Today I went there and saw a name I remember from high school: Loflin. Kenny Loflin is about 3 years older than me and was a senior when I was a freshman. His brother Donny was a junior that year and excelled in the pole vault. We were both on the wrestling team in 1967. The youngest brother Bobby is a year younger than I. We were both on the wrestling team for a couple of years. Many years later either Ken or Don (I don’t remember which) bought a house from my stepmother, Jacquelyn (Fountain) Fuller. The obituary was for their mother, Betty Jean Loflin. The unexpected connection was Betty Jean’s father: Leo Lusker. Leo was one of the high school custodians during my years there. I knew him because our first and best housekeeper, Juanita, married him after leaving us. We visited them a few times at their home in Janesville. My condolences to the Loflins.

I was quite surprised to see Daniel Paul Sanchez. Dan was married to my stepmother Maggie’s sister, Lois. They lived in Susanville and owned a lot at Lake Almanor. We spent many summer weekends there, swimming and water skiing. They are pictured (right) in 1967 with my brother Hal.

Another obituary with a connection was for Jim Buffham. I never met him but his mother Edna was my first and second grade teacher and the Principal for many years at Shaffer Union Elementary School in Litchfield, CA.

Sub Chaser

…off the southern California coast. Dad was impressed. They had a great time swimming and sunning, really cushy duty. He was so impressed that he gave up his exemption and joined the Navy too. And then the Navy, as he put it, “…shipped my ass overseas.”

Kaneohe Bay

After basic training in San Diego, he was sent to Hawaii and started training as a side gunner. On his very first flight, the instructor stressed the importance of speed. A side gunner’s life expectancy in combat was about 22 seconds, so the sooner the guns could be gotten out of stowage, mounted in the window, and begin spitting lead during an attack, the better. When the “Go” was given, Dad grabbed a machine gun off the rack and threw it in the direction of the window mount. His aim was flawless and he watched in horror as the gun went right out the open window and into Kaneohe Bay. That was the last time he saw the inside of an airplane for the duration of the war. Probably saved his life.

Bore Sighting

While stationed on some dinky island in the Pacific, he and a buddy were assigned to bore sight guns on fighter planes. If he told us the plane model I have forgotten it. Here is a picture that shows the procedure. It sounds similar to the story he told about having to jack up the back of the plane and look for the target through the bore. He said on this particular day, his buddy was having trouble with one. Every time he got it lined up, there was something hanging down, blocking his view of the target. He tried it several times and finally gave up and locked it down. Later that day, the pilots took the planes out for test firing. Guess what? One of them shot his propeller off. Dad frequently said he was amazed we won the war with a bunch of 19 year olds.

Good Morning Mr. S

If Dad was ever in combat, he didn’t talk about it. He did see Japanese prisoners while on another Pacific island. They were used in work crews. One crew of about 20 was overseen by a big Marine. One of the Japanese prisoners was a talkative little man striving to improve his English. Every morning as he climbed into the back of the truck, he said “Good morning” to the Marine. One morning he asked another sailor for the Marine’s name. Dad explained that the sailor and the Marine had had some kind of beef the day before. The sailor said, “His name is shit.” So when the little Japanese prisoner climbed into the truck, he proudly said, “Good morning Mr. Shit.” Dad said you could hear the poor guy’s bones crunch when the Marine hit him and knocked him clear out of the truck.

The first time he proposed, she laughed. Over the course of several months however, her ties to the East weakened, and the loose-jointed cowboy (for whom pulling on his socks sometimes resulted in dislocated thumbs) won her over. They began seeing each other on weekends when he would make the long drive from the Smoke Creek Ranch, out in Nevada’s Black Rock Desert, into Susanville. She occasionally spent a weekend at the ranch, well chaperoned of course. She stayed in the main house, he in the bunk house with the other cowboys.

