Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

"Wintery Things" Fact # 1

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Wintery Things that Really Do Happen: 
A Primer for Yuman Children. 

Fact # 1:

Snow really does slide off of roofs in giant clumps that will break apart on your head and leave you covered in snow. This occurrence isn't just some exaggerational fiction depicted in holiday programs (that have nothing to do with your desert reality) to make you laugh, such as Charlie Brown and South Park. Go somewhere with a lot of snow. You will see that it is so.




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Friday, December 06, 2013

What Pearl Harbor Means to Me

 
I wasn't yet born on December 7th, 1941, so no matter what my understanding of that historical day, the true meaning of it cannot possibly be as alive for me as it remains for some. What does live on for me, however, is the memory of one man whose example made a great impact on my life. This is a reprint of a blog post that I wrote in 2011, titled "Luke Tucker - A Pearl Harbor Day Tribute." It remains one of the most popular blog posts on this site, so I chose to reprint it in honor of my old friend. I hope that you will enjoy getting to know the Mr. Tucker of my youth.

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Luke Tucker was a wrinkled, loose skinned man with scraggly, white hair when I met him in 1980. His arms were hairy and covered with dark tattoos. He drank way too much, and I could smell the alcohol wafting from his Airstream trailer before sunrise on Sunday mornings. He had a quick wit, and would spout out one-liners whenever I delivered his newspaper. Over time we developed a friendship.

For the first few months, I delivered my papers from a baby stroller, often pushing the stroller with one hand while playing a broken harmonica (which my dad had given to me when I was four) with the other. One day Luke gave me a sturdy, new Western Flyer wagon with high slatted wooden sides. It was waiting at his doorstep when I came by. He said that if I was going to be delivering papers, I needed a good wagon or a bike to do it right. For Christmas the next year, he bought me a chromatic harmonica. It was exactly like the one my dad had given me, except that this one was shiny and new, and all of its reeds were in tune. I was 10 years old, and life was good.

Luke began meeting me outside whenever I'd come around in the afternoon. He'd sit out on the shaded cement patio listening to the tinny sounds of an ancient transistor radio. He would usually offer me a cup of lemonade or a 16oz glass bottle of Coke. I would tell him about my day at school, and he always had some new joke to tell that he had heard at the auto-shop where he spent his days helping out.

Over time, that familiar Sunday morning smell of alcohol disappeared, replaced by the pleasant aromas of bacon, sausage, strong coffee and maple syrup. The Three Stooges and The Little Rascals (already old classics by then) would be playing on his portable black and white television, which was connected by a flat cable to a tall, old-fashioned metal antenna outside. Canned audience laughter slid through the crack of the thin, cold aluminum trailer door as the sun began to peek over the eastern foothills.

Luke had long since met my mom, who correctly surmised that he was a harmless, likeable old man. One day, he asked her if it would be o.k. to have me over for breakfast some mornings after my route. Those old Sunday morning programs had always been his favorites, he thought I might enjoy them, and he would be happy to have the company. Besides, he was already making breakfast anyway... She gave her permission, on the condition that I didn't stop at his place until after I had finished my morning deliveries.

From that day on, I would finish those Sunday papers by 6am. Then I would rush back to Luke's trailer park, wagon in tow, or riding the bike that I'd purchased with my paper route money. We'd sit and watch the hijinks of the Stooges and the goofy humor of the Rascals. We laughed and laughed at those corny episodes. We'd trade jokes too: the latest that I'd heard at school and his better, grittier versions from decades long past. Eventually, always - Luke would go outside and light up a cigar. He would look through the smoke, into the distance, in silence. For a few minutes he was somewhere far away, in some unreachable part of his mind. Sometimes I'd stand out in the cold with him, quietly hoping that he really didn't feel as alone in the world as he appeared.

It wasn't until a year or so later, when he was the subject of a full page write-up on Pearl Harbor Day in our local paper, that I learned that Luke Tucker, my Luke Tucker, was a Pearl Harbor vet. I was shocked. How could I not have known? I was excited to see him again, to ask about his experiences, and to hear his stories of adventure.

It was a weekday evening; Luke was on his patio. He was drinking. He had had too much. I don't remember now exactly how the conversation went, but he went off on me and called me names. I was so upset that my mother went to his place and gave him a piece of her mind. She told him that if he ever spoke that way to me again, that interaction would be our last. He was either going to treat me well, or our friendship would be over.

The next time I saw Luke, his eyes were smiling through slow, silent tears. He was so sorry for how he had acted. I said to him, "I was just surprised that you were a hero all this time and I never knew it. I just wanted to hear your side of the story. I'm proud to know someone like you." The tears began to stream, but his posture remained stoic. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, looking at nothing. Slowly and deliberately he said, "I'm no hero. You don't want to hear the stories that I have to tell, and I don't want to tell them. I lost a lot of friends in that war; they are the real heroes. It's because of them that you'll never have to know the things that I know."

