybe your dad’s cousin Lily, or Maljan and they all see it yet again another way. But every one of us wants the same thing, which in this case is to keep club going and keep it strong. Ok? So that there is something there for you, something you can be proud of and you can say this is who I am and meet with people of your own kind. See what I mean? Thirty-eight years, I been a member.”
I was studying the cigar carefully to make sure no ashes would fall off; he had been waving it like a baton. Shamera, in the meantime, had been sneaking glances at me because the “Thirty-eight years” line was his signature comment whenever he got wound up, so much so that Glenn, our cousin, included it whenever he did his spot-on Jack Darakji imitation.
“That’s a long time,” my sister said in mock reverence.
“How’s that again, Miss? Lost some hearing in the war. A bomb went off very close to where I was.”
“I said that’s a pretty long time, 38 years,” she nearly shouted.
“It sounds like it, young lady, and I guess it is. But those of us who are your father or your mother’s age, well, I don’t know how all those years got by or came and went or what have you. That’s why everyone should know what they like and want and they should do that because well, even though you aren’t thinking about it right at this moment, and you shouldn’t be thinking about it, we’re all going to be dead at some point or another, you see? So while you’re alive, you should do the things that you like, the things that make you happy or feel good or satisfied as often as you can because you don’t want to get to the end and say to yourself, goddamniit—oh, sorry, young lady—so, I mean you don’t want say to yourself I should have smoked some cigars while I had the chance. A cigar for everyone, that’s what I say. The whole world should have a cigar. Ok? You get it?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said.
“Ok, good. Very good.”
“They still smell bad, though,” Shamera said.
But Jack Darakji puffed on his cigar, making it glow. He didn’t answer my sister; he was a man who had made his peace with a troubled world.

Motherland

This post is dedicated to my eldest child. You don’t have to bring me anything back, but I wish you safe journey and that you come back blessed with a deeper and stronger connections to your heritage.

Love, Dad

So far, what happens in this story is as close as I got to the Motherland.

 

