Mother of All Road Trips

This was an epic ‘best of all’ road trips to celebrate my Eightieth birthday. Brian and Melanie had planned this entire adventure and sprung it on me during their visit here at Christmas. It would begin in San Francisco then follow the PCH, the Pacific Coast Highway, down the California coastline and end up in San Diego. I flew up to San Francisco on March 1^st, met up with the gang at my gate and we were off on our adventure.

Fifty-Nine years after I first arrived there in the Fall of 1964, I was back on familiar ground… or was I? San Francisco had changed a lot since I was first deposited in front of my barracks, as a fresh-faced recruit right out of basic training.

My job was that of a staff reporter at the post newspaper. With more than two and a half years of college education, I was considered a good catch for the Army and a potential lifer.

The base quickly became my new launch pad from which to explore the city in a used motor scooter, begin work at an art theater downtown, and grow my library of paperback books and vinyl records. Just walking the old parade grounds, now covered by grass, brought back a plethora of stimulating memories.

Back in the day, the farthest I got on my motor scooter was down to Half Moon Bay. This time around, we drove through the quaint town of Santa Cruz and visited the giant redwoods there.

I had a strong visceral feeling as we drove further down the coast to Monterey and Carmel-by-the-Sea. Back then, this was John Steinbeck’s world and my mother was a part of it. Long before World War Two changed California from a semi-rural state to the crowded, fast-paced world that it’s become, this area was heavy on fishing and the coastline had become a glamorous get-away for Hollywood stars and industrialists.

Eighty-three years earlier, an adventurous young woman was just beginning to spread her wings along the very same coastline. Newly escaped from the rigid confines of working as a maid on Summit Avenue and long sojourns back to the farm to care for her aging parents, Hildegarde was, for the first time in her life, free from the constraints of her rural German Catholic upbringing.

We drove through Seventeen Mile Drive in Carmel, where my mother used to work at a maid to the wealthy and enjoyed the famous bag piper at Spanish Bay who plays each evening as the sun goes down.

We visited Cannery Row and the Wharf where my mother might have gone for fresh fish for her employers or for a weekend getaway. I’ll never know but the chances are great it probably happened there.

Moving farther down the coast, the kids and I returned to where my latest cerebral adventure took place. ‘Playground for the Devil’ is my latest novel and the Henry Miller Memorial Library played a pivotal role in its storyline. I wrote about the place based on research I had done online. It was refreshing to see that my description of the structure and the atmosphere there was close to right on the spot.

I didn’t include ‘Jack the cat’ in my novel but the back porch where my protagonists first engaged in verbal fisticuffs was right there as written. The Henry Miller Memorial Library/museum/bookstore proved to be a cathartic experience for me.

From Big Sur, we swung over to Paso Robles, had a wonderful luncheon at a vineyard, visited Bubblegum Alley in San Luis Obispo, checked out the pier at Pismo Beach and finally drove down to Santa Barbara.

After leaving Santa Barbara, skirting Los Angeles, and zeroing in on the beaches of San Diego, we ended up on Mission Beach and then finally Ocean Beach.

It was a three-day whirlwind adventure, stopping where we wanted, enjoying liquid refreshments, eating in the sunsets each evening; and sharing thoughts, feelings, and appreciation for the lives we’ve created for ourselves and our families. Family time is priceless and this trip was a certain example of that. Besides, it’s given me a ton of ideas for future blogs. Now the grandchildren can find out what it was really like for Mom and Dad and Papa.

Understatement

I believe in understatement; I always have.

There is great strength in low key, unobtrusive comments, claims and conditions. Instances of self-edification, braggadocio pontificating and ‘me too’ claims only serve to diminish what might be clear and honest self-examination.

As a normal, sometimes obnoxious parent, I have lectured my kids on this principle of mine. I’ve told them over the years to let other people fill in the holes, empty spaces, vapid images left undone and unspoken. Let them exaggerate and fib; not you. If they say it about you, it carries more weight than you speaking about yourself.

            

The Cretin Alumni class of 1961 has had more than its share of doctors, lawyers, and captains of industry. Yet at our reunions every ten years, I’ve never heard one of my classmates talk about their own accomplishments. The conversations usually focus on family or past historic stupid antics when we were all young and dumb, always good for a laugh.