By all accounts, they fell hopelessly, helplessly in love. In early May of 1950, nature sealed the deal that reason had denied. Now, as you no doubt know, the Catholic Church takes a dim view of sex in the best of circumstances, and between unmarried couples, well…if not forgiven, that is reason to burn in Hell for eternity. It was a particularly thorny problem for this couple, the cowboy not being a member of the Catholic Church, or any other, for that matter. They endured counseling by Susanville’s only Catholic priest, Monsignor Patrick J. Moran. The cowboy promised that any children the couple might have would be raised as Catholics. They were married in July 1950. I arrived in December, some six weeks prematurely.

As you may well know by now, I was just the first of five boys. The parents kept their promise. We went to church every Sunday, ate no meat on Friday, took regular Catechism lessons, the whole nine yards. I can’t speak for my brothers, but I believed it all. I was puzzled, though. At the end of every confession when granted forgiveness, there was the promise to sin no more. And yet there was the expectation that confession should occur on a regular basis. In other words, try to be good but know that no matter how hard you try, you will fail. And how could eating meat on Friday and committing murder be equally bad? I mostly kept the questions to myself though, and tried to have more faith.

As I lay on a gurney in the hospital hallway, I knew that a doctor would come along eventually and check for a hernia as part of a physical exam. I thought to myself, “I will let him do that if You save my Mom.” One did a few minutes later. A few minutes after that, another gurney was wheeled down the hall. Only curly brown hair was visible outside of the white sheet that covered the entire person on it. I felt cheated and then fearful for even thinking that God had not held up His end of the bargain.

About a year after that deadly Sunday in 1960, Dad and I were working in the vegetable garden, weeding and watering. He asked me, “Why did God take her and not me?” Brainwashed 10 year-old that I was, I had a ready answer: “She went to Heaven, but you’re not ready.” He seemed to like that. He repeated that exchange to his friends at least twice that I know about.

Dad continued to honor his promise even when it was not easy. He dressed and drove all five of us every Sunday, rain or shine, to that church 14 miles from home. He dropped us off and then went to visit with Bob Dunn for an hour. I only remember missing one Sunday Mass in nine years. We normally attended the 8:00 AM service. That way if something went wrong there was always the 10:00 AM service. That particular day, the old red and white station wagon refused to start. Dad fussed and fumed under the hood for about two and half hours. It finally roared to life about 10:15, too late. I think he traded it in for something more reliable just a few days after that.

During my teen years, it became increasingly difficult to toe the party line. Receiving Communion on Sunday is like a public announcement that you have not sinned since your last confession. Not taking Communion was an equally public announcement that you had done something BAD! No one ever said anything when I was the only one who did not make the trip to the altar railing, but I felt like everyone knew what my sin was. I felt ashamed standing in the pew alone while my step-mother, Maggie, and the rest of the boys left and returned.

But I kept trying. In my junior year in high school, Dad and Maggie bought a house in Standish. Our new neighbors had a teenage son, Jim Morgan. We became very close friends. This was the era where the Latin Mass became history and guitars made appearances in the church. One Sunday, Jim and I sang together in the choir loft with our guitars. We sounded much better together than either one of us did alone. A few of the parishoners even complimented us afterward. In the summer of ’69 I helped him study the Catechism and sponsored him when he was baptized and converted to Catholicism. I felt really good and even a little proud as we stood on the church steps afterward talking with Father O’Hannon. He had became the new parish priest after Father Moran had passed away some years earlier – and thus was also my confessor.

Even priests need an occasional vacation. Father O’Hannon took one the next summer. A visiting priest from Sacramento filled in in his absence. Since that one, whose name I don’t remember, didn’t know me, and in all likelyhood would never see me again, I decided to ask the question that had bedeviled me for years. “What’s so bad about masturbation?” I was expecting something along the lines of not wasting the sperm, each of which had the potential to create a new life and was therefore sacred. After a short pause, what I heard was “It could eventually make you not want a woman.” I was shocked and then angry. I mumbled “OK” and left as soon as possible afterward. That was THE single most ridiculous statement I had ever heard – from anyone! It may have been true for him, who had no possibility of a woman in his future, but not for a teenage boy who longed for that very experience everyday! It made me realize how arbitrary and man-made were the rules of the church. That was my last confession. At 19, I had become an instant agnostic.