His big, leathery hand clasped mine for the first and only time. He looked me straight in the eye, and told me that I deserved all the best that life had to offer. He said that he was thankful to know that a child of this generation could live with so much joy. "You are a good kid and I'm proud to be your friend." Then he asked me to please, never ask him about that war, ever again.


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Wednesday, December 07, 2011

Luke Tucker - A Pearl Harbor Day Tribute

 


Luke Tucker was a wrinkled, loose skinned man with scraggly, white hair when I met him in 1980. His arms were hairy and covered with dark tattoos. He drank way too much, and I could smell the alcohol wafting from his Airstream trailer before sunrise on Sunday mornings. He had a quick wit, and would spout out one-liners whenever I delivered his newspaper. Over time we developed a friendship.

For the first few months, I delivered my papers from a baby stroller, often pushing the stroller with one hand while playing a broken harmonica (which my dad had given to me when I was four) with the other. One day Luke gave me a sturdy, new Western Flyer wagon with high slatted wooden sides. It was waiting at his doorstep when I came by. He said that if I was going to be delivering papers, I needed a good wagon or a bike to do it right. For Christmas the next year, he bought me a chromatic harmonica. It was exactly like the one my dad had given me, except that this one was shiny and new, and all of its reeds were in tune. I was 10 years old, and life was good.

Luke began meeting me outside whenever I'd come around in the afternoon. He'd sit out on the shaded cement patio listening to the tinny sounds of an ancient transistor radio. He would usually offer me a cup of lemonade or a 16oz glass bottle of Coke. I would tell him about my day at school, and he always had some new joke to tell that he had heard at the auto-shop where he spent his days helping out.

Over time, that familiar Sunday morning smell of alcohol disappeared, replaced by the pleasant aromas of bacon, sausage, strong coffee and maple syrup. The Three Stooges and The Little Rascals (already old classics by then) would be playing on his portable black and white television, which was connected by a flat cable to a tall, old-fashioned metal antenna outside. Canned audience laughter slid through the crack of the thin, cold aluminum trailer door as the sun began to peek over the eastern foothills.

Luke had long since met my mom, who correctly surmised that he was a harmless, likeable old man. One day, he asked her if it would be o.k. to have me over for breakfast some mornings after my route. Those old Sunday morning programs had always been his favorites, he thought I might enjoy them, and he would be happy to have the company. Besides, he was already making breakfast anyway... She gave her permission, on the condition that I didn't stop at his place until after I had finished my morning deliveries.

From that day on, I would finish those Sunday papers by 6am. Then I would rush back to Luke's trailer park, wagon in tow, or riding the bike that I'd purchased with my paper route money. We'd sit and watch the hijinks of the Stooges and the goofy humor of the Rascals. We laughed and laughed at those corny episodes. We'd trade jokes too: the latest that I'd heard at school and his better, grittier versions from decades long past. Eventually, always - Luke would go outside and light up a cigar. He would look through the smoke, into the distance, in silence. For a few minutes he was somewhere far away, in some unreachable part of his mind. Sometimes I'd stand out in the cold with him, quietly hoping that he really didn't feel as alone in the world as he appeared.

It wasn't until a year or so later, when he was the subject of a full page write-up on Pearl Harbor Day in our local paper, that I learned that Luke Tucker, my Luke Tucker, was a Pearl Harbor vet. I was shocked. How could I not have known? I was excited to see him again, to ask about his experiences, and to hear his stories of adventure.

It was a weekday evening; Luke was on his patio. He was drinking. He had had too much. I don't remember now exactly how the conversation went, but he went off on me and called me names. I was so upset that my mother went to his place and gave him a piece of her mind. She told him that if he ever spoke that way to me again, that interaction would be our last. He was either going to treat me well, or our friendship would be over.

The next time I saw Luke, his eyes were smiling through slow, silent tears. He was so sorry for how he had acted. I said to him, "I was just surprised that you were a hero all this time and I never knew it. I just wanted to hear your side of the story. I'm proud to know someone like you." The tears began to stream, but his posture remained stoic. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, looking at nothing. Slowly and deliberately he said, "I'm no hero. You don't want to hear the stories that I have to tell, and I don't want to tell them. I lost a lot of friends in that war; they are the real heroes. It's because of them that you'll never have to know the things that I know."

His big, leathery hand clasped mine for the first and only time. He looked me straight in the eye, and told me that I deserved all the best that life had to offer. He said that he was thankful to know that a child of this generation could live with so much joy. "You are a good kid and I'm proud to be your friend." Then he asked me to please, never ask him about that war, ever again.