1996

Have you ever suddenly started thinking about a place—a restaurant let’s say—that no longer exists? Come on; don’t say “Not really.” You know what I’m talking about: you’re just sitting there thinking about work or car upkeep or your kids when out of the blue your head takes you to the Farmer’s Market—which had nothing to do with farmers or markets; it was more like a circular indoor mall with no department stores—over there where Tulare and Divisadero split, and you can see that Mediterranean place, run by Greeks I heard some people say, and they served that chicken and pilaf dish with the weird sauce on it that was made out of madzoon and mayonnaise and the pilaf was yellow and I was drinking regular Pepsi at the time instead of Diet, until I learned it was all bad and quit both of them.
I just bring it up as an example of your brain sometimes grabbing the controls and sending off weird memos, saying to your mind—Hey, you used to have lunch over there with Roosevelt teachers, remember? Just sayin’—for no reason and you can smell the chicken and hear teachers laughing sardonically and even taste the Pepsi. Well, maybe that’s what happened that day, like a brain hiccup or something, when I told a student I wanted some brandy.
I wasn’t out to corrupt him or trying to present myself as “cool” for thinking about brandy; it just came out. I was asked what he could bring me for a gift from Mexico when he returned from visiting Grandma during Christmas break, and of course I knew the answer, “Nothing, thanks. Just be sure to have a nice time, and then you can write about it in your journal.” But instead what came out was the answer that I might have given to an adult, not all of them, just some of them, just to be funny. I panicked for half a second; then I thought about the kid and thought he would be ok with it, that he would know I was kidding even though it was dumb on my part to have said it but like I say, it was that brain thing, you know.
“Ho-ho” the kid said, “Ok, Chavoor, I’m a do that.”
He was delighted that I was so real with him, except that it really wasn’t real.
Now, I don’t care for brandy, I’m ok with it, don’t have anything too much against it, but it wouldn’t be something I’d order if I wanted something to drink, which I don’t do often and now the kid thought I was revealing my true nature to him, that if I could have him bring anything, it would be a bottle of brandy. In the first place I don’t often have booze in the house—it makes me feel guilty—in the second place if I have something to drink other than a beer it’s either Wild Turkey on the rocks or gin and tonic. I’ve had apricot brandy which sounds better than it tastes. I told the kid I was just kidding, but he didn’t say anything, he just grinned.
When the two week Christmas break ended I had forgotten about the whole thing. A couple more weeks went by and one day after school the kid comes into my room—smiling—with something behind his back.
“Hey man, what’s up?” I said from my desk while we walked in circles with that grin on his face.
“I gots it,” he said like he’s about to signal the revelers to jump out and give me a surprise birthday party.
“Got what?” I said, eyeing him a little cautiously.
Instead of answering he rushed toward my desk and slammed a large bottle of El Presidente Brandy in front of me.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted jumping up from my desk chair.
“You said you wanted some brandy!” he laughed, not in the least hurt at my reaction.
“You…I…PUT IT AWAY!”
“It’s cool, Chavoor,” he said and he put it inside his overcoat. He was still smiling, quite pleased with himself.
“I said I was kidding ok? When I said that.”
“It’s for you, Chavoor. Merry Christmas.” He had instantaneously changed from a lively, spirited mirthfulness in his tone to a deep, almost somber sincerity as teenagers can do.
“I can’t accept this,” I said, while at the same time remembering the crestfallen look on a girl named Adelle from my first English class at Roosevelt, when she tried to give me a gigantic heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day that I declined to accept. Wasn’t this situation just as bad? Worse, maybe.
“Come on, Chavoor,” the kid said, “I been hiding it under my bed for like a month.”
“You brought this to school, man. I can’t believe it. What were you thinking?”
“All right. Don’t worry, Chavoor. I got you.” He nodded and left the room with the bottle securely hidden in his overcoat.
A week later he showed up on a Saturday on my front porch.
“We ain’t in school now,” he said proffering the troublesome gift.
“Ok,” I said, touched and worn out by his persistence, “thanks.” He hopped off the porch and skipped to his car.
It’s risky to ask someone what he wants when you’re going somewhere on vacation. I don’t think I’ve ever done it before. Well, not because it’s risky but it never occurred to me. The question can sound like, “Hey, I’m going on vacation and you’re not. Can I get you some useless trinket to remind you?” It’s not fair though to attribute all such offers to boorishness. I’m sure that for some, or ok, for many the offer is sincerely made or it’s one of those empty expressions that we say automatically like “How are you feeling today?” to which you are expected to equally automatically respond, “Fine, thanks,” as opposed to “I’ve been a little gassy lately.” And if that’s true then the answer to the “Can I get you something?” Should be “No, thanks. Just have a great time,” which would have saved me a lot of trouble with the kid and the brandy, but on the other hand would have meant I wouldn’t have gotten a bag of dirt from Ed Barton when he asked “What can I get you?” and that would have been an incontrovertible loss.
Ed Barton is one of the good guys. He is a calm, wise follower of God. He has many insights and a sense of humor. He is also a sincere man and a man of his word. He’s also the only Armenian I know whose voice has that homey, soft spoken, nasally, Midwestern tone very much like Jimmy Stewart.
Ed and I along with Tom, Tedd, and Al—a recreational therapist, a minister and a principal, respectively—have been meeting for breakfast once a month for almost 30 years now. Ed and I also taught at Roosevelt and we all attended the same church. The breakfast club was in session one morning and Ed told us he was going to Armenia.
“Armenia, huh?” I said, “Wow, that’s really cool. I always wanted to go to Armenia, you know, get back to the roots and all that.”
“Roots, uh-huh, that’s good. You’ll go one day,” he said in his gentle voice.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Tell you what, I’ll get you something. What can I get you?”
“Bring me some dirt from the Motherland.” I was surprised at myself; it wasn’t like me to assign meaning to inanimate objects. There were so many normal requests to make—a cross, a picture of Mount Ararat, and yes even Apricot Brandy—and I tell him dirt. But I meant it, I wanted dirt from Armenia. If I couldn’t go to the Motherland, the Motherland could come to me.