There is no single moment that defines my transition from agnostic to atheist. It happened very gradually, under the weight of history and news. The worst acts of recorded history have been sanctioned in the name of some religion. As far as I can see, none escapes. Today’s most intractable conflicts have religion at their root. I became a follower of the golden rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you, or in other words, you do your thing and I’ll do mine, live and let live.

The absurdity of Christian belief was enunciated very clearly and comically by George Carlin. Some of his stuff, especially in his books, is just offensive and mean. But his standup routine, Religion is bullshit, is dead on target.

It wasn’t until just before last Christmas that I found a name for my beliefs. I got an offer in the mail for a magazine, Free Inquiry. Those usually get about 10 seconds of my attention before round filing. But this one held on because it expressed my feelings about religion almost exactly, but in much more elegant prose than any I could write. It is published by The Council for Secular Humanism. There was a note for those who “Can’t Decide?”, written by Richard Dawkins. His description of my neighbors probable beliefs clinched it. I went to their website and signed up for a subscription.

So there you have it. The conversion is complete and I am happy with it. Please don’t worry (Debbie) that I am an atheist. No matter our beliefs, the end result is the same for all of us.

So I’m on the market again, this time with a whole lot more competition…

Jerry, Dale, Vern, Hal, Bill, and Ted, Jan. 1987

One of the (very) few subjects I intended to write about when I started this blog was my Dad. There are only four other people on the planet who could potentially know as much about him as I do, so I guess that makes me a defacto expert. But there are already a great number of stories concerning fathers and sons, and though each one is unique, I doubt that ours would generate as much interest or could be told as well as some of the others out there. Anyway, here is a little snippet.

Dad loved to tell stories: about pranks he or his friends pulled as teenagers, like roping the outhouse and pulling it into the river – with someone in it: war stories, like how his side gunner training ended abruptly when his machine gun missed the window mount and splashed down in Kaneohe Bay. But the ones I liked to hear most concerned his time as a cowboy. Actually, I owe my existence to a bronc he couldn’t ride. He met my mother while recovering from a broken leg. She was already engaged but I guess proximity won out.

I don’t really remember much of the last cowboy story he told, just the experience of hearing it. He became somewhat forgetful in his later years and tended to tell the same stories over and over. One that took five to ten minutes the first time, got reduced to under a minute when he sensed you had heard it before. I liked knowing what was coming and laughed just as hard at the punchline every time.

On this occasion, several of his friends had gathered at a house in Susanville. We were arranged all around the kitchen, some sitting at the table, others on the counters, and some of us standing. The story started out like many of the cowboy stories and I was anticipating a rerun. But after a few seconds I realized this was one I had not heard. It was about his relationship with his horse, Old Shep, and how they got home in a snowstorm. “I gotta remember this!” but the shock of a new story at that late stage is the dominant memory. It was a joy to see him holding everyone’s attention and appearing as strong and confident as that 20 something cowboy from another era.

The last time we were together is burned indelibly into my brain. He had been diagnosed with liver cancer in November. I made the 650 mile drive from Mission Viejo to Susanville to see him in December. When I walked into his room he was lying on his back, his knees drawn up, staring at the ceiling. He looked so sad and lonely… But the second he saw me, a big smile appeared and the sadness was gone. I felt more loved at that moment than any other, before or since.

The house was built by a man named Mark Stewart. I remember Dad relating a conversation with Mr. Stewart concerning the well which reportedly “…cost me a hunnerd dollars!” Dad smiled at that because it was a bargain even in 1956. The well was 100 feet deep and the water table was at 50 feet. The water was cold, clear, tasted good, and never ran out.