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***

Friday, July 08, 2011

Space Shuttle and Harry Potter

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It was mentioned on the news last night that some young adults have never known a life without Harry Potter. For them, this final movie is the end of an era. For many of us 30-40-somethings, it's like that with the final space shuttle launch. I can't remember a time without it, and some of my earliest memories were made while watching its progress.

I was so excited about space exploration as a kid that I once made my own set of solar system flash cards by copying a set of colored, illustrated cards in the library onto my own set of index cards. I carried them around wrapped in a rubber band in the 4th grade. I memorized planetary statistics and knew the names of several asteroids. Without a doubt, I was going to become an astronomer. That was a year or so before I discovered entomology, a decade before I discovered ham radio, and twenty years before I discovered Arabic.

I was six years old when the Enterprise carried out its first test flights off the back of a modified 747. I can't remember whether this test was broadcast live, (it seems unlikely to me that it would have been). But I do remember watching video of the flight tests with excitement at some point during that year, probably on CBS Evening News.

I do remember watching various launches throughout my elementary school years. We didn't have TV's in the classrooms back then. If we were going to watch something, the teachers would wheel the TV in on a cart, and several classes would crowd into one room to watch. At some point there was a TV mounted in the school's administration office, but I think that wouldn't have been until after 4th grade.

This was long before VCR's were common. The first time that I remember watching anything on a video tape was in my 8th grade English class, when our teacher played Michael Jackson's Thriller video on a beta cassette player. In the early days, there was a lot of excitement around each live launch.

The space shuttle was my introduction to space flight. I was too young to remember the lunar landings, although I was close enough to them to still feel excited to watch the next one, and to look forward to the first landing on Mars, which I was sure would happen within a decade or two. We're all still waiting for that one.

My initial enthusiasm regarding outer space wore off eventually, overtaken by an obsession with insects and the study of entomology. I still enjoyed lying out in the back yard at night watching for satellites to fly over, and learning the names of some of the stars. I had a full-size lunar globe which identified many of the visible craters on both the moon's near and far sides. My curiosity has stayed intact, but my obsession has waned.

I was in 10th grade English class at Yuma High School when the Challenger disaster occurred. When the announcement came over the intercom, our English teacher told us to listen up because we were about to hear from Christa McAuliffe (the teacher on board the craft). Of course what we heard was not her voice, but the announcement that the Challenger had been destroyed in a malfunction. I remember all of the students walking around the high school campus like shell-shocked zombies for the rest of the day.

When the Columbia was destroyed on reentry, I was working in Georgia. I had pulled up to my driveway in my truck when I tuned in to NPR. The newscasters were listing the names of the shuttle astronauts one by one and giving short descriptions of their individual backgrounds and specialties. This sounded ominous to me, as I had only heard that done when there had been an accident of some kind. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the narrator interjected that it appeared that Columbia had broken up over Texas.

Watching the space shuttle Atlantis lift off this morning brought back many memories. I was glad to see it lift off safely and without any mishaps. It has been said (too many times) that this final launch represents the end of an era. It feels like the end of my childhood. What will be next? I'm excited to see where we will go now.

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Friday, June 10, 2011

Good Grand Junction Articles


There have been a couple of articles in The Daily Sentinel here in Grand Junction over the last week that I have really enjoyed. The first was one in last Sunday's Lifestyle Section entitled "Under the Bleachers: Think you know JUCO? OMG. No!" The article perfectly captures what it's really like to be a teenager at a sporting event. It is well written, extremely humorous, and made us laugh several times as we were reading it.

The second article, in today's paper, described how Lincoln Park in Grand Junction was an extremely popular campground in the 1920's. According to this article by Kathy Jordan, the campgrounds charged 25 cents per car for one night, and had 7000 visitors in 1925. She points out in her article that back in the 1920s, Grand Junction was a full day's drive from Denver and Salt Lake City (the perfect place to spend the night). The camp was also used as a Federal Emergency Relief Family Camp under a program that was instituted during the Depression. A good read if you're interested in the local history of Grand Junction.

Another article that I enjoyed simply because I hadn't yet heard the news was this one about a family of Golden Eagles nesting in the Colorado National Monument, close enough to a trail that they can be seen with binoculars. I'm going to have to go check them out very soon.


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Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Yuma Territorial Prison State Park


The Yuma Territorial Prison State Park is slated to close at the end of March 2010. There are various groups that are working to try to keep the prison park open. If you'd like to donate to the cause, you can find more information here:

Chain Gang Prison Fund.


Sonoran Desert Vista from the Yuma Territorial Prison Hill.


The prison cemetery is in the background down the trail.


The prison cemetery.


The main guard tower and the mission across the river where Fort Yuma once stood.




The stunning view from the Main Guard Tower, across the Colorado River, into California.

The main entrance to the prison yard.



Pearl Hart's Six-Shot Colt .45 revolver.

A view down the corridor of prison cells.



Inside one of the multiple-occupancy cells.


