When I was a Younger Man

On the surface, it might seem conceited of me writing yet another article about myself. Perhaps it’ll be mistaken as some self-absorbed treatise on the wonderment of youth and the trials (slash) tribulations of growing up in the 50’s in the Midwest. Like some opening act or shadowy prelude to my oft-mentioned ‘Lost Years’ during the Sixties. In reality, it’s a sobering realization that the complexity of youth is often realigned as age and maturity gain some foothold on one’s memory.

My Mother appears in these two pictures; the first on her wedding day and the second with some skittish grade-schooler in her own backyard. Yet her presence can be felt in every picture…one vision then, another now.

I can’t say the pictures unleash a floodgate of fond memories drowning my consciousness with warmth. But nor do they harken back to a darker period in my life. Instead, the photos tell a simple story. It was what it was. That would be defined as growing up in a single parent household and raised by an emotionally-vacant woman who was just trying to survive under some very tough circumstances. And she did it with little to no support from other family members. Boyed by her Catholic faith and the resiliency of her rural upbringing this woman made the best of numerous life-changing events in her life.

My mother came from an agrarian culture, much like the woman I would eventually marry. Beneath that façade of modesty was one tough, hard-working and determined woman. With little more than her own mental smarts and street-learned determination my mother made her way through a hard-scrabble, ever-changing world…with two kids under tow and no husband at her side.

I look back at these pictures of myself now and see them quite differently than I have in the past.

I used to see a scared kid unsure of himself with no father or father figure to guide him along. Now, I see a kid heavily influenced by the work ethic and penny-wise attitudes of his mother. She started working at age five by cleaning out the chicken coop. I started working in seventh grade with my first paper route. We both always had/have side hustles going on.

I used to see a teenager desperate to find love and affection and someone to be close to. Now I see an ordinary kid just like every other kid I knew who was searching for love…only I didn’t know it at the time.

I used to see kid so proud of his ROTC training and the Lieutenants bars pinned on his shoulders even if it was only in high school. Now, I see a kid who got the message early on that education was everything and he was determined to pass that on to his own children and grandchildren.

I used to see a young man in his hippie beads trying to express himself with a mother who never quite understood why. Now, I see that same young man in his hippie beads and understand what she was smiling about.  I think I’d be smiling right there alongside her now.

Age and maturity have finally brought clarity to the reality of those pictures now. It’s too late to tell her now but if I could…..I’d tell my mother:

I’ve never said it before, Mom, but you did good. With very little help and lacking any formal education you managed to pull off what a lot of other married women and single mothers weren’t able to do.

You built your home with your own hands; making sure your kids got a good Catholic education. You even managed to finally find the joy of love later on in life. And near and dear to your heart, you were loved by your grandchildren who still treasure their memories of you long after you left for that Novena in the Sky.

I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see the whole picture when I was growing up there alongside you. It was cloudy and vapid back then…and it’s taken a long time for me to put that puzzle together. I should have told you how very proud I was to have you as my mother. I’ve never said that to you before.

But I’m saying it now.

A Gathering Without Class

There were two Bentleys in the driveway and a classic convertible parked in the street. Aside from those glamor queens, the obligatory BMWs, Mercedes, Lexus, and other sundry desert chariots were all scattered about. I would have driven my Camry (I love that car) but the party was only a block away.  ‘High season’ had, once again, begun in Palm Springs.

Snowbirds, seasonal visitors, and other part-timers were returning to the desert and ICNO was there. ICNO, the Indian Canyon Neighborhood Organization, was hosting its annual get-acquainted party for the neighborhood. ICNO sponsors one party in the fall and another in the spring. The events are always hosted at someone’s house in the neighborhood. They’re great fodder for stealing decorating ideas, catching up on neighborhood gossip and renewing acquaintances with other seasonal players in town.

Last fall, the hosting house was a newly remodeled four-level custom designed home owned by two gentlemen from the coast. I always look forward to these parties because of the folks who attend. A lot of them are nearby neighbors and some are active on the ICNO board as I was a couple of years back. Then, there’s usually an eclectic assortment of newcomers rubbing shoulders with the old regulars who have been around since Frank Sinatra stalked the golf course with a martini and close friends under both arms.