The first couple of years there, we were renters. The owner at that time was George Raker who lived a few miles west toward Susanville. For some reason Dad needed to drive a tractor up to his place one Saturday morning. I remember because I got to go with him. It was sunny but a little windy and cold. I didn’t mind, I was with my Dad and he let me help steer while sitting on his lap. After he was sure I could do it reasonably well, he sat back and just let me. I was a little disappointed when he reached under the steering wheel to throttle back and took over to make the turn off the highway. Another reason to remember the day was Mr. Raker — he only had one leg. Never did hear that story. Many years later I played Little League baseball with his nephew, Greg Bouchard, who seemed a bit sensitive when I mentioned having met him, so I didn’t pursue it.

When Marble Burch bought the place, Mom and Dad worked out a deal where they got the house and ten acres and Mr. Burch took the rest. He was one colorful character. He raised and trained thoroughbred horses. Since we had the house, he moved into the front part of the old concrete dairy barn, which was originally the business office, for a few months until he could build a new one. Funny thing was, the new house he built was also made of mostly concrete and was quite similar to the front part of the dairy barn! In both cases, his bedroom was a vault-like room with no windows. The thought of actually having to sleep there kind of gave me the creeps.

My brother Dale and I shared the middle bedroom in the old house. Our parents had the front bedroom and the little boys occupied the one off the dining room. I marvel now at the memory of waking up instantly, one second totally unconscious, the next wide awake and jumping out of bed to get the day started! One morning after my instant-on, I looked around the room for something to play with and found a chain that was once part of the backyard swing set. Don’t know where the idea came from but I decided to pretend I was fishing with it. We had a metal framed double bed in those early years. Standing in the middle of it, I hung on to one end of the chain and tossed the other over the frame at the foot. Then I hauled it back up, all the while with a running commentary for Dale, who was awake but still under the covers. You can imagine the racket that made as each link in the chain clanked over the hollow metal tubing. After only about three or four casts, Mom walked in. “Could you please wait until at least 7 o’clock to do that?” Unbeknownst to me, it was Saturday, the one day both parents could sleep in awhile. “Sure Mom!” She retreated and I got back in bed, holding still and not talking for what seemed like an hour to me. I think in reality it was between five and ten minutes. Mom just bowed to the inevitable and got up to make breakfast.

The layout of the house was significant in ensuring the memorability of at least one incident that occurred within it’s walls: the great Saturday night slip and slide. The one and only bathroom was at the far north end of the house. It was a fairly long twisting path from any of the bedrooms, requiring a sharp left turn into the hallway between the dining room and kitchen, then two more right turns. Dad had taken all five of us to a barbecue at Eagle Lake. It was the housekeeper’s night off and we all got sick in the middle of the night. One of the first (and I don’t remember which one that was) to feel the urgent need to hurl, failed to make it all the way to the bathroom, depositing his now unwelcome picnic dinner in the hallway. The whole house, except for the living room, had waxed linoleum floors that were definitely slippery when wet. Everyone who came after, in the dark, hit the danger zone at a full gallop, tried to plant their foot to make that turn and slid all the way into the laundry room, ending up in a pile of dirty clothes that really needed washing in the morning.

We moved to a house in Standish (which had two bathrooms) in my junior year in high school. At the time, I was happy to live in a newer house. In the summer of ’69, there was a fire at the old house. I had to stop there on the way home from work to see the damage for myself. It didn’t look too bad until it came to the point of origin — the ceiling light fixture in the walk-in closet in my old bedroom. It was strange thinking about how many times I had pulled that string, possibly incrementing that old electrical system toward catastrophic failure. A few months later, the new owner decided not to rebuild. It was demolished and a couple of trailers were moved in its place.

Years later I heard that there were discussions in the weeks after the accident about splitting the family up. There were suggestions and offers of new homes for each of us boys. It was thought to be too much to ask of a single father to work and take care of us too. Dad chose the hard road and kept us all together. I for one, am glad he did. It would have been much more devastating to lose both parents, though in a way, I did. Dad came to depend on me as a sounding board, I think because I was the oldest. It was a source of friction for many of the adults who came to take care of us later. Dad usually wanted my opinion before making a decision and that could irritate the hell out of them, especially when I did not agree with their side of an argument. I miss him so much. But that will come later.