Over the ten months I spent living in my barracks at the Presidio of San Francisco, we had a very talented pool of individuals who brought their skills to the service. One close group included an artist and designer, a master mechanic and one PFC that wanted to be a writer.

We also had two real estate entrepreneurs flipping Victorian houses, a pimp with his own street corner downtown, a drug dealer (grass only), and an early version of an Uber driver; to name a few. Most of us had some kind of side hustle, mine was working at an art theater and letting my friends in for free.

In my early days in television, I was fortunate enough to work with some of the first public television pioneers. Folks who brought their understated talents to producing great educational and instructional programming. Mixed among the group were producers, directors, and writers eager to explore this new medium of communication.

Our neighborhood in Palm Springs is also a showcase of understatement. Unless you purposely pry, it’s very hard to find out what our fellow southlanders have accomplished before moving here, mainly in retirement. Understatement in homes, automobiles, and life styles are the norm. It’s only at social events such as our semi-annual neighborhood block party that one finds themselves mingling with some pretty interesting and accomplished people.

There is the retired Chief mechanic and head pilot for all of Walt Disney’s many corporate jets. The head of the Pharmacy Department at Eisenhower Medical Center lives here along with the past head of the accounting Department for Ticketmaster / Live Nation. The head of marketing for Playboy Enterprises, worldwide tells great stories of hanging out with Christie Hefner, Hugh Hefner’s daughter and CEO of the firm.

Over time, we’ve chatted with CEOs, CFOs, and CIOs, none of which was revealed unless it came up in a casual conversation about something relevant to their past employment. A lot of these folks are DINKs (dual income, no kids) and while they have the financial where-with-all for showy toys and lots of material things, they seldom have them.

Other retirees like me are doing some interesting things and not preaching about it. It’s an atmosphere of casual understatement that I find very comfortable. As much as I am fascinated with real estate, Sharon and I have only lived in two houses in fifty-two years of marriage.

Likewise, we have only had four new cars between us during that same time period. My Ford Escape was my favorite. I would have driven that beauty into the ground if an errant driver hadn’t hastened its demise. Understatement in cars and homes and other material things is a handle Sharon and I can embrace and feel comfortable with. We’ve both worked hard all our lives. We don’t have to have things to prove it.

What really matters for us is the family time we’ve accumulated thus far.

Zen Habits

What do you want to do with the rest of your life and is Eighty too late to start? Two questions with no concrete answers for either one unless you’ve really got it all together which few of us ever do. What I am sure of is that I’d rather be happy at the miles traveled rather than look back at the stumbles along the way. It took me a lifetime to get here. No shortcuts allowed along the way. So, I might as well enjoy the time still left on the clock.

What’s working in my favor is my German Catholic upbringing. There was always a focus on hard work, material sacrifice and a subtle but unmistakable desire to get ahead. Past generations would often describe it (and usually disparagingly) as ‘rising above your raisin.’ My mother led by example; not words or lectures. It was a subtle message but well received by my sister and I.

Unfortunately, what’s working against me is my German Catholic upbringing. Too much allegiance to the man dressed in black along with his sisters-in-kind. Their word was sacred and final and all too often wrong in all the right places. Emotions and feelings were a sign of weak-ness and our elders often preached that ‘children should be seen and not heard.’

What I’ve stumbled across in my old age (relatively speaking) is the ability to see my luck (through the fog of daily life) in whom I married, my kids, and my grandkids. If there is a legacy, I guess they’re mine.

I’ve been most fortunate with my health, managing my cerebral curiosity, and how I’ve chosen to live my life on a daily basis. There’s been a real outburst of writing projects over the last several years along with a very real satisfaction with my ‘Coffee and Chat’ sessions.

Those early morning coffee clutch gab sessions provide much more than just doctor talk and exercising intellectual prowess on our part. It’s both male and female companionship in my old age.

All of which leads me to a more recent practice of Zen habits or more clearly stated, getting lost in the woods or wash or berm or mountain top as a precursor for getting lost inside my head.

Alone or with a friend, leaving the comfort of home for the rough, unknown of a mountain trek opens one up for all kinds of cerebral explorations. It all comes down to not knowing what you’ll find and not caring. Just enjoying the serenity and peace and calm of mother nature. And luckily reflecting on a life well-lived.