The thing I appreciate most about these parties is the lack rarified air so typical of many West Coast gatherings. This isn’t a West Hollywood party where everyone is angling to hook up or a party in the canyons where movie deals are made around the swimming pool. It’s not like the gathering of those closed societies down valley in their cloistered gated communities. ICNO could be like that but never has been.

What sets these neighbors apart is an almost total lack of pretentiousness. These are accomplished folks who are comfortable in their own skin. Yet despite their financial success, they are charming, engaging, and fun to talk to. Most have fascinating backgrounds and abundant stories to share. It’s like meeting other seasoned world travelers who just want to share their travel ad-ventures. No one is there to impress. In fact, the ones who try to impress soon find themselves odd man (or woman) out. It’s a class of folks without a hint of class.

On a more personal level, it’s an interesting dichotomy for me to observe. I have several acquaintances and casual friends who now ‘have money’ but lack the panache to pull off what these folks can. These accidental associates seem to have forgotten where they came from. They were born middle class but feel they have out-grown their roots. They have this subtle need to either be showy or consciously put down those around them who are not as financially well-heeled.

One would think in those circumstances modesty would be the order of the day. One friend hasn’t really ‘arrived’ because she was never on the journey. With a jump start from daddy, it wasn’t affluence earned so (at least in my mind) it would seem best to be a little humble. As for the other friend who did make it on his own, I see no reason to put down those back home with less affluence. Both these folks seem to have forgotten the core values that are an intrinsic part of their common class roots.

Years ago, Sharon spent a great deal of time in her hometown of Wabasha, Minnesota. She was there to help sell her mother’s house, move her mom into assisted living, plus handle a laundry list of chores directly related to her mother’s care. This entailed dealing with the locals on a daily basis.

Wabasha is a small town. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. They either knew Sharon or knew of her; where she went to school, what she did afterwards and where she is now. There are few secrets in a small town. Sharon was constantly on display… but it hardly mattered. She treated everyone as she always has…with respect and common curtesy.

In many ways Palm Springs is a small town little different than Apple Valley. While it’s true Palm Springs has as many Yoga studios as Apple Valley has daycare centers, there are enough similarities to see that both worlds run on parallel tracks. On one level, there are different cultures, tastes and lifestyles between the two cities. Yet on the other end of the spectrum, there are a lot of similarities.

The movie star Alan Ladd once had a hardware store in Palm Springs and used to make home deliveries. Bob Hope used to stroll down Main Street to get his ice cream downtown. A precursor to the rat pack hung out at Chi-Chi’s nightclub and burned the midnight oil at Canyon Country Club.

Canyon Country Club, the precursor to Indian Canyon, had a storied history. Over the years numerous movie stars and noted celebrities made their homes there. Now it’s a curious mixture of gay couples, retired folks from the coast, Canadians and east coast transplants who don’t like the Florida scene. They’ve all come to enjoy our golf courses, spectacular mountain scenery and the whole Palm Springs atmosphere. Indian Canyon carries on that tradition of open hospitality and egos left at the door. There is comfort level here among neighbors equal to that back in Apple Valley.

The ICNO party was a great success. We renewed old acquaintances, made new friends, and planned for a very active season. Sharon and I are very fortunate. We’ve have been able to straddle these two worlds and live comfortably in both…without losing sight of where we came from.

Inland Ocean

I was first seduced back in the heady days of 1964 at the St. Clair Theater. Thousands of miles and a lifetime away from my boring, bland existence in the Midwest. It was where I first dis-covered California girls, sun-kissed beaches, rolling surf and a lifestyle I could only imagine in my immature, eighteen-year-old pea-brain. All there on the big screen for me to believe in.

Since there was no Pacific Ocean in my backyard, Lake Nokomis proved second best and has since always held a special place in my heart. Even before dropping out of college, entering military service and leaving civilian life behind, the lake was a magnet for my dreams, illusions and high hopes for the future.

Around the turn of the century, the lake and its development were a part of Theodore Wirth’s grand plan to capitalize on the string of lakes in Minneapolis. He was one of the driving forces that transformed Minneapolis into a city known for its parks, lakes and outdoor recreational opportunities.

Lake Nokomis was the largest body of water near my home. While it couldn’t chorus the siren call of passing ships and meandering waters that crept down the delta, it did feed my psychic nature with its calm waters and the strange natives who inhabited its shores.