“All right,” he said, his eyes sparkling, “I will. I’ll do that.”
“And I’ll plant a fruit tree and put some of it there.”
“You bet. That’s it.”
I never doubted that he would tote dirt 6,000 miles in his suitcase.
When Ed returned and we were all at breakfast again we asked him about his trip.
“It was fantastic, a real blessing. Every Armenian-American should go.”
“What was the best part?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you what, when I first saw Mt. Ararat my heart did flip-flops. I experienced a deep sense of connection.”
“Wow,” Tom said.
“I had seen pictures of it for many, many years…” Ed continued.
“We all have,” Tedd interjected.
“But when I saw the real thing, the symbol of Armenia, I was really moved.”
“Cool,” I said.
“A few days later I got a closer look at Ararat as we were visiting one of the churches high up on a mountain. We were about two miles east of the Turkish border, the Arax River ran below us. I saw Ararat, about 40 miles to the west, and I had a different kind of emotion.”
“What was it?” Al asked.
“When I saw Ararat, our national symbol, inside Turkish territory, that really belonged in Armenia, well it gave me a sadness that was real hard to deal with.”
“A sense of loss,” I said.
“Yeah. But still mixed in with this inspiring power though,” Ed murmured. We sat in reflective silence.
After breakfast, out in the parking lot Ed handed me the gift. When I got it—doubled bagged in plastic—I thanked him again and again. When I held the bag I thought I felt something, like a vibration in my soul. I put it in the passenger seat up front in the Camry and at stops I would turn and look at it, and if I had time, if the red light was long enough, I’d put my hand on the bag and feel that feeling, humming of the soul. I don’t know, I can’t explain it. I brought it home and put it in an old gym bag in the bedroom closet and every time I went to pick out a shirt for the day, I got that same feeling.
Now the freshman football team that year was, well, they were horrible. But they weren’t as awful as the ‘95 team the year before it. The 1996 edition of frosh football opened with an away game against Sierra High School and we actually had a chance to win—something the ’95 team never came close to experiencing—but in the end we dropped two passes that would have been touchdowns and then a kickoff return for a touchdown got called back because of a penalty. We lost, 14-12 which was better than the shellackings we took in ’95 against the same team, but I knew that “had a chance” and “would have been” wasn’t going to do us any good. We had John Romero a compact, solidly built linebacker who loved hitting people. We had to win some games to give the rest of the kids some confidence. Our next game was another road trip, versus Yosemite High. It was time to change the luck.
There is a lot of superstition in football and sports in general I suppose; if faithful consistency doesn’t get results you have to switch things around, do things in opposite order or manner. This is called changing the luck. It’s one of those things you do whether you believe it or not because if you say you don’t believe in it and don’t do it, chances are more than good you’ll end up jinxing yourself. So instead of wearing a suit and tie to school on game day I switched to the shorts and shirt that I wore while I coached. I yelled at the kids I coaxed and coaxed the kids I yelled at. I put two quarters and two pennies in the coin holder in my car, 52 cents, my jersey number from high school. Up until that week, Coach Canales and I didn’t leave campus at lunch on game day, but to change the luck we went to Javier’s, the local Mexican restaurant, ate like kings and felt good. But I wasn’t taking any chances; I had to bring the dirt with me.
I had the gym bag between my feet on the floor of the bus where I sat. When I reached down and touched the bag that held the dirt of the motherland, my soul stirred. I kept reaching down to touch the bag to see if I would feel the same surge, and I did. Finally I picked up the gym bag and plopped it in my lap.
“What you got, Coach?” Canales asked, looking at my ratty old gym bag through his Ray-Bans.
“Inside here, right inside this plastic bag? I got dirt.”
“Dirt?” he laughed.
“From Armenia.”
“Yeah?”
“When I touch the dirt, I feel the power. The ancestors are with us.”
I wasn’t about to back pedal. I wasn’t going to jinx myself, the kids or the game.
“Excellent.”
“Yeah, and that’s not all.”
“What else?”
“We just rolled through Oakhurst where Grace and I first met 20 years ago.”
“Good omen.”
“Damn straight.”
Dirt from the Motherland while passing the spot where I first met my beautiful Armenian bride—we couldn’t go wrong.
We led 13-0 at halftime but I was nervous. The offense only scored one touchdown; the other was on a kickoff return. Not much to brag about but at least we had the lead. While Canales gave the halftime speech I reached into the gym bag, worked my way through the plastic bag and submerged my hand in Armenian soil.
In the second half the offense went into a scoring frenzy and scored five touchdowns. Everyone got to play, even the third stringers who had no idea what they were doing. With 10 seconds left the score stood at 46-0 and we all chanted the countdown loud, proud and crazy. We didn’t calm them down; we let them celebrate and savor the moment. It was a raucous ride home. The kids whooped, hollered, whistled, and sang “Got that Rider spirit down in my heart,” that Canales swiped from Fresno State who swiped it from every church summer camp in America who ever sang “Got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart.” When the bus roared up Tulare Avenue and then pulled into the Roosevelt parking lot where family and friends waited, the cheering inside and out the bus exploded. It was so joyous that even the bus driver joined in on it.
The Yosemite football program was in its second year of existence. They were predominantly skinny white kids who seemed afraid of kids from an inner city school. They had no speed and limited talent at the skill positions. They were one of the two teams that we beat the year before. Did any of that have anything to do with the most lopsided victory in the four years I coached? Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous! It was the earth of the motherland, the presence of my Armenian ancestors that stirred my soul and apparently stirred the souls of our kids that day.
So sometimes—not every time—we stand to gain when we blurt out impulsive answers to ordinary inquiries. Makes for a good story, anyway. And if you don’t believe it, you’d better watch out; you might just end up jinxing yourself.