Gramma DeVeau stayed with us for awhile. I remember one morning making toast for breakfast and asking if she wanted some. She did but wanted to make it herself in order to get it just right. I thought she was pretty fussy about it. Dentures, the existence of which she was very careful not to reveal, were the reason for it – too little time in the toaster or too much butter made it soggy and harder to chew, while too long meant scraping away a lot of carbon. Couldn’t afford to throw it away. In any event she felt the desired outcome was more likely in her hands than mine.

Aunt Curly (real name Caroline, Dad’s sister) took over for a few months after Gramma. I wish I’d had a chance to know her better after I was an adult. She had kind of a tough and interesting life. She had three husbands that I know of and two daughters, Marion and Karen. Marion arrived when Curly was 15, whispered to be the result of abuse by an uncle. I never got the whole story. Adults don’t talk about those things around kids. Karen was a rather rebellious teenager in the early ’60s. She did not live with us, but did come around to stir things up once in a while. There were a few mature black locust trees on the property and one in the backyard that we climbed on a regular basis just because we could. On Karen’s first visit, I was about half way up when she came out the back door and saw me. She said, “I bet I can climb higher than you.” Well I knew there was just no way she could, so up I went thinking I’d go up first and then wait and watch as she tried to go higher. When I was at the point where I usually stopped, Karen egged me one some more: “I can go higher than that.” I should have suspected something besides me was up, but I didn’t. So I climbed until the branches were just large enough to support my weight. I knew she could not possibly go that high due to the simple fact that she was 6 or 7 years older than I and consequently heavier as well. At that point she turned around to face the screen door at the back of the house and hollered as loud as she could, “Mother, Jerry’s climbing trees!” I’m sitting there thinking, “Yeah, so?” In seconds, Aunt Curly came running and demanded, “Jerry! Get down from there!” Karen burst out laughing. I was stunned! That devious redhead had had no intention of climbing herself. She merely wanted to get me in trouble. She had purposely gotten me to climb too far to get down quickly, though at the time it never even occurred to me that I should. There had never been an issue with climbing nor had I ever before encountered such behavior.

Aunt Curly had her own life to live and neither she or Dad expected it to be a long term arrangement. But consider the alternatives. Was it possible to convince a total stranger to come live out in the country 14 miles from the nearest town in an old 3 bedroom, 1 bath, ranch house to cook and clean for a 36 year old man and his five, count ‘em, five boys, six days a week (Sundays off) for room and board and $100 dollars a month? Turns out, it was, and part of the attraction for some was that 30 something man.

Eventually Dad hired the first of several live-in housekeepers: Juanita. Sweet and cheerful are the first two words that come to mind to describe her. She was a little taller than Dad (about 5′ 6″) with short curly black hair and brown eyes, a bit on the heavy side, though that may only be in comparison to Mom who was a tiny little thing just shy of 5′. I don’t remember her soft voice ever being raised with any of us, though she could be stern with her own teenage daughter, Susan. Juanita introduced us to tacos. It seems inconceivable now that anyone living in California could reach the age of ten and not know about tacos. But this was Lassen County in the sparsely populated northeast corner of the state many years before the High Desert State Prison turned Susanville into a prison town. Tacos became a Saturday night tradition. When she left about two years later, we tried to continue, but they just were not the same without Juanita. Looking back, I think she was not only the first, in many ways she was the best. We were primed for disappoint with those who came after.

Alice Westfield was a cranky old widow of a railroad man. She smoked and drank at least as much, if not more than the other denizens of the Wayside Inn in Standish, which I think is where Dad found her and offered her the job after Juanita’s departure. Good help has always been hard to find, I guess. She had a voice like gravel and from a distance the only clue she wasn’t a he was the hair that was only a little longer than a man would have worn it in those times. But putting aside her personality, she was a decent housekeeper and cook. She made the best “chili beans” bar none. They were so good in fact that for the next 20 years or so I thought they were the only kind of beans worth eating. Made it kind of tough for my most excellent spouse, Patricia, when we were first married and hers didn’t measure up.