It was often a destination point for my long-distance bike rides and learning to be fleet of foot outside of high school track. It became my contemplative mountaintop without the elevation. It was a stolen glimpse into the wild and carefree antics of other youth who didn’t have the burden of a steady job and perhaps had more clarity toward their future. Nokomis became an icon for what I thought the future might hold for me. It became my inland ocean.

But instead of salt air, there was the sweet scent of pine. Instead of seagulls floating overhead, Robins stalked worms in a blanket of green. Instead of ocean waves crashing against the shore line, there was the gentle lapping of water moved only by a passing canoe. It wasn’t the same but, in my mind, it was about as good as it was going to get…at the time. That was before Uncle Sam took me away for two plus years.

By March of 1966, I was back in my old habitat…or so I thought.

After escaping the regimented confines of olive drab, I quietly slipped back into the real world and, of course, had to return to my old Lake Nokomis haunts. It was like hearing an old song which brings back distant memories and a slice of your past life that’s so real and clear you can almost taste it all over again.

The lake hadn’t changed much over the years but I had. I was back in that old mire of a still confusing relationship and travel dreams that were shackled with a year and a half of college still to finish. Yet somehow, the lake brought focus and clarity where the fog of reality clouded my vision of the future.

Circling the lake and meandering its shoreline brought out my contemplative nature and opened my world to all kinds of possibilities; both real and imagined. Even before that warm summer of ’66 had begun, I would venture over to my own inland ocean to walk the shoreline and imagine those frozen waters lined with bathing beauties and bronze gods. There was something magical about that expanse of water and shore line and meditative mounds where a young man could imagine what the real world might be like after graduation.

Would it include a career in advertising (‘Mad Men’, here I come) or a return to my pre-hippie roots in San Francisco. Somehow, Lake Nokomis brought all those wonderful thoughts, dreams and wild aspirations to the surface even in the dying last gasps of winter.

Lake Nokomis became my oceanic home away from home. I could look across the shore line and see Rincon Beach, Half Moon Bay, Huntington Beach, Sunset, Malibu or Laguna Beach. It was all there for the imagination.

The old unofficial unmarked high school beach scene was still there. The girls look the same except they were younger now and showed a lot more skin. The boys circling the girls looked the same and still acted as if they were all by themselves playing Frisbee or soccer. But now when the boys took off their shirts there was more ink than a platoon of Marines.

It used to be young white kids fishing off the pier. Now it was more families of color hoping to hook an evening meal. I’m sure they were there back then but I never saw them. I noticed porta-potties in place of the bushes where we used to go. Couples still walked arm in arm like they were in some three-legged race and oblivious to the world around them.

The couples pushing baby strollers around the lake looked like hipsters. He in his press pants, white t-shirt and hat. She in her flowered skirt or sarong. Both are pushing baby precious in a $100 dollar stroller which was probably equipped with more accessories than my old Pinto.

In ’66, the main beach was mainly for families and oldsters who would lie on the sand and soak up the sun. Now the main beach has a plethora of activities, refreshment stands and places to get a snack. You can rent paddle boards, canoes, kayaks, fishing boats, fishing equipment, sailboats and paddle-bikes. I guess Park and Rec. has to make a buck too.

I hadn’t realized it at the time but Nokomis had become an icon for what I was seeking in my life. That summer of ’66 wasn’t quite like the movie “The Summer of ‘44” but it was nevertheless a pivotal point in my life. A summer of love and lust and confusion. Olive drab was replaced by Madras and blue jeans and the real world was slowly opening up to my young imagination. It came before that winter breakup and graduation and living in Europe. It came before my real world was augmented with loves found and lost, the sweet nectar of satisfying work, being a foreign correspondent on the West Bank and enjoying the ebbing foolishness of youth.

It came before I began work in public television and met the nighttime receptionist there. A stunning blond who had focus and understanding and empathy and patience. She’s been one heck of a friend, travel companion, lover for the last fifty-four years.

The lake is still a magnet for all kinds of people. They come to play and rest and dream and enjoy the visceral appeal of what might be. It served that purpose for me. It brought comfort and clarity and finally closure to that part of my life.

A body of water can do that sometimes.