The "Dark Cell" (insert involuntary shudder here).



The Yuma Territorial Prison State Park is slated to close at the end of March 2010. There are various groups that are working to try to keep the prison park open. If you'd like to donate to the cause, you can find more information here:

Chain Gang Prison Fund.


The doorway to the prison library, which was the first in Arizona.


The "new prison yard" which is, in my very humble opinion, not nearly as interesting as the older stuff...


Some tools used by the prisoners.




Fort Yuma played a historic if obscure role in the American Civil War. The saddle shown here and displayed in the Yuma Territorial Prison museum belonged to Lieutenant F. Green, M.D. who served with the Union Medical Corps at Fort Yuma during the war.

Fort Yuma and the Civil War


A "dump wagon" used around 1900.



A cat on the prison grounds who was staring so intensely at this bird that he never noticed me.


The object of the cat's affection.


Prison Cat inside the main prison yard.


The view looking across the Colorado River to the California side,
where Fort Yuma originally stood.




The Yuma Territorial Prison State Park is slated to close at the end of March 2010. There are various groups that are working to try to keep the prison park open. If you'd like to donate to the cause, you can find more information here:

Chain Gang Prison Fund.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Night Bike Ride

The last time I rode my bike home at 1:00am would have been just a little over 15 years ago when I was riding the 20 miles home (I checked the distance when I was back in Yuma last week, just to be sure that I wasn't just dreaming that distance up) from my job as a cashier at Safeway each night. The sky was always clear and the stars shined so bright that nothing has ever seemed quite so magnificent as those desert night skies in their calm majesty. The only sounds heard on those long, peaceful rides was the banter of the coyotes howling and the startling train whistle coming around the bend of the foothills that stood between Yuma and the ranch that I called home.

Tonight I rode home at 1:00am again for the first time since I was 21. The air was crisp and clear. I could see all of the bright lights shining out around the bay. The only sounds were the sounds of subdued seagulls, (I'm convinced that they try to be quieter at 1:00am than they ever are at 7:00am) and the occasional sea lion barking into the darkness. The waves crashing their reflective foam carpets onto the shoreline welcomed me like an honored guest.

I accept the night's invitation to go bike riding with it often again as we once did together when we were younger. It's been far too long since I've communed with this particular spirit.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Playground Pictures





The first thing that I saw upon arriving at the work site for the new playground was the Burrowing Owl Habitat! The trees that can be seen in this picture are located in an area where Dr. Tuttle used to take his group of 4-Hers to look for newts and darkling beetles under pieces of wood and rocks that could be found in the scrub brush alongside the Colorado river. In this picture we're looking towards the north and the playground site is directly behind me to the south.

Here you can see part of the trail that follows the river. This dirt trail leads to a paved trail that follows a canal and train tracks from Avenue B in Yuma all the way to the Yuma Territorial Prison, which is 2 miles east of this location. From that paved trail, the new trail that follows the main canal through town can also be accessed. That trail goes from 8th Street to 32nd street and is 3 miles long. So a peaceful 5 mile bike ride through town can be had now without encountering any traffic.



Here we're looking at a head-on picture of what will become the new children's playground. All of this will become two side towers of the castle that can be seen in this rendering of what the playground will look like upon completion. This picture was taken when I first arrived early on Sunday morning to begin working on this project. There were plenty of volunteers organized according to their level of experience or lack thereof. I was teamed up with a guy named John who is a former Marine who joined the Marine Corps the same year my dad did and came to Yuma the same year that my family did (1973). He left the Marines in 1974. We worked on the right tower of the castle.



The blueprints that we were using to build this playground. This is the largest playground that this company has ever designed. The company is run by a father-son team that got their start when the father decided to design a park that his son could play in because there were no decent parks where they lived.



There were a lot of volunteers working on this project. There were so many different things happening all at once. Every portion of what would ultimately be the most amazing playground that I've ever seen in an open-access public park was being manufactured at once. The parts were not pre-cut. We were measuring and cutting every individual piece ourselves using a tape measure, a pencil, and a tablesaw.




Another picture of generous volunteers doing their thing for the kids of the future.



After 4 hours of work all of the volunteers enjoyed a lunch of pizza and potato salad while the 2nd shift started where we left off. There were 3 shifts working throughout the day and each received a meal at the end of their shift. Here we're waiting in line for our pizza.




Here is what the site looked like from my car as I left it on Sunday afternoon at about 12:30pm last Sunday afternoon. You can see the flood lights there for the folks volunteering late into the evening. Here are more pictures from the city of the construction.



Here is a picture of a typical Yuma sunset. Arizona sunsets are unequaled in my opinion. I wish that I had been on the edge of the mesa to catch this beauty in all of its glory, but this will do for now. You can see a couple of palm trees in the evening sunlight near the lower middle portion of the picture.